The Writings of Hesba Stretton (Ashgate Studies in Childhood, 1700 to the Present)

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The Writings of Hesba Stretton

Ashgate Studies in Childhood, 1700 to the Present Series Editor: Claudia Nelson, Texas A&M University, USA This series recognizes and supports innovative work on the child and on literature for children and adolescents that informs teaching and engages with current and emerging debates in the field. Proposals are welcome for interdisciplinary and comparative studies by humanities scholars working in a variety of fields, including literature; book history, periodicals history, and print culture and the sociology of texts; theater, film, musicology, and performance studies; history, including the history of education; gender studies; art history and visual culture; cultural studies; and religion. Topics might include, among other possibilities, how concepts and representations of the child have changed in response to adult concerns; postcolonial and transnational perspectives; “domestic imperialism” and the acculturation of the young within and across class and ethnic lines; the commercialization of childhood and children’s bodies; views of young people as consumers and/or originators of culture; the child and religious discourse; children’s and adolescents’ self-representations; and adults’ recollections of childhood.

Also in the series Public School Literature, Civic Education and the Politics of Male Adolescence Jenny Holt Women and the Shaping of the Nation’s Young Education and Public Doctrine in Britain 1750–1850 Mary Hilton The Nineteenth-Century Child and Consumer Culture Dennis Denisoff Conceptualizing Cruelty to Children in Nineteenth-Century England Literature, Representation, and the NSPCC Monica Flegel The Idea of Nature in Disney Animation David Whitley

The Writings of Hesba Stretton Reclaiming the Outcast

Elaine Lomax De Montfort University, UK

© Elaine Lomax 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Elaine Lomax has asserted her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Ashgate Publishing Company Wey Court East Suite 420 Union Road 101 Cherry Street Farnham Burlington Surrey, GU9 7PT VT 05401-4405 England USA www.ashgate.com British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Lomax, Elaine, 1947– The writings of Hesba Stretton: reclaiming the outcast. – (Ashgate studies in childhood, 1700 to the present) 1. Stretton, Hesba, 1832–1911 – Criticism and interpretation I. Title 828.8’09 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lomax, Elaine, 1947– The writings of Hesba Stretton: reclaiming the outcast / by Elaine Lomax. p. cm. — (Ashgate studies in childhood, 1700 to the present) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-7546-5576-3 (alk. paper) 1. Stretton, Hesba, 1832–1911.—Criticism and interpretation. 2. Women authors, English—19th century. 3. Children’s literature—Authorship. 4. Literature and society— Great Britain—History—19th century. 5. Social reformers—Great Britain. 6. Children in literature. I. Title. II. Series. PR5499.S19Z75 2009 823’.8—dc22 09ANSHT ISBN: 978-0-7546-5576-3

2008036368

Contents List of Figures Acknowledgements Introduction

vi viii 1

Part 1 Private and Public Lives; Writing and Reading Worlds 1 Personal Writings, Published Texts, Biographical Perspectives

17

2 Publishers, Writers, Readers and Responses

49

Part 2 Roles, Representations and Social Relations 3 The Child: Text, Context and Intertext

81

4 ‘Worth her Weight in Gold’: Subtexts of Sexuality

115

5 Versions of Womanhood: Perspectives on Motherhood and Gender

135

6 Outcast Society and Society’s Outcasts

165

7 Religion, Romance, Reform and Revolution: The Russian Connection

203

Conclusion

215

Bibliography Index

219 235

vi

Book Title

List of Figures 1.1

Early portrait of Hesba Stretton, The Young Woman, July 1894. Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives.

18

1.2

Hesba Stretton as a woman of about forty, Memoir, Sunday at Home, December 1911. Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives.

30

1.3

Hesba Stretton, Hulda Friederichs and Stretton’s sister Elizabeth (1907). Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives.

45

1.4

Late portrait of Hesba Stretton, Memoir, Sunday at Home, December 1911 (Courtesy of Lutterworth Press). Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives.

46

3.1

‘He met with rebuffs, and felt downcast.’ In Prison and Out, 1880, Ch. 2, R. Barnes.

94

3.2

Jessica’s First Prayer, 1867/n.d., Ch.3, A.W. Bayes/Butterworth and Heath.

95

3.3

Little Meg’s Children, 1868/label 1889, Ch.8, W.S. Stacey/ Whymper.

103

3.4

In Prison and Out, 1880, Ch.7, R. Barnes.

109

4.1

Jessica’s First Prayer, 1867/n.d., Frontispiece, A.W. Bayes/ Butterworth and Heath.

122

4.2

The King’s Servants, 1873/label 1911, Part 3, Ch.7, [A. Miles]/Whymper.

127

4.3

Carola, 1884/label 1898, Ch.12, [W.L. Jones]/Whymper.

132

5.1

‘A tall policeman came up and stood over them.’ The Storm of Life, 1876/label 1910, Ch.7, W.S. Stacey/Whymper.

136

5.2

‘Homeless but not friendless.’ Bede’s Charity, 1872/c.1890, Ch.25, Illustrator unknown.

137

List of Figures

vii

5.3

‘Shelterless.’ A Thorny Path, 1879/c.1882, Ch.3, Illustrator unknown.

148

6.1

‘Lost Margery.’ Bede’s Charity, 1872/c.1890, Frontispiece, Illustrator unknown.

167

6.2

‘Under the Trees in the Park.’ Bede’s Charity, 1872/c.1890, Ch.18 Illustrator unknown.

183

6.3

Pilgrim Street, 1867/inscr.1890, Ch.12 [W.L. Jones]/Whymper.

190

7.1

In the Hollow of His Hand, 1897/label 1903, Ch.8 W.J. Morgan.

209

(All Stretton texts from author’s private collection.)

viii

Book Title

Acknowledgements I should like to extend my thanks to all those institutions and individuals who have provided me with advice, assistance and support. These include: Shropshire Archives; NSPCC Archives; H.S. King/C. Kegan Paul Archives (University College, London); Archives of the School of Oriental and African Studies (University of London); Senate House Library (University of London); the Women’s Library (London Metropolitan University); the British Library; the Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books (Toronto Public Library); Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center (University of Texas at Austin); Lutterworth Press; the Society of Authors; and the Children’s Books History Society. I am especially grateful to the late Professor Julia Briggs and to Dr Clare Walsh for their guidance and encouragement. I am also indebted to my husband and family for their patience and support during my research and preparation of this book. Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The author would be pleased to rectify any omissions brought to her notice at the earliest opportunity.

Introduction Hesba Stretton (Sarah Smith 1832–1911) is best known today as a writer of evangelical fiction for children. Her name is associated in the popular imagination with the exceptionally successful ‘waif’ narrative, Jessica’s First Prayer, an apparently simple, but, in fact, subtly layered tale, first published in volume form by the Religious Tract Society in 1867 and followed by other best-selling ‘street Arab’ titles including Little Meg’s Children (1868) and Alone in London (1869). Although Stretton’s reputation links her primarily with the juvenile market, the range of her work is extensive, much of it occupying uncertain terrain on the boundary between adult and children’s literature in terms of theme and readership. She produced more than sixty books, including full-length novels directed at an adult or young-adult audience (some for the secular market), as well as stories and articles of journalism for periodicals such as Dickens’s Household Words and All The Year Round. Importantly, the issues addressed by Stretton are much broader than is generally recognized. Her work is notable for its interaction with prominent nineteenth-century social, cultural and political debates, and for its engagement with many of the interests and anxieties of the period. Stretton was an active campaigner on social issues, both through her writing and through practical activities. Along with philanthropists such as Baroness Burdett-Coutts and Benjamin Waugh, she was a founder-member of the London Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, and worked towards the reform of attitudes and legislation in areas such as poverty, juvenile crime and women’s rights. Bibliographies and histories of children’s literature have situated Stretton’s writing chiefly within the context of evangelical ‘street Arab’ tales; consequently, whilst her influence in this field has been acknowledged, entries have centred on a relatively narrow area of her work. Critics and commentators have emphasized the contemporary popularity of her narratives, but have, for the most part, only briefly discussed – or dismissed – them as belonging to a body of didactic and, to modern taste, unacceptably religious and sentimental writing, a stance which has served to foreclose more fruitful exploration of this literature. Analysis of Stretton’s writings remains, therefore, comparatively undeveloped; existing studies are limited in extent and perspective, and many areas – indeed many narratives – have remained unexplored. Scholars have not embraced the  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ The name ‘Hesba Stretton’ was adopted by Sarah Smith soon after she commenced writing, the first name uniting the initials of her siblings and the surname echoing the Shropshire village where the family owned property.  Several accounts appeared during the 1970s and early 1980s. Lance Salway’s 1970 essay discusses Stretton’s work in relation to contemporary social injustice, philanthropy and reform. A more comprehensive overview is provided by M. Nancy Cutt (1979) in her study of evangelical writing for children; Cutt terms Stretton a ‘genuine social reformer’ (154).



The Writings of Hesba Stretton

range of her work, nor recognized it as a medium for examining crucial aspects of the nineteenth-century imagination. The implications of underlying themes and motifs have been largely disregarded, the potential for layered readings underestimated. It is essential to free ourselves from the constraints of accepted wisdom, and to overcome a reluctance to engage more comprehensively with what has been discounted as outdated material, in order to uncover the social, political, moral and emotional complexities of these writings. This project sets out to reclaim and re-examine the range of Stretton’s work, locating it more imaginatively within the circumstances of its production. It is valuable to explore these marginalized narratives not only alongside those of a similar genre, but also in relation to more extensively reviewed ‘classic’ works (for both adults and children), and in the light of contemporary forms including journalism, social reportage, visual art and melodrama. In so doing, we can hope to (re)open debate concerning their appeal and significance, and, in the process of rediscovery and reassessment, to expand the boundaries of discussion. Such examination confirms the centrality of the abandoned or outcast child. The waif, however, is by no means the only variety of outcast; other voices and stories within these texts lay bare the plight of diverse marginalized, disenfranchised or persecuted figures and sections of society. A particularly striking feature across Stretton’s oeuvre is her preoccupation with the lot of the woman, and with the complexities of motherhood and the maternal bond. The author’s concerns embrace outcast society at large, throwing into relief such figures as the criminal, the prostitute, the delinquent, the Jew, the gypsy and the foreigner, and highlighting the cultural motifs which surround them. Stretton’s narratives are embedded within a network of discourses encompassing religion, sexuality, poverty, pollution, the body, social and moral reform, education and colonialism – areas which form part of a wider, multifaceted discourse of otherness at the heart of Victorian society. These writings bring to light the simultaneous fear and allure of that which is alien, unknown or undesirable; they emphasize the interdependence of gender, generation, race and class, and reveal overlapping experiences of exclusion, separation and loss. The interconnected strands provide a framework for investigation, a foundation for exploring Stretton’s literary and practical undertaking within the wider cultural tapestry. The dynamics of power, the construction of perceptions, mythologies, identity and difference, emerge as key concerns. We have here an arena for examining responses to the outcast or ‘other’ in all its guises, and a lens through J.S. Bratton’s 1981 investigation into Victorian children’s fiction examines the development and influence of Stretton’s work in the context of evangelical publishing. Although these accounts pointed to the complexity and socio-historical significance of Stretton’s writings, only a few critics have seriously engaged with the issues raised or broadened the critical base. These include Demers (1991), who explores Romantic influences and issues of agency, Mitchell (1995), whose chapter examines the affective power of popular texts such as Jessica’s First Prayer, and Rickard (1996), who extends discussion of Stretton’s work in relation to wider publishing issues.

Introduction



which to investigate wider ideas and representations, exposing the uncertainties, tensions and conflicts at work in a changing society, and within the individual self. The concept of a web in which multiple issues of marginality inhere operates initially at the level of the critical project. The texts themselves can be regarded as literary outcasts – marginalized by the establishment on several accounts. Firstly, their designation as children’s literature categorizes them as ‘other’ to adult works and signals a subordinate status over time within the literary establishment, notwithstanding a growing recognition of the importance of serious approaches to children’s literature and childhood studies. Within the hierarchy of children’s literature and criticism, texts such as these have often figured as the excluded ‘other’, the genre cast aside in favour of apparently less didactic, more liberating, imaginative or fantasy modes, or rejected out of hand, its religious emphasis alien to modern, secular thinking. As the product of a woman’s pen, these writings occupy doubly or triplymarginalized terrain, although the modern project of re-examining and revaluing historical texts for or about children, by women writers, has contributed to a reclamation of the voice and status of both groups. Categorized as ‘popular’ fiction, Stretton’s narratives exist as ‘other’ to texts designated ‘literary’, despite their evident preoccupation with serious ideas, and qualities of playfulness and self-reflexivity. Nonetheless, as material aimed at a popular mass audience, they provide valuable insights into the culture of their production and reception. Challenging dominant notions of propriety and worth, Hesba Stretton embraces ‘outcast’ themes, confronting subject matter often deemed improper or unworthy of attention, but which holds appeal precisely because of its engagement with such taboos and silences. Her work addresses existential issues which are both particular and universal, its preoccupation with otherness and difference tapping into individual and collective fears and desires. The overarching premise operates across the diverse groups and identities which figure within Stretton’s narratives. It is implicit in the construction of the child as ‘other’ to the adult, and between categories of child in terms of character and social status; it underlies the contrast between the sinful and the angelic child, between the primitive or heathen and the enlightened or educated. The poor or working-class child is defined in opposition to the middle-class child, with moral and material qualities elided. Within the category of poor child, the street-urchin, vagrant or beggar, the delinquent or potential felon are set against the ‘respectable’ or hard-working young person and his family, and conflated with the ‘low-life’ element as the feared and excluded of society. The precariousness of boundaries, the ease with which one may become ‘the other’, is paramount. The notion of otherness is inscribed in the longstanding subordination of women – in the designations of inferiority or excess which reflect both the threat  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� See, for example, the body of work by Mitzi Myers (notably in the field of writers such as Maria Edgeworth), which breaks important ground concerning the historicisation of such texts and ways of thinking about the child.



