by Ben Russell
Another visitor was relieved that, while travelling around,
no stern examiner comes here to search and inspect us, or our baggage; no imperious guard here demands a sight of our passports; perfectly free and unmolested, we here walk through villages and towns, as unconcerned, as we should walk through an house of our own.60
At the local and national level, those representing the state remained accountable for their actions. As a young man in Glasgow, James Watt could complain about a local excise man, ‘if he is in the wrong I shall find a way to represent the affair to his superiors. If such fellows are allowed to tyranise over the fair trader there will be no living here.’61 The monarch couldn’t raise taxes without Parliamentary approval – and Britain was 140 years ahead of France in having the people execute their king.62 British people felt a particular freedom not experienced by those elsewhere.
The infrastructure of transport and information networks, and the state, provided Britain with her blood vessels and nervous system. And Watt described his friends at a Glasgow coffee house as ‘much my superiors, I never having attended a College & being then a mechanick’. His awareness of his social position relative to his associates is suggestive of Britain’s social structure, the skeleton or framework for the whole enterprise.63
Britain had a strong and durable social hierarchy. As early as 1709, Daniel Defoe had used his History of the Union of Great Britain to split the nation into seven distinct social groups, from ‘The great, who live profusely’, through ‘The middle sort, who live well’, to ‘The miserable, that really pinch and suffer want’. These different social classes together formed an enormous pyramid, with the 186 ‘Lords Spiritual and Temporal’ at the top, and the bottom comprising labourers, the poor and the destitute. Within each of these social strata the position of each individual was also closely delineated, and each was stoutly protective of his place; François de La Rochefoucauld explained how ‘Everyone thinks he has a right to go first, and if one if placed beneath one’s rank, one only hopes that whoever has affronted one did it by mistake.’64 Social class even loomed large at the dining table, where ‘strangers go first into the dining-room and sit near the hostess and are served in seniority in accordance with a rigid etiquette.’65 Hierarchy was ingrained in everyday life.
T. Engleheart after William Hogarth, Four Times of the Day: Noon, 1833, engraving. In this scene, first published in 1738, Hogarth captured and commented upon the interactions between London’s different social groups.
But while Britain’s social structure was closely defined, it was by no means overly rigid. Class never became caste, and the German scientist Georg Christophe Lichtenberg could write that ‘When I was in England, I lived sometimes like a lord, and at others like a workman.’66 Rather, it was flexible – far more so than in France, Germany or Russia – and this helped Josiah Wedgwood query ‘whether I am a landed gentleman, an engineer or a potter, for indeed I am all three’.67 Although the cotton entrepreneur Sir Richard Arkwright started out as a wigmaker, for example, the movement wasn’t just upwards. Skilled artisans could come from well-to-do families. Lewis Paul, a prominent figure in the early mechanization of cotton spinning, was a physician’s son. Peter Ewart became a celebrated millwright, but his father was a clergyman and his brothers became a minister and a doctor.68 The law of primogeniture, meaning that the oldest son inherited everything, forced younger siblings into the professions and trade. In the 1720s Daniel Defoe wrote that in the Home Counties ‘there are several very considerable estates purchased and now enjoyed by citizens of London, merchants and tradesmen’.69 Britain’s social structure offered stability, but with the possibility of mobility for individuals if they sought it.
The close interplay between the classes facilitated industrial change. Jabez Maud Fisher wrote in the 1770s that even the booming industrial town of Manchester was ‘seated in the midst of a rich and very populous Country . . . the Features happy for Prospect and beautiful with every Improvement; and its Neighbourhood crowded with Gentlemen’s Seats’.70 Indeed, sinking one’s capital into industry was by no means ungentlemanly. Many of the great partnerships of the Industrial Revolution comprised ‘an alliance of talent and money’, partnering an ingenious mechanic with a gentleman eager to invest his capital.71 Moving in the opposite direction, merchants and industrialists emulated the old landed gentry: cotton magnate Robert Peel moved into Drayton Manor and Arkwright lived at Willersley Castle.72 The trend was picked up on by foreign commentators, one of whom noted in 1790 how ‘Mr Boulton of Birmingham, Mr Wedgwood of Etruria . . . and other manufacturers of their standing, command such credit and respect that in the eyes of everyone they are on a level with the greatest in the land.’73 It was possible in Britain, perhaps more than anywhere else, to reach the top of the social ladder by attaining success in industry.