The Writings of Hesba Stretton

to male dominance and the internalization by both sexes of normative gender codes. It is played out in contrasting versions of womanhood – in the opposition, for example, between virgin and whore, and in representations of figures such as the prostitute or fallen women. The process is apparent in the idealization, yet practical marginalization, of the institution of motherhood, and in the divisions between good and bad maternal models – the self-sacrificing, nurturing ideal and the neglectful slum mother or malevolent step-parent. Perceptions of otherness underpin responses to the old, the infirm, the poor, and those whose difference resides in their nationality, race, creed, or perceived lack of civilization. These patterns operate within and between classes, genders and groups, between authorities and the individual or subculture, and within the self; they evidence the perpetual urge to categorize, establish boundaries and perpetuate divisions. Yet, as we shall discover, Hesba Stretton’s narratives also evidence the instinct to promote understanding, solidarity and co-operation within and across borders. An integrated study of Stretton’s diverse representations reveals significant areas of convergence. In the case of all the figures embraced, relations of power and the arbitrary exercise of authority apply, with patterns of tyranny in the public arena mirrored within home and family. We encounter similar forms of control, surveillance, discipline and enculturation, comparable practices – overt and insidious – of repression, enslavement and exploitation. It becomes evident that society’s responses to the ‘other’ are consistently marked by an intermingling of fascination and revulsion, concern, compassion and distancing; the desire to further the notion of a common humanity accompanies the impulse to contain an amorphous, ever-present threat which betokens chaos and disintegration. Experiences of exclusion, rejection and alienation are shared by different categories of outcast, underlining material, emotional and psychological deprivation across social spheres. Outsiders of all kinds may, like the middle-class protagonist of Stretton’s The Doctor’s Dilemma (1872), who escapes from an oppressive marital home, find themselves ‘as wretched and friendless as any [creature] that the streets of London contained’ (Part 1, 25, Ch.3). The interrelatedness of themes brings to our attention the way in which shared language and images shape and reinforce difference across numerous spheres of representation. At the same time, as will become clear, ambiguous, multiply-charged symbolism and coded references generate meaning at levels beyond that of the surface story. In focusing on these issues, it is important to consider the problems inherent in the representation of marginalized figures and the attempted recovery of neglected  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� Having discovered that his title for a new play, ‘The Doctor’s Dilemma’, had already been adopted by Stretton, George Bernard Shaw wrote to her, graciously requesting permission to use this wording (8.10.1906, George Bernard Shaw Collection, Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center). Stretton’s book was still in print and selling in small numbers, but she confirmed (10.10.1906) that, subject to Hodder and Stoughton’s approval, she was happy for him to use the title. Editions of the play initially carried an acknowledgement to Stretton.

Introduction



voices. We must take into account differences or convergences between the concerns of the writer and those of the communities she seeks to ‘represent’ – in terms both of ‘portraying’ and of ‘speaking on behalf of’ or ‘advocating for’. Whilst I would broadly concur that Stretton writes from the perspective of ‘the submerged’ in society rather than that of the reformer or educator aiming to ‘elevate the masses’ (Cutt, 1979: 133), it is necessary to look closely at the legitimacy and effectiveness of such an endeavour. Questions arise regarding the extent to which it is possible, from an essentially middle-class and adult perspective, to relate the story of the outcast – to take the part of the child, the deprived woman or mother, or the criminal. Problems surface in relation to a concentrated focus on the ‘other’ – not least the issue of the stranger’s gaze and the potential interrelationship between textual and ‘real life’ voyeurism. Stretton’s enterprise is inevitably entangled with society’s attitudes towards material projects of reclamation and the programmes which underpin them. We shall want to ask: Is an understanding of the outcast or oppressed as victim complicated by internalized perceptions which betray the drive to distance or condemn? Is the purpose to liberate or alternatively to contain, mould or civilize, and to what extent are these aims confused or complicated? How far can fictional reconfigurations of social and power relations, demonstrations of agency or transgressive currents advance material change? Arguably, Stretton’s engagement with those on the edge of society militates against her status as outsider; her preoccupation with the role and grievances of women – and the personal frustrations and rebelliousness inscribed in her writing – serve to expose oppression and to transcend differences of situation. At the same time, attitudes to freedom and restraint, dependence and autonomy, control and agency are marked by ambivalence; essentially conservative patterns vie with progressive or creative currents, generating complexity and ambiguity. Whilst recognizing that, in many respects, these narratives reaffirm contemporary precepts, we can also establish their potential to challenge orthodoxies, and to present alternatives; stereotypes of age, gender and race are both reproduced and subverted, traditional models endorsed and called into question. The interplay between material and moral forces, between social and spiritual solutions, forms a persistent thread. Within Stretton’s work, popular modes of writing are both disparaged and exploited. Social structures and forms of authority receive overt and oblique critique; individual choices or actions and wider judgements undergo interrogation. Stretton refers to the ‘power of seeing with other people’s eyes’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 1873/1898: 243, Ch.35); the will to develop this  As Perry Nodelman (1992: 29) stresses, ‘Representations of those who can’t see or speak for themselves are and must always be engendered by outsiders’. Nikolajeva (2002: 185) discusses the ethics of ‘usurping’ the voice of silenced minorities, the problems of adopting and communicating the subjectivity of such groups, and the conflict between educating or socialising and taking the part of the marginalized.  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� References �������������������������������������������������������������������������� show date of first publication followed by date of publication or date of label/inscription for edition cited.



The Writings of Hesba Stretton

power manifests itself in, amongst other devices, the deployment of alternative perspectives within and across texts, creating a dialogue not only between different phases of life, but between different kinds of lives. An approach which embraces the recovery of Stretton’s full-length, more adultoriented novels is important for several reasons. These texts (which are not without literary merit) are significant in their own right, by virtue of their engagement with prominent aspects of Victorian culture; they express the experiences and concerns of the individual amidst wider social anxieties. In common with a number of Stretton’s short stories and articles, the longer novels confirm, elaborate and illuminate patterns and sentiments identifiable in her better-known texts, and in her writing as a whole. They are valuable for their articulation of cultural ideas – for their encapsulation of central beliefs surrounding, for example, the child or social outcast, and their expression of the complexities of the human condition. From the early The Clives of Burcot (1867), these novels share with the shorter narratives a preoccupation with patriarchal oppression, female containment and the inequities and intricacies of gender relations. Hester Morley’s Promise (1873) provides insights into the nature of childhood, and carries an echo of the popular Alone in London in a chapter bearing that title; novels such as the late The Soul of Honour (1898) are notable for their images of alienation. The Doctor’s Dilemma (1872) blends these concerns, and illuminates, as we shall see, the thinking behind particular narrative effects, including breadth of perspective, which characterize Stretton’s wider writings. In Cobwebs and Cables (1881), the concerns of a woman writer are given prominence, and Half Brothers (1892) places centre-stage the discourses of savagery and civilisation which inflect the author’s work and permeate nineteenth-century culture. Numerous works focus on middle-class protagonists (some of whom cross social boundaries), a factor which illustrates differences and common experiences between classes. The late Mitzi Myers (1995) pinpoints the difficulty we face in envisaging earlier child and adult readers as ‘inhabitants of one literary world, or at least of parallel reading worlds with more permeable boundaries than those we are accustomed to’ (3). An approach which encompasses a spectrum of texts, shedding light on their shared place within the wider cultural landscape, enables us to appreciate the cumulative significance of Stretton’s project. As discussion of audiences will confirm, her writings exist within a continuum in which texts, from the three-volume novel to the short narrative or article, fruitfully intersect. Works refer both directly and obliquely to each other, with ideas and themes overlapping  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� Myers and Knoepflmacher (eds) (1997) endorse the idea of a ‘dialogic mix’ of older and younger voices, past and present selves (vii–viii), allowing movement across adult–child boundaries, and, as I will argue, between other ‘oppositional’ classes.  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� In exploring this material, I have concentrated on key motifs and currents across Stretton’s work, exposing central themes and storylines in the process, rather than detailing lengthy plots. Following the approach advocated by Myers (1999: 49), I have also resisted the ‘juridical mode of indictment or exculpation’, ���������������������������������������� favouring������������������������������� a more complex���������������� contextualized� ‘uncovering’.

Introduction



or transposed to alternative contexts; this relationship highlights the commonality of experiences, the fragility of borders and the disparities between perspectives. We deprive ourselves of understanding if we compartmentalize these writings. The structure of my project reflects the intersection of ideas across categories, and the relationship between private and public arenas, personal and textual preoccupations. Part 1 anticipates the concerns of Part 2, forming a backdrop to more detailed analysis of textual themes and motifs. It establishes a biographical framework, drawing on Stretton’s diaries and sources such as letters, campaign leaflets and interview material to provide insights into the author’s personal experiences and attitudes; findings and impressions are related to her wider career and activities, and to textual themes and currents. The emphasis then moves to the broad publishing context, focusing, with the aid of archival sources, on the motivations of writer and publishers in the light of wider social and political agendas. The permeability of boundaries in relation to age and class of reader emerges as significant. This section embraces issues of genre, audience, critical reception and wider contemporary responses to Stretton’s work, and investigates potential audiences. It becomes evident that diverse narrative strategies and thematic preoccupations combine to invite engagement at practical and psychological levels, rendering this a rich field for exploration. Detailed scrutiny of Stretton’s relationships with the publishing establishment links the transgression of professional boundaries with challenges to conventions in the author’s personal life and in her writing. Part 2 looks back to, and draws upon, earlier chapters; focusing on roles and relationships – both textual and societal – it explores Stretton’s representations in the context of popular ideas surrounding particular figures and groups, across various media forms. It must be remembered that literary and cultural images are not neutral reflections of reality: embodying ideologies and assumptions, and interacting with our own ways of perceiving or defining ourselves and others, they function creatively to shape imaginations, attitudes, identity and lived experience. These chapters cast a searchlight on various outcast or marginalized figures, commencing with the child, although the circular nature of the concerns addressed makes alternative permutations possible. The overlap of pivotal themes means that certain questions demand attention from various perspectives; for example, the mother-figure merits discussion from the standpoint of child, woman and wider society. In Chapter 3, discussion of contrasting but mutually-dependent concepts of childhood prefaces an investigation into Stretton’s depictions of the child and its relationships, within both family and society. Questions of alienation, freedom and deprivation, abuse, exploitation, autonomy and boundary-crossing are crucial; we uncover challenges to conventional structures and engagement with alternative family patterns. The chapter which follows develops themes of sexualization  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Myers (1999: 47) speaks of locating the formation of subjectivity ‘in history, in language, in story, in the lived realities of social existence’.�



The Writings of Hesba Stretton

and exploitation already broached in relation to the child; presaging the gender concerns of Chapter 5, it examines issues, nuances and subtexts which tap into society’s wider preoccupation with sexuality. The study then takes up questions of patriarchal power raised in connection with the child, exploring gender relationships and experiences which both are class-specific and have resonance across classes. Viewed in the light of contemporary ideals, anxieties and debates, Stretton’s appreciation of the implications – practical, emotional and psychological – of motherhood and maternal attachment assumes heightened significance. Probing further into the problems of speaking for others and individualizing representations, Chapter 6 concentrates on depictions of outcast society, with an emphasis on the overlap of language and images across cultural, social, moral and spiritual spheres. Discourses of the city, of town and country, darkness and light, heaven and hell, good and evil coalesce, highlighting the elision of metaphorical and material concerns. Against this backdrop, Stretton’s portrayal of the criminal world and her exploration of deviance and delinquency take on particular relevance; representations of the Jew, the gypsy and the savage further illustrate the complex and equivocal nature of responses to society’s outsiders. Finally, in Chapter 7 the focus shifts to Stretton’s Russian-themed narratives, which centre on the experiences of the persecuted Stundist minority and evidence an intermingling of the concerns which underpin the author’s wider writings. Stretton’s related association with potentially revolutionary Russian exiles, and her participation in their project during the 1890s, deserves detailed consideration in the context of contemporary sympathies and currents of thought. The hybrid nature of Stretton’s writings and fie����������������������� l���������������������� ds of concern invites an approach which, whilst not heavily theorized, embraces various critical perspectives. Projects which position texts within their social and cultural context, emphasizing their place within a network of events, ideas and experiences, draw attention to the permeable boundaries between literature, history and culture. Historicisation is amplified by interdisciplinary approaches which illuminate the interaction between artistic, cultural, social, political and psychological spheres, between fictive and ‘factual’ forms, between mythology, representation and experience. Stretton’s focus on authority also invites recourse to ideas regarding the operation of power and the related role of discourse.10 It has proved useful to mine a variety of contemporary sources, literary and extra-literary, and also to take advantage of modern, materially-grounded studies of areas including class, gender and poverty. As a consequence of Stretton’s reputation as a children’s writer, and her preoccupation with the child, it is fruitful to draw on the substantial body of children’s literature criticism and childhood studies – a field which itself harnesses ������������������������������������������������������������������������� Tony Watkins (1999) provides an overview of new historicist and cultural approaches which integrate diverse elements. For discussions of power and discourse, see cultural ������������������������������������ theorist Michel Foucault’s Discipline and Punish (1979) and The History of Sexuality Vol.1: The Will to Knowledge (1981). 10

Introduction



multiple branches of theory. Mitzi Myers (1995: 2) proposes child-centred texts as ‘ideal investigatory sites’ for the application of theoretical ideas, and, in particular, for the interrogation of issues of ‘alterity’ (Myers, 1999: 49); she emphasizes the importance of engaging with the political implications of such texts. The complex, ongoing debates about the constructed nature of childhood and the child-figure, and the acknowledged problems surrounding the definition of children’s literature, are highly relevant. So, too, are approaches which take account of unconscious drives and needs, underlining the intersection of material and psychological domains. In common with Myers, critics including Briggs (1989) and Paul (1987; 1998; 1999) have demonstrated the relationship between children’s literature and feminist concerns, identifying juvenile texts as vehicles for subversion as well as the inculcation of societal norms. Feminist ideas are doubly pertinent to Stretton’s work because of her investment in the female predicament; similarly, historical, socio-political and/or psychoanalytical insights can usefully be brought to bear on issues of gender, maternity and the maternal bond.11 Just as feminist perspectives have been productively applied to children’s literature, not least because of the shared marginality of the two groups, scholars have also identified the salience of post-colonialist theories.12 These draw attention to the inherent ‘inferiority’ of both child and colonial subject, their common status as object of the outsider’s gaze and a fundamentally ‘imperialist’ project, and the problems of representation involved. The colonialist implications of Stretton’s enterprise – its participation in educational and socializing agendas, and its sustained illustration of the interrelationship between discourses of the child, the outcast and the savage (at home and abroad) – render such insights doubly useful, exposing common ground. Implicit in the uncovering of a range of competing and conflicting voices within and across Stretton’s writing, is the potential for varied interpretation. All the influences, experiences, knowledge and value-judgements which writer and reader bring, consciously and unconsciously, to the texts are implicated in the process. Writers or texts may apparently privilege a certain reading, yet simultaneously offer alternative voices, stories and positions; the interplay of language, ideas, patterns and motifs generates echoes, associations and meanings. Readers, with their particular needs, priorities and ways of reading, are liable to make different connections and to engage with, question or resist particular aspects.13 11 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� See, f������������������������������������������������������������������������� or example, the work of Nancy Chodorow (1978) and the ideas of theorists such as Julia Kristeva. 12 See, in particular, Perry Nodelman (1992). Referring to the work of Edward Said, Nodelman links descriptions of Orientalism with our representations of childhood. He also implicates discourses of the other in the process of self-definition (32) and observes that our ‘eternal desire and failure to understand the other confirms ... its paradoxical attractiveness and danger to us’ (31). 13 Lissa Paul (1998), discussing the possibility of ‘reading otherways’, confirms the ‘complex relational dynamic’ (11) between writer, text, context and reader.

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

10

In addressing the problems of representing and reclaiming other voices and experiences, it is important to raise the question of homogenization and generalization within the investigation itself, and the unintended reinforcement of assumptions through the use of generic terms such as ‘the child’.14 Monolithic references within this project to ‘childhood’, ‘the outcast’, ‘outcast society’ and other labels – as well as providing ease of reference – form part of an interrogation of such constructions, rather than a confirmation of homogeneity. Although the structure reflects categorization, it will become clear that borders are fluid and classifications problematic. Exploration of common ground does not overlook differences; the fact, for example, that every adult has once been (and thus merges with) a child distinguishes childhood from other forms of marginalization. Furthermore, the child’s legitimate need for guidance and protection means that we cannot place children uncritically alongside other disenfranchised figures or groups.15 Stretton herself, in pressing for an agency directed specifically at the needs of children, suggests that ‘women can defend themselves, or at least know how and where to seek redress’ (Letter to The Times, 30.6.1884). The child is clearly a special case; nonetheless – and other aspects of Stretton’s project support this view – we should not underestimate the degree of protection needed by other oppressed groups, in terms, for example, of violence and exploitation. With regard to the period under study, there is always a danger of assuming a ‘specious unity’ (Himmelfarb, 1991: 10). Hesba Stretton’s lifetime broadly overlaps with the reign of Queen Victoria; her writing spans the second half of the nineteenth century. We cannot, of course, regard this as a homogeneous period; there is both change and continuity. Nonetheless, despite shifts in emphasis – which are reflected in Stretton’s work – certain preoccupations, assumptions and ways of thinking about the outcast remain central. The intermittently intensified class anxieties and fears of unrest which characterized earlier decades – as, for example, in response to 1840s Chartism or the slump of the mid-1860s – continued to absorb commentators as poverty was ‘rediscovered’ in the final decades; reactions now reflected heightened imperialist and eugenic concerns, increased awareness of collective and state responsibility, and pressure for reform or even revolution. Underlining the persistence of such anxieties, Francis Peek, in the Contemporary Review (1888b: 276), discusses the failure to relieve poverty during recurring depressions over three winters. He highlights concomitant demonstrations of lawlessness, deeming it unsurprising that ‘preachers of anarchy find an attentive audience when they denounce modern government as tyranny, and the rulers of the state as oppressors of the poor’ (1888a: 52).16 14

������������������������������������������������������������������� Nodelman (2000b: 38) underlines the dangers of such generalization� ���������������. ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� See Richardson ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� (1999: 31). Richardson emphasizes that the child’s vulnerability to exploitation differs from that of other disadvantaged figures. 16 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Historian Gareth ������������������������������������������������������������������������ Stedman Jones (1984) confirms the so-called residuum as a source of persistent anxiety throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, amidst shifting attitudes and a confidence in social amelioration. 15

Introduction

11

Like Dickens and Gaskell before her, Stretton, from her earliest writings, displayed deep concern over the impact of poverty and the struggles of the disenfranchised, whether such deprivation arose from the cotton famine in Manchester in the early 1860s or the conditions in the slums of London in the ensuing decades. Despite the social awakening which marked the 1880s, and the preoccupation with social and environmental factors such as health and housing, the gulf between rich and poor consistently emphasized by Stretton was perceived to deepen as the century progressed. Samuel Barnett, writing in 1886, cites statistical evidence that poverty in London was increasing both relatively and actually (687). He draws attention to the squalid dwellings of the poor (whose substance is more often at the pawnbrokers than in the home) and to ragged, ill-fed and joyless children deprived of fresh air and space to play – subjects which had absorbed commentators and writers for decades, and continue to dominate Stretton’s fiction and factual articles till the century’s end. Against this backdrop, the obsession with national wealth and fashionable luxury appeared ‘but cruel satire’ (Barnett, 680). Stretton, likewise, was only too aware that marching ‘step for step with the everincreasing luxury of the rich’ could be found the ‘gaunt degradation’ of the poor (Cobwebs and Cables, 1881/n.d.: 202, Ch.29). Society’s preoccupation with the child also spans the period of Stretton’s writing, with exploitation, abuse, exclusion or isolation ever more insistent concerns. The child continues to be both symbolically and materially central, with shifting priorities and cultural and educational agendas mirrored in Stretton’s narratives and practical involvement. The right of the child to protection – by mid-century firmly extended beyond the middle-class setting – can be seen to progress, as urged by Benjamin Waugh (1888: 826), from its application in the factory setting to its implementation in school, theatre, street and home. Likewise the ‘woman question’, established as a crucial area of debate by the 1860s, was, in all its nuances, the focus of attention throughout the rest of the century and beyond. Despite variations in emphasis, involving the convergence and divergence of strands of feminism, we can identify a persistent thread in terms of broad concerns and rhetoric. Entangled with these preoccupations, the appropriation and accommodation of scientific and evolutionary ideas – with their inherent challenge to religious and cultural authority, and implications for society’s ‘outsiders’ – was in process over the course of the period under scrutiny. Reading and responding to Stretton’s texts today, we are inevitably influenced by our own perspective on the period; we cannot recover an unmediated Victorian mindset. Distance enables us more easily to identify messages and patterns, but changes in perception may distort our understanding, and personal or ideological stances colour our analysis.17 It is essential to respect the historical otherness of Himmelfarb (1991: 8) suggests, for example, that the language of morality in relation to social concerns is now often associated with conservatism, whereas in Victorian England it was also the discourse of radicals and liberals. We might today consider the Temperance Movement’s aims restrictive, yet activist endeavours – particularly by women – in this sphere spawned wider reform movements. 17

12

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

texts, and yet at the same time, to be alert to the underlying complexities and openendedness which generate wider meaning and ongoing relevance.18 A mid-twentieth-century profile – part of a series covering famous Shropshire personalities (No.2, unsigned, n.d.) – suggests that Hesba Stretton’s writings are as ‘incapable of surviving the transfer to another age as a fish is incapable of living out of water’. However, whilst these narratives are obviously a product of their times, they incorporate elements which transcend those times and render the texts meaningful to a modern audience. As will become clear, Stretton’s writing is, in some aspects, experimental, exhibiting, on occasion, a ‘modern’ selfconsciousness and plurality of perspective. Not only does her work direct attention onto the structures, experiences and attitudes of the period, but many themes also have resonance for us today, providing, not least, a historical background to the development of modern cultural and gender ideologies, the formation of presentday ideas and attitudes. They have current salience as additions to the ‘story’ of the period, inviting engagement with the otherness of a different era. Read by today’s children alongside modern works of historical fiction, they can offer at least a ‘singly mediated past’, permitting the shaping of history with a certain degree of ‘authenticity and immediacy’ – indeed, of ‘“authority”’ (McGillis, 2000: 51). Importantly, Stretton’s stories speak to fundamental needs, desires and insecurities which are played out in the various forms of marginalization, alienation, family dysfunction and moral uncertainty evident in modern society. Relations of power – so crucial in her work – continue today to underlie and influence experience in private and public spheres. Notwithstanding progress, gender inequalities and conflicts persist; resentments over women’s domestic exploitation or oppression, their exclusion from power in areas of public life, and the social marginalization of maternity are frequently expressed in terms similar to those voiced by Stretton’s protagonists. Attitudes and childhood experiences across classes have undergone radical change, but have their roots in Romantically-influenced ideas about the child; they remain marked by material inequalities as well as by emotional and cultural investment, with boundaries between adult and child simultaneously dismantled and emphasized. Whilst some children enjoy the benefits, and suffer the consequences, of increased protection, others, despite legislation, are variously abused and exploited within families and societies, their voices not heard or fully taken into account. The Wordsworthian ‘Getting and spending’ which Stretton identifies (The Soul of Honour, 1898/label 1905: 100, Ch.10) still dominates mindsets whilst many remain disenfranchised and exploited. We recognize that similar problems of deprivation, homelessness, crime and social unrest challenge us today; familiar arguments surround the adoption of measures to tackle juvenile crime, with causal factors and responses still predominantly class-related. There remains a reluctance to concede the ineffectiveness and negative consequences of prison so clearly pinpointed by Stretton; programmes of rehabilitation and training continue to be inadequate or non-existent. 18

See Sanders (1996: 204)

Introduction

13

The inclination towards tyranny and oppression is, alas, not restricted to particular moments or locations. Today, as in Stretton’s time, constructions and perceptions of difference contribute to enduring mythologies, fuelling the misunderstandings and hatred which underlie conflicts and divisions between different groups and communities; enmities persist or resurface between neighbours. Importantly, something akin to that which Foucault (1979: 199) describes as the ‘binary branding and exile of the leper’ operates today in responses to those whom we perceive, and fear, as outsiders or outcasts – as different from (yet, perhaps, too closely resembling) ourselves – and is apparent in the classifications we perpetuate. The same fascination or romanticization blends with this urge to distance, and renders modern attitudes, in many instances, just as equivocal. We are likely to recognize ourselves as well as others in the pages of Stretton’s texts.

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Part 1 Private and Public Lives; Writing and Reading Worlds

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Chapter 1

Personal Writings, Published Texts, Biographical Perspectives Clearly, any endeavour to locate Hesba Stretton’s writings within the context of their times entails a recognition that the author’s life forms part of, and is dependent on, that context. This chapter does not aim to present a comprehensive biographical picture; rather, it is concerned with exploring aspects of Stretton’s life and work within the framework of the major personal and cultural preoccupations which shape her writings, not least the areas of gender, motherhood, relations of power, and themes of exclusion and otherness. Accordingly, an approach which is thematic and circular rather than rigidly chronological, but which reflects changes and developments, proves enlightening. In her study of women’s journal writing, Judy Simons (1990) identifies diaries, private writings and published texts as ‘products of the same mind’ (68), part of a ‘single literary entity’ (16). Whilst assumptions of a direct correspondence between these forms are problematic, cautious examination of possible parallels and intersections provides important insights into the overlapping realms. By drawing on Stretton’s log books, campaigning material and correspondence in the public domain, and on diverse interviews and articles, it is possible to uncover common threads as well as areas of tension and contradiction in terms of experiences, interests and values, across the continuum of ‘life’ and ‘work’. Just as this chapter presages textual and contextual concerns, subsequent chapters will refer back to issues explored here, underlining the extent to which ‘life’ and text illuminate or complicate each other. Education and Imagination Born in 1832, in Wellington, Shropshire, Sarah (or Hesba Stretton, as she would become) was one of five surviving children of Benjamin and Ann Smith. She grew up in Wellington with older sisters Hannah and Elizabeth, younger sister Annie, and their brother, Benjamin. Stretton attended Wellington’s Old Hall School, but, although her attendance is confirmed by the present-day Old Hall School, no rolls or records relating to her time there remain, and little information survives regarding the preoccupations of her schooldays. In order to shed light on Stretton’s early years, we must turn to material gathered much later in her life. ‘A Talk with Hesba Stretton’, which appeared in  Myers (1991: 118) cites Dominick LaCapra’s observation (1982: 60–61) that ‘an author’s written texts and “lived” text interact in ways far more subtle than cause-effect sequence, questioning as well as supplementing one another’.

18

Fig. 1.1

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

Early portrait of Hesba Stretton, The Young Woman, July 1894. Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives

Sunday Hours in 1896, ostensibly contains transcriptions of Stretton’s responses to questions regarding her girlhood. Whilst subject to time-mediated recall, and perhaps to a certain reserve on the part of the, by then, somewhat legendary Hesba Stretton, these responses provide insights into a range of influences. Stretton speaks of the irregularity, due to delicate health, of her formal schooling, but stresses her unlimited exposure to books. As the offspring of a bookseller, who was ‘by no means a good man of business’, but ‘a real bookworm, knowing the inside of his books as well as the outside,’ the Stretton siblings had, from their earliest days, access to the library and books of all kinds. Their father had been apprenticed to John Houlston, ‘one of the best-known provincial publishers of the beginning of this century’; Stretton recalls the ‘clumsy, ebony-black wooden press, on which had been printed many of the books written by Mrs Sherwood and Mrs Cameron, and the first effort of Harriet Martineau’s pen’ (164). The children were permitted to stay and listen quietly in the room behind the shop, where ‘numberless  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ Facets������������������������������������������������������������������������������ of what Cutt (1979: 115) terms the ‘sentimental’ legend surrounding Stretton emerge as misleading; Stretton was more complex and less conventional than the popular image suggested.  ������������������������������������������������� Benjamin Smith����������������������������������� was also Wellington’s Postmaster.