If Watt and his young merchant friends in Glasgow aspired to ascend the social ladder, they sought to do so by meeting the demands of Britain’s middle classes, the customers for many of the goods they would make and trade. Roy Porter has suggested that the amount the average eighteenth-century family spent on British-made goods quadrupled from 1688 to 1811,74 and Josiah Tucker wrote in 1755 that
the English . . . have better conveniences in their houses, & affect to have more in quantity of clean, neat furniture, & a greater variety such as carpets, screens, window curtains, chamber bells, polished brass locks, fenders etc . . . – things hardly known abroad among persons of such a rank – than are to be found in any other country in Europe, Holland excepted . . . almost the whole body of the People of Great Britain may be considered either as the customers to or the manufacturers for each other.75
Consumer spending was to be a motor for commerce and a stimulus for industrial change.
This acquisitive impulse came with some strings attached, however. Chief among them was the evolution of a system of law which protected property above all. On his travels around England, Karl Philipp Moritz stumbled across signs warning ‘Take care! There are steel traps and spring guns here’.76 What were the metaphorical traps and guns protecting the haves from the have-nots of eighteenth-century Britain?
First, the tax system was highly regressive – that is, the wealthier you were, the less tax you paid as a proportion of your income. No tax was levied on profits or business capital, and little on land or farm profits, benefiting entrepreneurs, merchants and landowners. Most taxes were placed on goods for which demand was high – beer, salt, glass, tea, sugar and tobacco – upon which the poor spent a much higher proportion of their income. So they were unfair, but freed up entrepreneurs’ money for investment in new industries. Second, protecting property was one of the few formal roles of the state which was robustly upheld. The ‘Bloody Code’, as it became known, demanded the death penalty for 200 different offences against property. Of particular import to Britain’s new industries, however, was the emergence of laws giving ideas the same legal protection as physical property – which were useful if, like James Watt, you were to become an inventor or a manufacturer with a new production process. The evolving patent system was expensive, complex and by no means infallible, and inventors often worked without recourse to using it. In fact, until 1852 it wasn’t really a ‘system’ at all, but operated somewhere between being a means of bestowing patronage and a more formal system to give inventors legal protection for their work.77 But it determined that a person should be rewarded if they invested time and money in something of value to the rest of society, and the possibility of that reward being substantial became an incentive to innovate.78
This, then, was the world Watt found himself entering as a young merchant with his commercial friends in Glasgow. It was a world of possibilities for advancement but, equally, Watt and his friends had to create those possibilities for themselves. They did so by developing their individual skills in applying the tools of politeness and civility.
In many aspects of life an informal code of behaviour supplemented the forma
l laws of the land. Daniel Defoe warned his readers to ‘try all the methods of Gentleness and Patience which a forbearing Temper can dictate . . . before you proceed to Rigour and Prosecution.’79 One of the motors driving this ‘polite and commercial’ society was the realization of those living in the new industrial towns that if they aspired to the life of landed gentry, they had to act like them, too. People also had to shift for themselves; because the state largely kept out of business, individuals expected to have to work in partnership with their fellows, and adhering to particular rules of conduct made for a smoother-running partnership.80 Also, as we will see, many aspects of polite commercial society depended on trust – and without that, enterprise collapsed, with lasting consequences for all involved.
It is against this background that Watt left Scotland for the first time, in June 1755, and travelled to train as a scientific-instrument maker in London. The precise motivation for this dramatic change is unclear, but he was now nineteen and needed to consider his longer-term prospects. While Watt was working in Glasgow for his father, he was introduced to members of the university there, including Robert Dick, Professor of Natural Philosophy. Perhaps Dick recognized Watt’s talents as a merchant and potential as a practical man and persuaded him and his father that his talents could be best extended in the metropolis, as had Dick’s own. Whatever happened, Watt found himself making the long journey south by horse to seek out a master. On his arrival he would receive a thorough grounding in the etiquette of polite commerce.
Taking a Bargain, Northumberland, c. 1805, artist unknown. Many commercial transactions were carried out in small, informal groups like this.