Personal Writings, Published Texts, Biographical Perspectives

19

discussions’ took place, embracing ‘every possible religious and political question’ and in which ‘all the intellectual people of the neighbourhood’ participated (164). Years later, the child Hester, of Stretton’s Hester Morley’s Promise, would ‘listen earnestly to the discussions and controversies often held in her father’s parlor’ (1873/1898: 22, Ch.3), just as her creator had done. Stretton’s writings reflect these wide-ranging influences, showing her to be, unlike the Half Brothers (1892) protagonist whose ‘literary education had consisted in the reading of third-rate novels’ (n.d.: 20, Ch.2), widely read and erudite. If, as Bratton (1981: 26) observes, many evangelical writers had little contact with the artistic or literary world, this was not so for Stretton. Contemporary reviewers noted the impact on her writing of the breadth of her views of life. Her work contains direct or indirect allusions to literary and poetic texts, ranging from Plato’s ‘Dialogues’ to Malthus’s ‘Political Economy’, through Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure and the works of Byron, Sir Walter Scott, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell, and Thomas Carlyle. Diary entries record both private and social reading of works by popular contemporary authors including Dickens, Bulwer Lytton and George Eliot. As a contributor to Dickens’s publications, she would undoubtedly have read the work of other leading authors contained in Household Words, and, subsequently, All The Year Round. Hesba Stretton shares numerous areas of concern with Dickens; there are also striking parallels between the themes, motifs and sentiments of Stretton’s writings and those which underpin Elizabeth Gaskell’s work. Like Gaskell’s Mary Barton (1848), subtitled ‘A Tale of Manchester Life’, Pilgrim Street (1867) is ‘A Story of Manchester Life’; echoes of the mill fire episode in Gaskell’s text are apparent in Stretton’s depiction of a similar fire. Concerning Stretton’s relationship with Dickens, the diaries indicate that assumptions of a friendship are inaccurate; although Stretton attended readings by Dickens, and lunched, in company with her acquaintance Ellen Wood, with Mrs Charles Dickens, she apparently failed to secure a meeting with the author himself. She did have contact, at both business and social levels, with Dickens’s sub-editor, William Henry Wills, to whom she evidently intended to dedicate The Clives of Burcot, before its rejection in 1861 by Chapman and Hall. Entries reveal a playful interest in Wills until the sisters discovered that he was older than anticipated, and married. The journals also disclose Stretton’s endorsement of figures such as Victor Hugo; they confirm her engagement with the views of prominent, sometimes radical, speakers, writers and reformers. In Hester Morley’s Promise, the ideas of German rationalists form the subject of debate within the religious community. Major social, religious and political ideas and debates infuse Stretton’s themes; interestingly, her great-nephew Captain Webb records his childhood memory of her as ‘more of a Mind, than a Person’ (Webb, 1964: 16). In the Sunday Hours interview, Stretton describes education as ‘the calling out of all our faculties, especially of reason and sympathy, rather than the accumulating of a mass of information’ (165). The concept of education as both a civilizing and an emancipating force surfaces throughout her texts, which foreground links between

20

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

language, social expression and ‘social being’, and between language, class and power. The importance of wide reading, combined with the wisdom of life, is repeatedly stressed, an emphasis reflected in the establishment during the 1890s, through the efforts of Stretton and her sister, of a branch of the Popular Book Club near their Ham residence. Providing – literally – the building materials for early construction play, books later afforded food for mind and imagination; Stretton recalls sitting for hours on the floor, engrossed in some fascinating narrative. Imaginative faculties were given further rein during visits to a ‘primitive farmhouse’. Here, heaps of slag from former lime or coalpits transformed the meadow into a landscape of hills and valleys, where the children created ‘our Mont Blanc, and our Atlantic Ocean’. Stretton recalls ‘distant countries which we scarcely dared to explore alone’, a ‘delicious sense of peril about venturing too far’ and a belief in fairies, for whom the children built grottoes (‘A Talk with Hesba Stretton’, 165). A childish openness to facets of the supernatural assumes greater significance in relation to Stretton’s later ambivalence towards superstitious elements. Here, she reminisces: In the winter there was the great barn … where we played or talked … in semidarkness, which made the corners look mysterious. At night we sat sometimes in the large old-fashioned kitchen, lit only by firelight, with the farm-servants sitting in an outer circle, and the talk was chiefly of ghosts, or of accidents in the coalpits not far away, and of the warnings that came beforehand, the winding-sheets in the candles, the ticking of the death-watch, the strange tappings at windows and doors, the melancholy howling of dogs, and all the other superstitions of that day. We were hedged in by spiritual beings, both good and evil. There was a certain amount of fearful pleasure in the thought that we might at any moment see or hear one. (165)

In keeping with her evangelical Christian beliefs, the existence of such opposing forces was to be an underlying theme in Stretton’s work, involving resistance and struggle. Yet her writing evinces a fascination with the uncanny or supernatural, prefigured in these childhood experiences and ostensibly at odds with evangelical strictures. Against expectations, a journalist for The Young Woman in 1894 found Stretton quite open to discussion of topics including séances and crystal-gazing. On diverse occasions, locations possessing supernatural associations feature in Stretton’s narratives. The mysterious night-time ‘tapping’ of a child in her early story ‘Felicia Crompton’ (1863) recalls the childhood farmhouse experiences, and, perhaps, resonates with the sinister window-tapping in Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (1847).  ����������� During����� the Sunday Hours interview, Stretton alludes to a schoolmaster’s reproof about filling her head with nonsense: ‘the book I was poring over was Chalmers’s Astronomical Discourses’ (164).  As Cutt (1979: 117) agrees, the 1860 log book allusion (somewhat playful) to the placing of prognosticatory ‘dreamers’ under one’s head at night would have been condemned in evangelical circles. In fact, Stretton’s work often emphasizes the proximity between religion and superstition.

Personal Writings, Published Texts, Biographical Perspectives

21

In her Russian-themed texts, Stretton decries the superstitions of the peasantry whilst simultaneously exploiting these imaginative currents to summon up the sense of darkness and menace attached to places associated with evil deeds. The Lord’s Pursebearers (1883) presents the grotesque spectacle of black and white dolls painstakingly manufactured as effigies of hanged women, and, in David Lloyd’s Last Will (1869), Stretton recreates the atmosphere of childhood imaginings in the gothic settings surrounding Mr Lloyd’s decease. Elsewhere, darkness ‘call[s] up all the sleeping, lurking fancies which dwell in every child’s young brain’, rekindling primal fears (A Man of His Word, 1878/inscr.1901: 113, Ch.5). The allure of the supernatural or uncanny is pinpointed in Hester Morley’s Promise, where those who have renounced past superstitions thirst for ‘the thrill and creep of awe, with which they were wont to glance back over their shoulders for the hobgoblins of former times’ (91, Ch.14). A similar ambivalence, embodying a pervasive fear of, and fascination with, the unknown or ‘other’, is concisely articulated in Michel Lorio’s Cross (1876). Here, meetings with the village outcast – ostracized for perceived heresy and labelled ‘le diable’ – hold greater charm for the daring child because of a mingled, superstitious feeling of half dread. Significantly, the writer of the Seed Time and Harvest Memoir (1911), alluding to Stretton’s childhood play and development, comments that ‘all the while romance and imagination were being controlled’ – an identification of religion and upbringing as restraining forces which encapsulates the tensions within Stretton’s writing. The Child and the Maternal In evoking her childhood for the interviewer, Stretton testifies to the influence of her mother, who died before Stretton’s tenth birthday (an age at which, time and again, her protagonists find themselves motherless). The sustained significance of this loss, and its implications for her work, should not be underestimated; the effects manifest themselves in direct and indirect forms. Her writing evinces currents of maternal longing, a yearning for symbiotic reunion, which offers engagement both on the surface and below the level of the text. Clearly, there is an affinity between Stretton and young Annie of The Children of Cloverley, who fears ‘almost forgetting my mother’s face’ (1865/label 1876: 15, Ch.2), or the nine-yearold Hester, who nestles into her dead mother’s chair as she might have nestled into her lap, and imagines her ‘kissing me very softly’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 20; 21). Stretton’s own childlessness may also be significant: it was a dream of ‘two babies’ which resulted from the above-mentioned ‘dreamer’ experiment (Log Book: 1.1.1861), although this might, alternatively, reflect the loss of siblings who did not survive. An interest in, and compassion for, children, and an awareness of what it is to be motherless or abandoned, whether this concerns the streetwaif or the middle-class protagonist, are prominent strands in Stretton’s writing and campaigning. Similarly, the loss of, or fear of losing, a child is an insistent motif, such patterns intersecting with contemporary discourses of the orphan, with the iconic mother-child image and with the prevalence of the ‘motherless’ as a

22

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

literary trope. A narrative preoccupation with the stepmother-figure also emerges, surfacing in the anticipatory dread experienced by Hester Morley, whose education in fairy-stories engenders an archetypal terror of the figure. The recurring motif of the stepmother (identified as less tender than a natural mother, and sometimes portrayed as scheming, irascible, capricious, or abusive) derives perhaps from early personal anxieties – heightened by traditional mythology – regarding the intrusion of such a figure. In the Sunday Hours interview, Stretton cites her mother as the formative influence on her early religious understanding, her increasing spiritual awareness and her sympathy for humanity. She describes her mother as a churchwoman, converted under Baptist minister Robert Hall; she became a Wesleyan, as was Stretton’s father, upon her marriage. Stretton recalls that her mother had lived among Quakers – a fact which possibly influenced Stretton’s portrayal of the comforting community who shelter the shipwrecked protagonist of The Clives of Burcot, and which conceivably contributed both to the author’s sense of women’s equality and to her abhorrence of slavery. Stretton’s narratives emphasize the mother as spiritual and moral guide, personal experience reinforcing society’s assumptions of a mother’s foundational role in this sphere. Social investigator Henry Mayhew, discussing street-sellers’ children, asserts that without such maternal direction, ‘they have no religion’ (Mayhew, 1861–62/1985: 176), a view which underpins Stretton’s treatment of the mother-figure, yet competes with the alternatives her stories offer. Despite a personal distaste for domesticity, Stretton speaks with admiration of her mother’s capabilities, thereby pointing up antagonisms between culturally or personally valued gender attributes, and individual inclinations. In practice, Stretton eschewed for herself, and decried or affectionately mocked in others, conventional domestic preoccupations. Yet the importance of the ‘home-maker’ is a persistent theme. Her scorn also appears at variance with comments made in her article, ‘Ragged School Union Conferences’ (The Sunday at Home, April, 1883), exposing differences of expectation in respect of class, and reflecting social and imperialist concerns. Advocating the conversion of ragged schools into labour schools, Stretton suggests the readiness for service, at home or in the colonies, of ‘a girl who knew how to sew and knit and wash, who could use a broom skilfully and scrub a floor well’ (268). Despite her championing of independence and persistent outrage at domestic enslavement, she denounces, in correspondence regarding child-protection, the ‘growing love of liberty’ in girls of the lower classes, which engenders ‘a distaste for domestic service with its restraining and refining influences’ (Letter to The Times, 8.1.1884). These elements of contradiction, involving freedom and restraint, permeate Stretton’s work, complicating surface arguments. 

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� No������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ substitute attachment on the part of her father has been confirmed, although, late in his life, Stretton refers briefly to his courting, recording: ‘paterfamilias would a wooing go’ (22.2.1861).  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� T��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� he Smith children received Church baptism as ‘the Wesleyans were hardly reckoned Dissenters then’ (‘A Talk with Hesba Stretton’, 166). The diaries record dissatisfaction with the state of Wesleyan society and religion.

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Writing Selves Beyond these reminiscences about childhood, education and upbringing, testimony about Stretton’s early life is limited. For a more extensive insight into work, family and social interaction during middle and later years, it is fruitful to turn to her log books/diaries (the terms will be used interchangeably), and to foreground their intersection with her wider writings. Notebooks are available for the period 1858–71 and for part of 1875 but, frustratingly, although notes compiled in 1964 by her great-nephew, Captain Webb, indicate the existence of diaries for the period 1883–96, these cannot be located. The earlier diaries form the basis of discussion here, but are supplemented by wider material which illuminates the later period. In examining log book material, it is important to consider the status and execution of journal-writing, its implications in terms of autobiography, and its particular relevance to women writers. It is also useful to pose questions regarding purpose and audience. The commencement of the diaries at the outset of Stretton’s career as a published writer might suggest an awareness of the link between public and private forms in terms of an enduring record, although the style is not self-consciously literary. The first notebook is a lean document which simply records the outcomes of submissions of stories and articles to publishers of journals. Subsequently, the diary expands into a fuller record of aspects of her life, ostensibly in a daily format, although periods are elided or missed. At one point, Stretton confesses, without explanation: ‘I am ashamed of the Log Book’ (May, 1867) – an admission which underlines the ambiguous character of diarywriting as far as readership is concerned, although Stretton’s journal initially represents a joint enterprise with her sister, implying an audience of at least one other. Significantly, this particular entry coincides with her heightened acclaim as a children’s writer, and – perhaps more importantly from the point of view of her aspirations as a novelist and a sense of the diaries as future objects of interest – with the publication and reviews (some flattering, others less so) of her first fulllength novels. Judy Simons (1990: 14; 202) discusses the potential value of journals as a source of information regarding the processes, conditions, and problems of production. Stretton’s logs/diaries commence when the writer, still known by



�������������������������������������������������������������������������� Webb���������������������������������������������������������������������� summarizes����������������������������������������������������������� and quotes briefly from diary material which he considers ‘noteworthy’ (1964: 1). Whilst some important issues are absent from Webb’s selection, he quotes reasonably accurately, albeit partially, from the known diaries, recording a number of significant events, and it is assumed that his commentary and extracts for later periods are reliable, if limited.�  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������� Judy Simons (1990) discusses contradictions inherent in diary-writing which complicate its status as a ‘private literary construct’ (2). Implying an audience, even if writer and reader are one, journal-writing constitutes a self-conscious literary activity. Selectivity, bias, and distortion may affect its reliability as a record, yet truths may also be revealed unwittingly.