A basic premise of politeness was to maintain a respectable appearance. We have already seen how Watt, starting out in Glasgow, dressed as smartly as possible. This extended to how you travelled, too: Karl Philipp Moritz, walking from London to Oxford, was treated with outright hostility by those he met. Only afterwards did he realize that ‘In England, any person undertaking so long a journey on foot, is sure to be looked upon, and considered as either a beggar, or a vagabond.’81 Watt’s long journey by horse rather than on foot may have been as much about preserving appearances as practicalities.
‘The Mathematical Instrument Maker’, from The Book of Trades (1824).
Respectability went hand-in-hand with trustworthiness. On his arrival in the city, Watt needed someone to vouch for him and, luckily, he was not short of help in this respect: John Marr, who had accompanied Watt as he travelled south, introduced him to Mr Neale, a London watchmaker for whom Watt worked temporarily. Robert Dick in Glasgow also gave him a letter of introduction to James Short, a famous London telescope maker. Watt quickly began to build a web of contacts. And, once started, the web continued to expand almost of its own volition. Mr Neale in turn introduced Watt ‘to some Gentlemen of the Instrument way in Westminster who will be more easily dealt with than those in town’,82 and James Short helped Watt to negotiate with the man who would undertake most of his training in London, John Morgan. Watt’s subsequent activities were recorded in a long and detailed series of letters to his father in Greenock.83
Morgan, ‘a man of as good a character both for accuracy in his business & good morals as any in his way in London’, was based at Finch Lane in the City, between Cornhill and Threadneedle Street.84 He agreed to teach Watt his wide knowledge of both technical and commercial aspects of instrument making. He showed Watt ‘some fine new compasses of a new invented metal’ and soon had Watt working at the brass parts of Hadley’s quadrants, used for navigation.85 This practical work came with careful instruction to Watt on ‘the best methods of purchasing what instruments he may want and their lowest price among Tradesmen’.86
Morgan’s manners were as important to his commercial persona as his technical ingenuity. Watt wrote that ‘He is a very good natured man & is very ready to show me any thing I want to know.’87 This was a widely accepted practice: when François de La Rochefoucauld visited a button manufactory in Sheffield during February 1785, the owner
not only showed us all his workshops, one after another, but he was careful to begin each with the workman explaining each process in the greatest detail; and as we were there with him five hours he invited us to take tea with his mother.88
Jabez Maud Fisher was pleased, on first meeting Edmund Radcliffe, ‘the greatest Manufacturer in England’, writing that he ‘makes me very flattering offers of Interest and Introduction to his Correspondents in Spain, Portugal and France’.89 Sharing knowledge and contacts in this way was considered to be commercial good manners.
Once Watt had established with associates that he was a respectable, trustworthy and well-mannered young man, he built his personal network through regular correspondence, letters of introduction and bills of exchange. Letters of introduction were crucial as a ‘way in’ for a newcomer to a community. Philipp Andreas Nemnich toured Britain in 1805–6 with no fewer than 1,200 letters of introduction to hand out.90 In fact, a visitor couldn’t do without them. Karl Philipp Moritz was eager to see the industrial wonders of Birmingham and had a letter of introduction to Benjamin Fothergill – but, on arriving, discovered that Fothergill had died eight days before. Poor Moritz recalled that ‘without staying a minute longer, I immediately enquired the road to Derby and left Birmingham. Of this famous manufacturing town, therefore, I can give . . . no account.’91 These letters were also significant because, in relying on a third party, they created webs of mutual obligation: once contact was established, it was maintained by regularly sending compliments, short messages and notes, and acknowledging them from others. Someone who provided an introduction and maintained contact like this might at some point expect a favour in return. As Watt prepared to return to Scotland at the end of his time working for John Morgan, he wrote to his father:
Do you think that it is proper that I should write to Professor Dick at Glasgow (who recommended me to Mr Short without whose help I believe I would not have got a master) thanking him for his letter & to know whether there is any thing that I could do for him here before I come down?92
The involvement of a third party also characterized bills of exchange. These were written orders from one person, the drawer, to a third party to pay the bearer a sum of money on a specific date. It was very similar to today’s cheque payment system but, whereas today the third party would usually be a bank, at that time it could be a commercial contact of the drawer with whom they had credit. This might explain why, for example, much of Watt’s correspondence from London to his father in Greenock consists of accounts and details of debts owed and owing. Young Watt wrote on 1 July 1755, ‘You’ll please remember that you owe John Muirhead Junr 7/ for skins for lining your breeches & mine. I likewise owe Dr Muir in Glasgow for bleeding me twice & something I got to rub on my throat when ill in winter.’93 An important part of Watt’s commercial training would have been to establish how these credit webs worked. In fact he must initially have been rather discouraged because he found that in London ‘the workmen being all so poor . . . they can’t want the money a minute & a great many of the Wholesale dealers deal for so little profit that they cannot give credit’.94 This is a reminder that the ‘unofficial’ finance system offered easy credit but was very fragile. One failure to honour a payment might start a domino effect as everyone tried to turn their paper credit into hard assets. As with letters of introduction, we see again the role of mutual obligation: debtors relied on creditors for cash, and creditors relied on debtors working hard to ensure they got their money back. For the system to work, everyone had to play their part.