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The Writings of Hesba Stretton

her birth-name of Sarah Smith,10 was in her late twenties, and embarking on her first pieces of journalism. From the earliest days, her habit of referring to books and articles by the names of protagonists (eponymous or otherwise) suggests a sense of proprietorial affection: for example, ‘Alice Gilbert came home from her seventh journey’ (29.8.1860); ‘Rhoda launched into London’ (13.7.1861). ‘Alice Gilbert’ finally found her ‘home’ in March 1862, with Temple Bar; ‘Rhoda’ refers to The Clives of Burcot, which, after the rejection by Chapman and Hall, was eventually published by Tinsley Brothers early in 1867.11 The notion of texts as journeying, homeless – indeed, waiflike – parallels not only thematic content, but also Stretton’s periodic sense of being nomadic and unsettled as she struggled to find satisfactory lodgings. The diaries cover the period of her growing popularity, but, overall, disclose limited information about the writing process or Stretton’s feelings about it. Indeed, even towards the end of her career, and in line with the somewhat inaccessible persona she conspired to present, she exhibited a reluctance to discuss her writing. Journalist Hulda Friederichs found it difficult to obtain information, perceiving that Miss Hesba Stretton ‘does not care to talk about her work’ (1894: 330). She did, however, glean that Stretton, who confessed to being a rapid but careful writer, rewrote Hester Morley’s Promise three times before settling upon a version which was to her satisfaction (331). Asked whether she adhered to a special method of writing, Stretton commented that she did not devise the ‘plot’ before beginning a story, finding that her characters ‘do things which I should never have thought they would do at the outset’ (332). In the Sunday Hours interview, she claims Michel Lorio’s Cross as her favourite story, and The Storm of Life as the text most clearly ‘given’ to her. There are occasional journal references (often without mention of a title) to particular milestones: ‘Great progress in the big book’ (4.12.1860); ‘second child’s story finished’ (9/10.2.1864); or ‘begin my third novel’ (29.1.1867). Entries sometimes note the reading of her texts at social gatherings. According to her niece Hesba D. Webb, Stretton, during her ‘most strenuous years of work’, breakfasted in bed and took a solitary walk before devoting the time between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. to her writing; this proved sufficient, provided that she was guarded from external distractions (Memoir, II, The Sunday at Home, 1911). A letter from Stretton to [Mr] Priestley (2.10.1869) reveals an ‘unsettled’ and unproductive spell between Easter and October 1869, spent ‘wandering about from place to place’ while sister Lizzie was without work. Webb’s commentary refers to a time following (sister) Hannah’s death in 1886, during which Stretton felt unable to write. Importantly, the journals provide considerable insight, for certain periods, into Stretton’s dealings with publishers, as will emerge during subsequent examination of the publishing environment. 10 ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� RTS archives contain a variable use of ‘Smith’ or ‘Stretton’ for a period of time. Sister Lizzie, and a number of younger relatives, also adopted the name of Stretton; ‘Hesba’ features among later family forenames. 11 Stretton records in December 1866 that ‘Rhoda is already published’.

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Early entries testify to a sense of jealousy or rivalry in Stretton’s responses to the criticism and successes of peers, and reveal the ‘barometer’-like susceptibility of the writer’s moods to the fortunes of the profession (7.7.1861). It is conceivable that the full-length novel Cobwebs and Cables (1881), which centres on a professional writer, represents aspects of personal experience, providing insights into the problems of writing and the difficulties facing the female author. The protagonist, experiencing creative difficulties at a time of crisis, suggests that ‘Only in writing could she give expression to the multitude of her thoughts within her’ (n.d.: 76, Ch.10). Later compelled by circumstances to write, she discovers that the work has ‘lost its novelty’; the constant production of books has become mentally and physically irksome, and she doubts her originality (275–6, Ch.40). Such sentiments, expressed at the start of a decade during which Stretton became actively engaged in practical reform, might reflect disillusionment regarding success and the writing profession, with its limited ‘circle of fame’, ‘petty enmities’ and ‘small friendships’ (276). Sisterhood and Collective Endeavour; Self-Expression and Subversion Diary-writing is often a collective activity; in this case, the shared endeavour reflects the symbiotic relationship between Hesba/Sara(h)12 and her sister Lizzie. The record is written initially in the third person, with some early entries in Lizzie’s hand, and is concerned primarily with family affairs and activities. The intention is announced, on their departure to Manchester in 1863, to ‘record chiefly the events in the lives of Lizzie and Sara, with such notices of home as will be gathered from Hannah’s letters’ (13.10.1863). Entries thereafter are in Sara’s hand only. Stretton intermittently resorts to a first-person narrative as the journals progress, possibly reflecting a developing sense of self as the diary shadows her increasingly successful literary career and material independence. However, despite the widening sphere of her association and influence, the bond between the two sisters, perhaps affording a substitute maternal relation, remained unbroken. They shared dwellings, in a variety of locations; Stretton spent time writing while her sister worked as a governess and, in the words of Captain Webb, ‘bore the domestic burden so grandly’ (1964: 4). Stretton appears to have confined her own teaching to Sunday/Night School and a temporary post with the well-respected Reverend Alexander McLaren, which she was sorry to terminate (‘my occupation is gone; I felt rather low’, 25.5.1866). An earlier decision to decline a position is recorded without explanation (6.9.1861). The diaries indicate periodic difficulty in obtaining posts, and in the letter to [Mr] Priestley in 1869, Stretton bemoans the unsettling effects of Lizzie’s lack of situation.13 Although the sisters did spend time apart in 12 The spelling ‘Sara’ appears in the journals. Stretton and family apparently used the spellings interchangeably (Letter from Mrs Walker to the Osborne Collection, 1976). 13 David Lloyd’s Last Will (1869, Vol.1, Ch.7) highlights the vast numbers of young women seeking situations as governesses around 1862.

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the course of work and travel, Sara, during an absence by Lizzie, declared herself ‘left a widow’ (19.12.1863) – a remark at once playful and significant. Indeed, Hesba Webb suggests that ‘the most devoted companionship of husband and wife was, in duration and completeness, not to be compared with the actually life-long attachment and comradeship which existed between the sisters’ (1911: 125). Journal-writing presents a practical record of events and activities, including the mundane and domestic (in itself revealing). It may also afford, particularly for women, a means of expressing identity – of releasing emotions, opinions and grievances constrained in other situations. Like the contents of many diaries, Stretton’s entries are terse, fragmented, sometimes enigmatic or contradictory. They chart, or express responses to, day-to-day experiences and frustrations, frequently reflecting casual reactions, minor irritations or domestic grievances, rather than profound soul-searching. Exposing Stretton’s impatience with the monotony of routine activities, they nonetheless demonstrate a facility for retrieving the more significant elements from relatively uninspiring encounters. Outings and social gatherings are transformed into a kind of sport in order to enliven mundanities, and reported in a tone of pleasurable gossip blended with sardonic or disdainful commentary. Stretton did not suffer fools gladly – she could be irritable, abrasive and provocative; Captain Webb found her ‘pernickety’, demanding ‘much more from frail humans than one can possibly get’ (1964: 15). The diaries reveal a more playful and ironic outlook; they nonetheless witness her determination to resist the potentially overwhelming effects of what she repeatedly describes as ‘profound stagnation’ or ‘monotony within the ark’ (18.9.1862). ������������������������������ She made every effort to keep herself informed regarding contemporary debates and pressing social issues. Court proceedings and their outcomes held a particular fascination (as did the barristers); entries record regular visits to the Jail and Assize Courts (experiences on which she would draw in her writing), as well as attendance at museums, galleries and public lectures, where topics included ‘Positive Philosophy’, with Stretton ‘greatly amused’ (15.3.1864). She showed a particular interest in the work of the artist John Martin (as did Ellen Wood and Charlotte Bronte), alluding in the diaries to his apocalyptic paintings and borrowing the name for fictional characters. Stretton is often outspoken in her opinions on significant matters, although, as in her texts, there is evidence of changing or evolving attitudes. She emerges as independent-minded and often unconventional in her approach to issues and business dealings; in numerous respects, her views and actions suggest, as Rickard (1996) concurs, an incipient feminism. At the same time, both private and public writings embody ambivalence and contradiction, suggesting a conflict between internalized norms or ideals and natural proclivities, between self and self-image. There is both continuity and disjunction within and between Stretton’s diaries and published works. Textual motifs suggest that in respect of areas such as gender relations, the fictional narratives offer wider possibilities than the acknowledged autobiographical form of the diaries; the cloak of character perhaps facilitates reflection and self-examination as well as self-expression. A reviewer of The Clives of Burcot (The Standard, 30.8.1867) cites Stretton’s warm and earnest engagement

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with the experiences of her protagonist as an indication of its autobiographical nature. Diary episodes are sometimes transposed to the fiction, presenting a forum for exploring personal attitudes and philosophies; it is inviting, and rendered plausible by the material, to consider, if not to assume, a correspondence of views. Reflecting a seemingly irresistible urge to harness (or construct) thematic opportunities to express opinions and frustrations, the voice of Hesba Stretton, engaging with wider social discontents, at times appears to ring unashamedly in the mouths of narrator or characters. Nonetheless, as we shall see, she often confounds the reader with perspectives which subvert the apparent authorial or narratorial position, frustrating simple identification and emphasizing complexity. In the diaries, the ironic tone teases, creating an elusive identity. Religion, Recreation and Rebellion Diaries testify to the centrality of religion in Stretton’s world; as for a large section of nineteenth-century society, it formed the basis of social life and recreation. The interweaving of the trivialities and complexities of life, the interdependence of the mundane, the social and the spiritual characterizes both diaries and published texts. Broadly evangelical in nature, but eschewing narrow dogmatism, her belief in an individual relationship with God and in a gospel of equality influences Stretton’s practical activities as well as her social and proto-feminist outlook. Distrust or criticism of the established church and organized religion manifests itself in a simplified, but not simplistic, religious code which admits moral complexity and permits, in her writing, a surprising openness and a reluctance to judge. Empathy with positions of doubt and uncertainty vies with more conventional religious and moral assumptions. The assertion, in Half Brothers (94, Ch.14), that ‘religion [does] not consist in the observance of forms’ perhaps encapsulates her attitude. Often forthright, she was at the same time suspicious of inflexibility or exclusivity, plainly condemning the fact that ‘Mrs Manning thinks all religious talk different to her own dangerous’ (Log Book: 13.12.1868), and no doubt sharing with the protagonist of In the Hollow of His Hand a frustration with the seeming inability of people to hold different views on religion, as they do on other matters (1897/label 1903: 44, Ch.8). An increasingly reconciliatory stance is translated, in fictional narratives, into an ability to demonstrate how misperceptions about opposing groups grow to shape and intensify prejudices and notions of difference – as, for example, between Jews and Christians, Catholics and Protestants, Stundist and Orthodox believers. If, as Cutt (1979) observes, the tone of Stretton’s novels suggests that ‘her religious convictions centred around rebellion against authority’ (123), a tendency towards anti-authoritarianism arguably permeates all facets of her writing and outlook. Such currents of rebellion are highly significant, extending from her strident views concerning patriarchal or Church authority, to her unorthodox dealings with publishers, and her apparent support for forms of anarchy and republicanism. An early diary entry reveals the stirring of ‘republican sentiments’

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The Writings of Hesba Stretton

in response to the ‘unbounded reverence’ with which an acquaintance ‘expatiated’ about the aristocracy (22.7.1861). Stretton’s profession of herself, in about 1886, as ‘thoroughly a Radical, even a Republican’ confirms the enduring nature of such sentiments. She laments Cromwell’s failure to implement a scheme for a ‘United States of Europe’, and, whilst ‘not a Gladstonite’, expresses support for Irish Home Rule, about which ‘the people have spoken so plainly.’14 The terseness of diary entries, which renders observations cryptic and the tone ambiguous, sometimes makes it unclear whether conservatism and restraint is being endorsed or ridiculed. Cutt (1979: 124), perhaps justifiably, reads disapproval in Stretton’s mention of pupils ‘dancing in one of the classrooms’ (20.4.1864). Nonetheless, given the playful spirit in which the social scene is depicted, this might equally represent a mocking repetition of others’ responses, as in the recording of outside warnings about frequenting the theatre or the undesirability of a male acquaintance preaching to ‘young women’ (29.8.1860). The often irreverent Hesba Stretton quite possibly shared the view that religion can be too ‘triste’, too ‘solemn’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 168, Ch.24). Apparent scepticism of Revivalist tendencies can be identified; the ‘secret of these meetings’ (Log Book: 2.10.1861) with their ‘storming’ and ‘ranting’ preachers initially eluded the sisters. They (or others?) attributed the appeal of such gatherings – the success of which clearly annoyed the regular preachers – to the masses’ love of ‘coarseness’. However, comments over the ensuing months suggest a greater openness, or at least curiosity, perhaps intensified by professional interest, with Stretton composing a lengthy article on the Revival (Log Book: 22.1.1862). The sisters continued to attend, and to display a certain fascination, sometimes going to great lengths to view the proceedings and braving the ‘disgraceful conduct’, ‘fighting’ and ‘bad language’ of the crowd. An entry shows Sara getting used to ‘the scene’, subsequently described as ‘powerful’ (20.1.1862), while other comments indicate disapproval of ‘humbugs’ who condemned the Revival as evil or misguided. Stretton and her sisters were evidently perceived by some to be favourably inclined; once again, however, there may have been an element of playfulness in impressions conveyed. Narratives sometimes indicate a familiarity with, and deliberations over, religious ‘experiences’ associated with conversion or sanctification, although the short-lived nature, for some, of such ‘fervid’ encounters is suggested in the late text, The Soul of Honour (1898/label 1905: 158, Ch.15). Stretton alternates a seemingly affirmative view of all-consuming spirituality with a condemnation of extreme other-worldliness; moderation is perhaps advocated, as in David Lloyd’s Last Will. Generally, the balance between complete dependence on God’s provision and practical action on the part of the individual or society is explored, presenting a pragmatic and politically-aware challenge to unthinking religious platitudes, as examination of textual roles confirms. Whilst Captain Webb may have found, whilst staying with his great-aunt during her later years, that ‘there was nothing of frivolity, nor of sophistication about her’ (Webb, 1964: 3), the diaries testify to a much lighter, less conformist, spirit in the 14

Letter to [Mr] Pattison [1886?], Ref. AL225, University of London Archives.