Finally, letters encouraged a rich flow of information around Britain. At one level, Watt could write from London to his father at Greenock, ‘I have had a fit of the Rheumatism which has been very troublesome to me – tho not so bad as to make me keep the House . . . In other respects I never had my health better since I remember.’95 On another level, news of major events spread fast. Watt sent details to Greenock of a huge eart
hquake in Lisbon and told of concerns about a French invasion of the Kent or Sussex coast. He even breathlessly described the declaration of war against France in May 1756, noting, ‘Their [sic] was the greatest mob fever saw which you can have no idea of unless you was acquainted in London.’96 Watt also sent commercial intelligence, warning his father that competing merchant William McDowal ‘has got some books draughts & other things . . . & am afraid he will be able to undersell you’, as well as news of the latest fashions, which he had difficulty keeping up with: sending items requested by his father, he replied, ‘I am sorry the handkerchiefs were not better but as it is a thing that I am no judge of I am the more excusable.’97
Britain, then, reverberated with news and views, bills of exchange and letters of introduction moving with travellers on land and at sea. An impression emerges of the strength of relationships between people, even when separated by hundreds of miles, and how their mutual obligation was a strong incentive to make a success of things. Watt’s letters show his anxiety not to be a burden to his father for too long, for instance. He writes in November 1755, ‘I am striving all I can to be the sooner able to be a help to you as I am in duty bound.’98 The following April he reiterates that ‘It gives me great pain to be a downdraught on you but hope shortly to be able to make you some amends.’99 Watt was certainly becoming well versed in the ways of civil society but, to bring the story full circle, we return to his practical training as an instrument maker in London.
Watt’s letters from London record the variety of his training. He worked on scales and rules for calculating and measuring, and Hadley’s quadrants for navigation. In November 1755 he was making ‘azimuth compasses for Eastindiamen’ – the ships trading between Britain and the Indian Ocean – and the following April he was completing a brass sector for making calculations of scale and proportion, and a theodolite for surveying. Watt seems to have been a fast learner, proudly telling his father in August 1755 that he had made a better job of a quadrant than one of Morgan’s apprentices of two years’ standing. The variety of projects undertaken may be down to John Morgan making ‘nothing but what’s bespoke’ – one-off pieces rather than items made in bulk.100 This also contributed to the unpredictability of the work: Watt’s letters record a series of rushes to fulfil orders, and he wrote in his letters how his hands shook from the work, and ‘I have scarce time to write a letter now as we work to nine o clock every night except Saturdays’.101 This was not unusual: long working hours were the norm. A visitor to instrument maker Jesse Ramsden’s workshop in 1787–8 wrote that the workmen laboured for twelve hours between 6 a.m. and 8.30 p.m. for six days per week.102 Men working for the ironmaster Ambrose Crowley worked from 5 a.m. until 8 p.m. with a half-hour break at 8 a.m. and an hour at midday, and had only Sundays off.103 But in most respects Watt was lucky to be receiving a training which few people even in London could give him – in August 1755 he wrote, ‘Very few here know any more than how to make a rule others a pair of dividers & such like.’104 The following month he continued the theme: ‘I now find there are not above 5 or 6 that could have taught me all I wanted.’105 The thorough grounding in the practicalities of instrument making would stand him in good stead for the next part of his career, and he could write with some justification, ‘I shall be able to get my bread any where.’106