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younger Hesba Stretton. The legend, perpetuated by family and commentators, and reiterated for decades in bibliographical entries, constructs a quiet and decorous personage, who eschewed all forms of entertainment and self-gratification. By contrast, diary entries periodically evidence her enjoyment of clothes and leisure pursuits, referring to the purchase of, or desire for, items of attire. Stretton expresses a determination to fix her affections on an individual who can amply provide her with clothes; in 1864 she records shopping for a ‘scarlet and black morning dress’ and, later, a ‘gorgeous silk’ one. Whilst in Switzerland in 1875, she alludes to the purchase of several items of jewellery. Moreover, textual references to grave or ‘staid sensible domestic home-keeping English matrons … with no perceptible tinge of Bohemianism’ (‘Aboard an Emigrant Ship’, 1862: 112) convey a less than sympathetic message. The journal records two visits to the theatre: a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream on 22.9.1865 – the entry noting her enjoyment (a pleasure later shared by her Half Brothers protagonist), and her emergence ‘none the worse’ for the experience – and Boucicault’s The Streets of London (28.3.1866). It confirms Stretton’s attendance at concerts, flower shows, informal entertainments, a performance of the Christy Minstrels and excursions to such attractions as The Crystal Palace. Admittedly, Stretton observed on occasion that she did not care for society, for which she was convinced they were not ‘fitted’ (11.3.1864; 23.4.1867); associating with large and fashionable parties went ‘against the grain’ (To 13.5.1868). Nevertheless, it is clear that, despite her professions of melancholy and boredom, and her alleged seriousness, laughter was not alien to her. She was capable of amusing herself, often at the expense of others, at frequent social gatherings and more intimate parties or ‘at homes’, enjoying serious discussion but not averse to a ‘regular old-fashioned gossip’ (16.6.1862) or practical joke. She sought stimulating and diverting company, lamenting the absence of ‘fun or frolic’ in acquaintances. Despite paternal disapproval of levity, there are, interspersed with episodes of ‘low’ or ‘depressed spirits,’ accounts of ‘much laughter’; the ‘crew’ frequently exhausted or ‘nearly disgraced themselves’ with laughing (27.5.1862), and at New Year 1867, the tomfoolery of party games is recorded with apparent good humour. The early diaries show that the sisters availed themselves of the opportunities provided by church gatherings, lectures and bible studies to create such entertainment as they could, finding amusement in local gossip and petty scandals – often surrounding church personalities. As well as reflecting the serious interest which Stretton showed in the content of sermons (although difficult to please, she consistently admired the preaching of Alexander McLaren and George Macdonald), the notebooks allude to meetings which ‘provoked convulsions’ and were judged ‘better than a comic entertainment’ (4.1.1862). They reveal during 1861–62 that the preacher often proved more of a distraction than the preaching; it was not unusual to be ‘disgusted with the preacher’ who might be pronounced ‘brawny and animallooking’ or ‘conceited and ugly’, despite a good sermon. Conversely, a speaker might be deemed an ‘exquisite clergyman’, his physical features comprehensively admired despite the assessment of his lecture as ‘complete rubbish’. It was to be hoped that one convert would be changed bodily as well as spiritually. Sermons also provided unspecified material for books: ‘leading idea for a chapter in the big

30

Fig. 1.2

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

Hesba Stretton as a woman of about forty, Memoir, Sunday at Home, December 1911. Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives

book’ (18.11.1860). The preoccupations and peculiarities of Shropshire society, in which the sisters felt themselves to be perceived as partial outsiders and ‘curiosities’ (19.12.1860), and the mocking appraisal of events and acquaintances (the latter often likened to characters in Dickens’s novels) contributed to an apprenticeship in social observation and satire which is reflected in the humorous undertones and often trenchant social commentary in her texts. Releasing Captives: Motifs of Freedom and Containment ‘The yearning after freedom is next to the yearning after God in human nature’, asserts the narrator of The Soul of Honour, 134, Ch.13.15 This desire for freedom is central to Stretton’s narratives, whether it concerns spatial freedom, freedom from 15 ����������������������� See John ������������������� Stuart Mill’s The Subjection of Women (1869/1998: 576) regarding freedom as, after the ‘primary necessities of food and raiment’, ‘the first and strongest want of human nature’.

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poverty, from enslavement, literal and metaphorical, or from forms of authority and oppression – patriarchal, institutional, or governmental. In the early The Children of Cloverley, she broaches the question of slavery against the backdrop of the Civil War. Later, in The Soul of Honour, an immigrant community celebrates the anniversary of slave-liberation (Ch.20). Stretton recognizes different kinds of freedom, some contradictory: the walls of Dartmoor Prison which formerly seemed so oppressive from the outside to the protagonist of Cobwebs and Cables appear welcoming in comparison to the ‘miserable and degrading freedom’ in which, fleeing his crime, he is both an outcast and a prisoner of his conscience (94, Ch.13). For his wife, it is the freedom to be alone, to belong to oneself, to think freely and not be ‘held down a captive’ – in bondage to a busy household and family – which is most desired (27, Ch.3). The sense of freedom offered by the spaces of Stretton’s native countryside is palpable in her descriptions of open, rural situations – descriptions which, as well as evoking the pastoral, express the wildness and sensuality of the landscape, suggesting an abandonment of restraint and a liberation of the spirit. Her diaries evidence her passion for walking – sometimes a social but often, as entries such as ‘Sara alone to the Wrekin’ confirm, a solitary occupation – on the hills and moorlands of her native Shropshire, and later in the wild, mountainous areas or fertile valleys of Switzerland. She perhaps subscribed to the idea proposed in Hester Morley’s Promise that ‘healthy exercise’ can be more beneficial than attendance at a prayer meeting (217, Ch.32). Old Oliver (Alone in London), oppressed by the darkness of his city dwelling, yearns to be ‘a-top of the Wrekin, seeing the sun set’ (1869/inscr.1872: 11, Ch.1). Stretton was protective of her favourite places of escape, recording, on 29.3.1861, the invasion of the Ercall by ‘marauding plebeians worse than Goths, who perhaps did not throw orange peel about the ruined temples of Italy’; she later warns against taking people you like to places you like, lest enjoyment of the place is marred when the people concerned have ‘died to us’ (11.7.1867). Such activities, offering time and space for reflection, were clearly expected to provide a creative stimulus: ‘went on the ramble at night to catch an idea; no success’ (17.11.1863). Locations yielded literal material for her journalism (a cheque from the ‘Tract Society’ for ‘A Summer’s Day on the Wrekin’ is logged in November 1863); they furnished important settings for her narratives and, significantly, multifaceted symbolism within her texts. Stretton experienced the forest as ‘delicious’, and it is clearly this current of self-awareness and sensuality which feeds her evocation of the potent and liberating allure, as well as the comforts, of natural landscapes. Set against this is an apparent fear, approaching phobic proportions, of containment or imprisonment – a persistent motif in her narratives, both in literal terms, as in texts such as In Prison and Out (1880), and as metaphor. Diary entries reveal that Stretton sometimes felt a prisoner of her circumstances, and likewise, of the incessantly wet and cold Shropshire weather which seemingly conspired to hold her captive within the house. The claustrophobic confinement of the small, bug-ridden ‘hovels’ which the sisters rented during their early travels, or the Swiss

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hotel room where she felt ‘in a trap’ (15.7.1875), is translated into frequent textual allusions to ‘entrapment’ or ‘encagement’. It is echoed in the dark and suffocating spaces of city streets and slum-houses, and evoked in the cramped prison cell which is home to Mark, protagonist of David Lloyd’s Last Will; the����������� uniformlyclad ‘encaged’ and ‘entrapped’ prisoners exercising in confined courts anticipate Gustave Doré’s ‘Newgate, Exercise Yard’, 1872. A similar oppressiveness���������� pervades the enclosed surroundings which threaten Martin, of Half Brothers, and haunts the ‘crib’ or outhouse in which frightened young pranksters – from The Children of Cloverley to the later A Man of His Word – are locked. Sharing with the protagonist of The Storm of Life (1876/label 1910: 71, Ch.8) an ‘ungovernable longing to break out’, Stretton could begin to identify with the frustrations of those unwillingly ‘encaged’ in jail, workhouse or stifling urban court. This motif of confinement extends to an articulation of women’s social and domestic imprisonment, in its many guises. Repeatedly, we find female protagonists in Gothic-seeming enclosures in the face of patriarchal collusion, as in the early The Clives of Burcot, sometimes with the complicity of other women. The motif of the manipulating older woman merges with the cultural or fairy-tale trope of the wicked stepmother in texts such as In the Hollow of His Hand, where the witch-like Matoushka locks a young girl in a windowless closet and treats her like a slave (171, Ch.29). The diaries expose the tensions, personal and cultural, which are at the crux of Stretton’s writing. The rural landscape may represent a life-affirming force, but day-to-day country existence for the nearly-thirty-year-old Stretton, besides being less civilized than generally supposed (2.11.1860), is often represented as stultifying – marked by an absence of ‘events’, by ‘prolonged calm’, or, in a selfconsciously melodramatic outburst, ‘life a fog + the world a dungeon’ (5.12.1860). Arguably, the stasis and predictability of country life bemoaned in her diaries is the very quality which stimulates her engagement with vastly different situations, generating tensions, for writer and audience, between those circumstances which are safe, reliable and homely and those which embody danger and the unknown or uncanny. Boredom induces a restlessness such as that experienced by the protagonist of The Doctor’s Dilemma (1872), who is plagued by a longing to flee the ‘peaceful monotony’, the ‘dull, lonely safety’ and ‘sleepy security’ of her life, even into ‘insecurity and danger’ (49–50, Part 1, Ch.5). Personal frustrations engender an appreciation of the ‘stir’ of the inferno, of the ‘chances and changes’ of a nomadic existence (The Lord’s Pursebearers, n.d.: 129, Ch.5) – of even the hardships which supply ‘that spice of excitement without which existence is a tedious monotony’ (Half Brothers, 377, Ch.54), and which, paradoxically, are found in situations which are the very opposite of pastoral utopias in terms of physical and moral attributes. Instances of textual ambivalence are illuminated by Stretton’s own shifting impressions regarding apparently opposing facets of life and situation. In contrast to her assessment, in January 1868, of London’s East End as a ‘horrible place’, she subsequently evinces a preference for the East rather than the West – perhaps

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presaging the eventual conviction that its poverty was ‘not more sordid and mean than much of the wealth of West London’, with human nature the same in both (The Soul of Honour, 162, Ch.16). Indeed, Stretton expresses impatience with London society; writing on 16.9.1867, ‘We detest London’. After proposing in 1871 to judge the merits of the West End against those of the country, she logs a dislike of ‘London ways’ (27.5.1871), although Webb cites her later enjoyment of ‘going about the City’. Stretton’s uncertainties perhaps inhabit sentiments expressed in the latter end-of-century novel, which engages with East End philanthropy and comments on the increasingly popular pursuit, for the well-off, of ‘slumming’ (145, Ch.14).16 The first-person narrative by city worker Phebe (sic) articulates the irresistible attraction of the city – a fascination which makes its presence felt to significant effect. Phebe, now utterly loath to abandon the streets, with their darklyrising walls and obscure corners where ‘crime or misery might find a hiding-place’, begins ‘to understand how citizens could not break away from it, and would yearn to get back to it from the loveliest of country places’ (117, Ch.11). A horror of institutions and regulations also emerges. Even the cramped lodgings about which Stretton complained so relentlessly in her diaries were deemed preferable to the governesses’ institutions which the girls inspected: they preferred a ‘small house + freedom’ (To 7.2.1865), subsequently resolving to ‘live in a cellar, rather than go there’ – a determination reinforced, admittedly, by the sight of the governesses, ‘so ugly and common looking’. During their stay in France, the prospect of consenting, in return for Convent accommodation, to a single, chaperoned outing per week simply ‘would not do’ (6.12.1866). The ‘wilderness’ setting of one particular lodging-place – however remote and inconvenient – appealed not only because of the proximity of the forest, but also because they were ‘not in bondage to anyone’ (19.8.1868). The situation did, however, entail for Lizzie a long walk through the forest; related anxieties eventually led the sisters to move, and possibly inspired Stretton’s depiction of Cassy’s terror-ridden flight through hostile forest terrain (Cassy, 1874). Stretton’s dislike of conformity and imposed restrictions, and her desire for selfdetermination, surface in a resistance to containment on the part of protagonists, as in Carola’s response to the unaccustomed network of school rules (Carola, 1884), and the reaction of the nomadic protagonists of The Lord’s Pursebearers – loath to relinquish their ‘free, adventurous life’ – to the sight of institutionalized children walking out two by two (226, Ch.10). In a letter to The Times (8.1.1885), Stretton decries the inhumane restrictions of children’s homes which render them 16 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� The������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� full nature and extent of Stretton’s involvement with ‘street-rescue’ is uncertain, although visits to refuges and shelters are mentioned. Her representation of conditions and of the attitudes of East End poverty workers may derive from accounts by fellow charityworkers as well as from personal experience. In her journal (30.8.1864) she records receiving interesting information about ‘low houses’ from an acquaintance; according to the 1900 postscript to the preface to The Lord’s Pursebearers, she visited low lodginghouses of the type depicted in that text.

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more like workhouses than homes. Yet there are areas of conflict: her protests at the new freedoms sought by young girls (The Times, 8.1.1884) are in tension with the later endorsement of the urgency for modern-spirited girls to be emancipated from outmoded rules of conduct (The Soul of Honour, 43, Ch.4). The yearning for independence – to be one’s own mistress and no longer ‘under authority’ (Soul, 210, Ch.21) – competes with more conventional versions of womanhood, yet is a persistent force, manifesting itself in her representations of social and gender relations and her portrayals of economic struggle. The Fate of a Woman The diaries encompass the period during which, as a result of the diminishing energies of ‘paterfamilias’, the female ‘crew’ bore much of the responsibility for managing the post-office. Such work had become more complex and onerous since Stretton’s childhood years, as she makes clear in an early article which draws on her upbringing in that environment. For children, excitedly taking responsibility for post-office duties, and privy to local gossip and intrigues, work and amusement are intertwined (‘A Provincial Post-Office’, 1863). By contrast, ‘The Postmaster’s Daughter’ (1859) suggests the sacrifices involved in being ‘chained to the officecounter all the days of my youth’ (39) and clearly reflects the experience of struggling, short-handed and under straitened circumstances, with a failing business. A series of diary entries regarding the fate of the office highlights the limitations facing women within the business world. Following Hannah’s application to take over the office on their father’s retirement, various exertions to obtain the backing of influential persons met with the opinion that ‘women ought not to be in a P.O., not capable of the work, too curious, &c &c; no go’ (1–5 March, 1862). The charge of over-curiosity was undoubtedly well founded. As ‘official confidants of the neighbourhood’, staff were ‘acquainted with the leading events’ in the lives of inhabitants (‘A Provincial Post-Office’, 14); the intrigues and deceptions surrounding local love affairs and legal and financial scandals were to provide useful material for a future author. Competition from male clerks resulted in ‘no chance for Hannah’ (To 26.3.1862), to whom the burden of looking after home and ageing father fell, as the others broadened their horizons. Stretton’s consciousness of the fate which awaited many women is reflected in observations such as that by the narrator of Bede’s Charity (1872): resolving to remain single for the sake of father and brother, she lets ‘chances pass one after another’ (c.1890: 6, Ch.1). However, as far as the world of business management was concerned, Stretton was in no way prepared to be excluded, as scrutiny of her dealings with publishers makes clear. Although there is no indication in the diaries that the emphasis reflects conscious personal experience, there is, as subsequent discussion of womanhood will confirm, an insistent motif in her texts concerning the lack of value placed by fathers on daughters. Journal entries, despite labelling her father, together with others of his sex, as ‘curious’, reveal no real antagonism which might be linked with the repeated trope of the patriarchal figure who controls the life and decision-

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making of his female child. They do, however, suggest indignation – possibly lighthearted – about their father’s failure to perceive them as adults when, on leaving for Manchester, he bad them be ‘good children’ during his absence (4.9.1863). Early entries reveal a somewhat ironic preoccupation with the ‘matrimonial question’, which assumed increasing importance as Lizzie approached thirty with ‘no prospects’ (18.8.1860). The experiment with ‘dreamers’ was unproductive, with ‘no young men haunting [their] visions’, although Lizzie dreamed of the Prince of Wales (14.12.1860), and later of certain male visitors. The reference on 13.2.1861 to ‘Bushels of valentines’ probably concerns mail delivered to the post-office, which would, nevertheless, have occasioned excitement and gossip. The search for marriage partners was treated flippantly by the sisters, who playfully scrutinized candidates to identify one who might ‘do for any of the crew in the matrimonial line’ – 1.9.1861); the exercise resulted largely in rejection or at least partial dissatisfaction. The project to secure an eligible match for at least one of the three unmarried girls (Annie was already married) became a joint endeavour, with Sara offering to reward either Hannah or Lizzie if they succeeded (30.12.1861). It was ‘proposed that one of us do make it our business to get married, + the others help all they can’ (18.4.1862) – a co-operative ‘hunting and catching’ venture reminiscent of Stretton’s early story ‘The Ghost in the Clock Room’ (1859). To what extent did these attempts reflect a genuine desire – practical or psychological – to conform to convention? Or was it a question, at times, of playing the game in order to gratify expectations and, mischievously, to feed outside speculation? Underlining prevailing associations between domesticity and virtue, Stretton mockingly records feeling ‘virtuous and married, having a house to look after’ (18.10.1862). Despite a satisfaction in monitoring the progress and vicissitudes of romantic liaisons conducted by others, Stretton only once records ‘an actual wish for a young man available on high days and holidays’ – arguably for the sake of appearances, but perhaps reflecting a more deep-seated desire to be ‘more like other people’ (25.12.1861). However strident her criticism of individual males and men in general – they inspired little faith, showed a lack of care in emotional matters, and were variously labelled as strange, foolish, liars or cheats – Stretton frequently enjoyed male company, sometimes championing their cause against the women in their lives. Accounts of relationships and encounters often carry flirtatious overtones; conversations encompass topics both weighty and frivolous, with ‘hard-talking’ sessions on ‘beauty, virtue, and death’ (24.2.1863), on love, marriage or kissing, physiognomy and unequal unions. It is possible that aspirations obliquely suggested by journal entries find displacement in the romantic relationships which abound in Stretton’s stories and novels. Cutt (1979: 120; 126) draws on diary comments to speculate on various flirtations and potential attachments – for example, with one of the neighbouring Pearce brothers and with Charles Wood. Entries are, however, ambiguous and non-committal, although the association with Wood, discussed below, does invite speculation. Disparaging journal references to ‘old maids’ of the sisters’ acquaintance betray an element of self-mockery, and, along with textual allusions, underline contemporary fears surrounding the

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implications and stigma of spinsterhood. Either disappointment or irony may underlie the shared ‘lamenting’ of the ‘carriage in which we might have ridden’ (6–9.9.1863). Nonetheless, Stretton’s writing demonstrates an equal scepticism about marriage and its constraints; she doubtless shared Hannah’s view of it as ‘committing an imprudence’, and endorsed the dire warnings issued by Lizzie. She often found the behaviour and attitudes of married acquaintances puzzling. In the displaced setting of later texts such as The Highway of Sorrow, Stretton uses different cultural customs to point up attitudes at home: the prolongation of girlhood – ‘the only happy time we women have in life’ before going ‘under the yoke’ – is advocated (1894/1897: 176, Ch.14). Exposure of male ownership and manipulation of women – whose destiny, the latter text confirms, is to do men’s bidding, with marriage decided upon in accordance with arbitrary patriarchal will – dominates her writing. If we recognize an endorsement of patriarchal authority and norms in the use, by many women writers, of their married names,17 it is perhaps significant that in adopting her pseudonym, Hesba Stretton was in fact refusing the patriarchal name of Smith, thus asserting her identity and independence of male power and protection. Spinsterhood, moreover, enabled her to maintain control over her business affairs and earnings, as Rickard (1996) concurs. Like the heroine of The Soul of Honour, who acknowledges that isolation gives her freedom, Stretton perhaps appreciated her avoidance of the ‘trammels’ of the marital relationship. Whilst there is validity in Cutt’s suggestion (1979: 120) that, unlike her alter ego, Hesba Stretton, Sarah Smith had a low opinion of women, the picture is arguably more complex. Certainly, Stretton was not afraid to castigate her own sex, acknowledging and denigrating traditional faults: in a letter to the Editor (The Times, 30.6.1884) on the subject of child-protection, she suggests that, unlike children, women are often ‘excessively provocative’, there being ‘nothing so bitter as a woman’s tongue’. Indicating, through use of the inclusive pronoun, awareness of her own failings, she cites here General Gordon’s association of Eve’s first eating of the apple with ‘our bad and sad pre-eminence in this respect’, thus invoking, as had Charlotte Yonge in Womankind (1876: 1–2), the supporting discourse for dominant myths of female inferiority. On other occasions, however, Stretton overtly contests this notion of women as inferior beings. Casual diary comments betray an impatient, critical attitude towards female acquaintances, the amiability of some proving ‘unmitigated agony’ (1.8.1860). Stretton characterized others variously as ‘ugly and stupid’, ‘fat, silly and empty’, or, in the case of participants in the ‘Dorcas’ sewing gatherings, ‘stiff’ or ‘stoneeyed’, occasioning a wish that Dorcas had never existed, and relief that Dorcas ‘is dead for another year’ (13–14.12 1860). These meetings did, however, provide material for stories and articles, as in the case of ‘The Lucky Leg’ (1859), and, more sympathetically, ‘The Blackburn Sewing Schools’ (1863). Whilst Stretton 17 Reynolds and Humble (1993: 101) confirm the conservative implications of this practice.

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criticized ‘wet-blankets’ or ‘meek’ women, who ‘never opened their mouths’, she found others of her sex ‘vulgar and loud-voiced, ‘domineering,’ or ‘selfish and exacting’. Of Ellen Wood (‘Mrs W’), she commented: ‘little in her + can talk only of her own affairs’ (20.10.1867). The acquaintance with Ellen Wood and her son Charles (‘Jason’ in diary references) developed over a period; Stretton records social occasions spent in their company, and showed considerable interest in the affairs of the latter, keenly scrutinizing his bride (‘plain’ but ‘pleasant’, 8.3.1870) and monitoring the relationship for signs of dissatisfaction. The Woods were instrumental in securing publication of early texts such as The Clives of Burcot and Paul’s Courtship (1867); Charles Wood also furnished her with reviews during her absence in France, and the association continued for several years, during which time Stretton wrote articles for The Argosy. Interference by Ellen Wood in her son’s concerns is recorded in the identification of a ‘slight symptom of “mother” influence’ (25.10.1867). Although the creation of the manipulative mother-figure in The Clives of Burcot apparently precedes the relationship with the Woods, suggesting an existing aversion to the type, textual instances of the controlling mother or mother-in-law abound, whether in the shape of the possessive, interfering Mrs Arnold (Carola) or the mother in The Highway of Sorrow, whose natural feelings of resentment towards a prospective daughter-in-law are acknowledged. Stretton’s attitudes to both sexes were notoriously changeable; she was capable of revising her opinions several times over a short space of time, and she periodically records enjoyment of female company or participation in ‘petticoat picnic[s]’ (28.7.1862). The characteristics of protagonists reflect this ambivalence, with the narratorial voice alternately critical and empathetic, and attitudes subject to revision. Characters embody contrasting ideals of womanhood, sometimes within the same person, or as polar extremes in binary models. Disapproval of the vain, empty-headed or coquettish woman – likely to beguile protagonists into ill-judged marriages – surfaces in the guise, for example, of the fairy-like, aptly-named Mab of David Lloyd’s Last Will, or the young, worldly, inappropriate brides or wouldbe brides of Half Brothers and The Soul of Honour. The more serious-minded, socially-aware female, capable of working on an equal basis with men, emerges, particularly in later novels, as the ideal, but ‘energy’ and ‘life’ are equally prized. Impatience (or fascination) with the immature, frivolous female may have its roots in Stretton’s own disposition or views, but disapproval also accorded with the ethos of the Tract Society, whose reports demonstrate a preoccupation with countering, in literature for ‘young ladies’ and/or ‘educated and refined society’, the tendency towards ‘worldly dissipation’, ‘frivolous education and pursuits,’ or yielding to a ‘desire for gaiety’ (RTS Executive Committee Minutes, 21.5.1867). Despite this drive to safeguard young girls from the excesses of a more liberated, materiallyobsessed existence, Stretton suggests the overprotection of women as unhelpful. The young Sophie (Half Brothers) may be foolish, romantic and pleasure-seeking, but she is also perceived as hardy, and potentially able to manage for herself. In the same text, the Colonel’s desire to adopt Eastern customs in order to exclude women entirely from the public sphere – to stop them ‘sowing seeds of mischief’ – is exposed with patently condemnatory intent (40, Ch.5). Strong, self-reliant women

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are often championed, but if a man is to be sought – and the quest for a romantic partner is seldom abandoned completely – he must also be a guide, someone to lean on. Early in Stretton’s career, The Clives of Burcot identifies marriage as a ‘solution’; in Hester Morley’s Promise, the institution is recognized as an escape route from the drudgery of conventional occupations such as teaching – perhaps a reflection of her own or her sister’s sentiments. Certainly, the journals chart dissatisfaction with employers or conditions of employment in respect of Lizzie’s teaching posts, and in Bede’s Charity (1872) the absence of payment during holidays is brought to the reader’s attention. The lot of the governess is, Stretton suggests in Enoch Roden’s Training (1865), a sacrificial one. Hesba Stretton was astute at identifying and representing the opinions of others. A protagonist of David Lloyd’s Last Will asserts that ‘men don’t like to marry clever women’ (Vol.2, 166, Ch.14) – either an indictment of male attitudes or disapproval of the ‘bluestocking’, with overtones, perhaps, of self-justification or ‘sour grapes’. If Stretton frequently displayed a conviction in texts and correspondence that women’s sphere of influence was the home, she personally enjoyed the freedom to travel extensively at home and abroad without the restrictions and responsibilities of marriage and conventional domesticity; she doubtless concurred with the protagonist of ‘The Postmaster’s Daughter’ (1859) that travel engenders a ‘latitudinarian’ outlook. Stretton spent time during 1866 and 1867 in France, where Lizzie was teaching, and whose inhabitants they found ‘half a century behind the English’ (Log Book: 8.11.1866), impressions utilized in stories such as Left Alone (1876). France also provides the backdrop for novels including The Doctor’s Dilemma (1872), with experiences in Guernsey also informing that text. Stretton was prompted to write Max Kromer (1871) after witnessing, during a return journey through the upper Rhine valley, the suffering of women and children – recent victims of the Siege of Strasbourg. Her 1875 notebook focuses on a visit to Switzerland, providing material for narratives such as Cobwebs and Cables; she also clearly draws on trips to Europe, including Italy, and on particular perceptions of foreigners, in texts such as Half Brothers. In The Doctor’s Dilemma, she pinpoints the ‘natural enough’ dislike of ‘insulated people’ against ‘foreigners’, the consequence of a habitual wariness of differ�������������������������� ence (Part 2, 282, Ch.20). Overall, Stretton’s narratives investigate the complexity of gender roles and experiences, particularly in relation to the maternal. Arguably, an increasing recognition of different kinds of women – leading different lives, and subject to different constraints —– and the existence of different moralities, is the product of experience and involvement in diverse spheres, further developed through the process of literary exploration and reflection. The interviewer, Hulda Friederichs, noted her subject’s engagement with the ‘Woman question’ (1894: 329), and Stretton periodically contests assumptions of male supremacy as innate. The notion of women’s superiority is overtly affirmed, towards the end of her career, in The Soul of Honour – a realization conveyed by peers, rather than through the agency of the older, instructing generation, who ‘gave us to understand that marriage with a good settlement is the aim and end of every woman’s life’ (84,

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Ch.8). Despite a tendency to be judgemental, Stretton the novelist is perceptive in identifying misperceptions and entrenched positions, observing and analysing notions which serve to perpetuate the gulf between the sexes. As in life, men may be misunderstood – regarded as ‘different’, or as ‘beasts’ to women unaccustomed to their company (A Thorny Path, 1879/c.1882, Ch.6), and the female sex may appear alien to men unused to women and their ways. Nonetheless, as Stretton’s textual exploration of relationships reveals, assumptions can be overturned and barriers dismantled. Security and Social Spheres Both journals and fictional narratives display a preoccupation with the issue of unequal marriage, whether in terms of unequal (religious) yoking or the incompatibility of unequal minds. Texts frequently focus on social difference, and the consequences of marrying below status, or out of one’s ‘station’. Engagement with the position of women as dependent, or as ‘slaves’, is enmeshed with anxieties regarding material security. Textual mockery of the snobbery exhibited by protagonists coping with, or reprieved from, a decline in status – fearful of being reduced to ‘poverty and cotton gloves’ (David Lloyd’s Last Will, Vol.2, 164, Ch.14) – is tempered by a shared fear of such a fall, of becoming ‘the other’. As critics have observed, the near working-class status of Stretton’s family placed them to some extent on the edge of society. Such a position, as well as facilitating cross-class sympathies, accentuates the precariousness of boundaries between different social or financial spheres. In the diaries, internalized prejudices and perceptions of discomfort or insecurity manifest themselves in assumptions – perhaps ironic and self-mocking – about social place, and in expressions of relief about events which contribute to stability. It was ‘with great rejoicing’ that sums such as the £375 paid on one occasion by the Tract Society (18.1.1870) were invested. Concerns regarding status also surface in an intermittent note of superiority, with the assessment of individuals or groups as ‘common’, ‘insufferably vulgar’, and occasionally both. After an incident at the post-office in which Stretton was accused by a customer of insolence – a charge denied by her father in view of her ‘retiring disposition’ – she playfully registers her intellectual superiority, observing: ‘plaintiff is only a base mechanic; defendant quite a literary character!!’ (26.7.1861). On acquiring new rooms in October 1864, Stretton notes the ‘common inhabitants’ of the row of small houses, adding ‘not altogether our proper sphere yet’, and subsequently proposes their fitness for a world ‘a little better than this’ (20.1.1866). The sisters nonetheless felt ‘a little out of our element’ on arriving at new rooms in ‘very stylish’ Bayswater in January 1871. Significantly, in Stretton’s fiction, impoverished protagonists are frequently found to be ‘naturally refined’ or ‘of better stock’ than those of the ‘lowest’ classes of poor. The eponymous Hester Morley, moving in middle-class circles, is constantly mindful of her position as the daughter of a bookseller, scorned by some as ‘nothing more than a tradesman’ (239, Ch.34). Hester mocks those who flaunt

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their status; she takes pride in belonging to the working class, in being ‘no lady’, but the underlying insecurity is identifiable. This text illustrates complex attitudes, including the imperative to separate simple poverty – which is ‘not so bad in itself’ (284, Ch.41) and does not constitute inferiority – from those conditions perceived as ‘low’, which compel association with ‘ignorant’ or degraded people. Stretton’s own dread of being looked down on or regarded as a charity case can be detected in the transposition to Hester Morley’s Promise (Ch.43) of an episode (Log Book: 23.8.1864) in which the sisters receive a parcel of clearly undesirable items of cast-off clothing from a member of the local community. The indignation, and enduring urge to expose such snobbery, are palpable in the fictional narrative nearly a decade after the incident. Condemnation of the pursuit of Mammon is balanced by an awareness of financial constraint or catastrophe. Despite diary references to friends becoming ‘lifted up with their money’ (3.7.1869), or made ‘no happier’ by it (To 11.11.1865) – sentiments endorsed in narratives – the benefits of financial security, not least in terms of self-determination or assistance to the less fortunate, are firmly acknowledged. From a religious standpoint, money and material affluence may, ultimately, be deemed of small importance, and experience of poverty or reduced circumstances judged to enlarge character and soul, but choice is clearly crucial, as in The Soul of Honour, where eventual security permits the decision to adopt a frugal and philanthropic lifestyle, to ‘throw in one’s lot’ with the poor. Miserly hoarding is often shown to be ill-judged, but Stretton clearly appreciated the wisdom of sound investment, holding consols (Log Book: 11.2.1869) – as does the eponymous Carola – and eventually amassing a sizeable portfolio of property and assets. She was perhaps ‘glad to know [she] had money in her purse’ (The Soul of Honour, 249, Ch.27) and to experience the pleasure of spending ‘without counting the pence’ (‘Eleven Hundred Pounds’, 1864: 17). The narratives articulate the conflict between a doctrine of self-improvement and contemporary anxieties over unfettered materialism; they demonstrate the pitfalls of men’s pursuit of financial rewards and engagement with risk. Although close and supportive sibling relationships figure prominently, there is a sense of bitterness as well as pride in texts such as Bede’s Charity regarding the brother who ‘deserts’ the family in search of material improvement abroad. Stretton, whose brother Ben emigrated to Canada, may, like the protagonist Margery, have felt some sense of betrayal; that the absence of maternal support is compounded by a lack of brotherly companionship is suggested in the early story ‘The Postmaster’s Daughter’ (1859: 37). Impatience with poor business management is confirmed by Webb, who also reveals a diary comment which chimes with Stretton’s textual preoccupation with financial ruin: ‘Collapse of the Liberator; ruined thousands’ (October 1892, cited by Webb, 1964: 15).18 ������������������������������������� The late nineteenth-century increase 18 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� The fall, in 1892, of the empire of financial and property tycoon, Jabez Spencer Balfour, whose fortune had been amassed through exploitation of religious devotion and the temperance crusades, ruined many small investors (see Rock, 1999).

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in speculative ventures, with the irresistible temptation to pursue seemingly easy financial gain – to ‘go up to the City in the morning worth £100,000, and to leave it at night worth £200,000, and the prospect of doing the same tomorrow’ – is a prominent theme in The Soul of Honour (1898: 95, Ch.9). Representing and Reclaiming Outcasts Attitudes to, and representations of, society’s poor and outcast are undoubtedly coloured by personal insecurities and class prejudices, again revealing the disjunction between ideals aspired to and ingrained attitudes. If sympathy towards, and understanding of, the outcast are apparently juxtaposed with implicitly condemnatory references to vulgarity, coarseness and inferiority, it is important, in this respect, not to lose sight of contemporary assumptions; assessment of members of other classes as vulgar, coarse or common – terms occasionally employed, for example, by ������������������������������������������������������������������ George Eliot, in otherwise sympathetic portrayals – is ����������� perhaps as much descriptive as evaluative, part of a commonsense process of categorization in respect of concepts of difference. Stretton’s published texts, rather more than the diaries, articulate feelings of compassion for, as well as interest in, the poor and outcast classes. Although little mention is made in the journal, the work of ‘The Blackburn Sewing Schools’ during the 1862 recession is examined in her article of that title in 1863, and material regarding the concomitant deprivation used for David Lloyd’s Last Will, several years later. The move to Manchester in 1863 clearly furnished an extended insight into conditions in that city, as well as providing a specific context for novels such as Pilgrim Street (1867). Despite the fact that Jessica’s First Prayer had been set in the capital city, it was, according to Webb, Stretton’s experience, in the company of a policeman, of the ‘disgusting streets’ of the East End (Log Book: 17.2.1868) which represented a true initiation into the ‘tragic reality of the lives of the poor’ (Webb, 1964: 11). Stretton set about familiarizing herself with the streets of London, visiting Ragged Schools and homes, including a shoe-black’s house (Log Book: 5.3.1868), and acquainting herself with the work of reformers and charitable organizations. Writing in 1875 about her meeting with Dr Barnardo some years earlier, and subsequent visit to Stepney-causeway (sic), she identified ‘that peculiar aspect of mere vulgar, modern wretchedness and dirt, which takes away from the East End of London any claim to picturesque poverty’ (1875: xi). The intensified focus on the poor inevitably converged with another deeply rooted preoccupation. Stretton’s interest in children is evidenced by diary material and correspondence. Those within her family invariably delighted her; she sought contact with them, often taking responsibility for their care. As we shall discover, the situation of deprived children in her narratives is frequently set against an idyllic concept of childhood which draws on the experiences of ‘carefree play’ enjoyed with her family’s ‘cherished little nestlings’ (Stretton, 1875: xiv). Recording social activities with adults, Stretton frequently notes in the diary that they were ‘playing like children’, a characteristic which surfaces in her representations of the old.

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An intimation of what was to become a major engagement, both practically and textually, with the plight of the displaced child is contained in an early entry, which records the discovery of a child who has temporarily strayed from her family (21.10.1861). Similarly, an early philanthropic gesture is recorded in the encounter with a ‘poor girl’ who was ‘without a penny’ with which to purchase a ticket to travel (17.9.1864); a comment, in respect of their lodgings (1.8.1866), about ‘a little girl of eight’ carrying out all the work, presages her concern with the enforced domestic role of the child. From Stretton’s earliest published writings, such commitment is evident; reflecting a confluence of psychological needs, intellectual and practical drives, it was to be directed into concrete and energetic action. She later wrote: ‘That women should work for children is as natural as that the sun should shine or the rain fall’ (1893: 4). As her awareness of the extent of childhood deprivation increased, so her focus on the abused or neglected child became more emphatic and angry. She later writes of the ‘horrible cruelty practised on little children’ which she had witnessed in the ‘miserable slums’ on a visit with the Rector of an East End parish (‘The Origin of the London S.P.C.C.’, 1908). Stretton does not dwell in the diaries on her feelings about the plight of the maltreated and dispossessed, but entries allude to numerous visits. Though terse, they chart continued efforts during the 1870s to investigate conditions of poverty, its effects on parents, and the consequences for children; she spent time in orphanages, infirmaries, children’s hospices, refuges, missions, and shelters. The journal usually records the fact of the visit, without detailing practical experiences or responses. Occasionally, a Ragged School is pronounced ‘delightful’, or a particular refuge ‘a place we shall never forget’ (14.3.1870). Stretton’s response to her discoveries, and her commitment to consciousnessraising, outreach and reform, are articulated in fictional and non-fictional texts, contributing extensively to her social project, and engaging with the increasingly urgent contemporary preoccupation with child-rescue – the desire to play a part, actually and financially, in redeeming a deprived child from the ‘deep and horrible pit’ and setting that child in a ‘safe and happy home’ (The Lord’s Pursebearers, 177, Ch.8).19 Such sentiments emphasize the personal dimension of charity – the importance of ‘close and intimate knowledge … between the giver and recipient of charity’ (Stretton, 1893: 6). Stretton abhorred indiscriminate alms-giving, which only served to encourage begging and failed to address the root problem of structural inequality. It was ‘much easier to … drop [a penny] into his hand and pass on, with a feeling of satisfaction of at once getting rid of a painful object and of appeasing the conscience, which seemed about to demand that some remedy should be found for abject poverty like his’ (In Prison and Out, 1880: 14, Ch.2). By the time of Stretton’s active campaigning during the 1880s for the formation of a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, she could affirm an interest 19 ����������������������������������������� See also��������������������������������� narratives such as L.T. Meade’s Scamp and I, in which a donation is: ‘To be spent on the first little homeless London child you care to devote it to’ (1877/label 1916: 153).

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in ‘the condition of the children of the poor’ spanning two decades (Letter to The Times, 8.1.1884). Although, �������������������������������������������������������� according to Webb, Stretton’s resumption of the journal coincides with the high-profile campaign for a society, no mention of this is made until his allusion, for 1888, of ‘dishonesty at S.P.C.C.’ and a reference to his greataunt as founder member. Contemporary newspapers and archive material relating to the LSPCC/NSPCC throw light on Stretton’s involvement during this period, and in her 1908 account of the origins of the Society, Stretton seeks to establish the extent of her role in bringing together the main parties involved in its formation. She records her contact, through friends, with Mr Agnew, recent founder of a society in Liverpool similar to the organization he had visited in the United States. Impressed by his work, Stretton appealed through The Times for the establishment of a London Society, and sought support from prominent persons; she obtained positive responses from several contacts, including Florence Davenport Hill, who undertook to raise the matter in important circles. After meeting with Agnew and enlisting the help of ‘literary people’ such as W.T. Stead – apparently to little effect – Stretton obtained, through East End Rector Dr Billing, an introduction to the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, who had already formed a ‘little’ society for the same purpose. On hearing about Agnew’s Liverpool project, the Baroness and colleagues abandoned their venture in favour of the new scheme. Stretton worked to secure a London address, contacting her friend, Benjamin Waugh, then editor of the Sunday Magazine, and other influential acquaintances. Space was eventually allocated in the premises of Isbister, from which, according to Stretton’s account, the sisters ‘wrote hundreds of letters, and made unnumbered calls, gathering friends and influence’. Although Stretton�������������������������� favoured����������������� designating the society ‘National’ from the start, this was deemed untenable because of the already existing societies. Referring to the public meeting at The Mansion House (where the first Committee was formed), Stretton claims credit for pressing urgently for the Egyptian Hall, as well as for the attendance of Cardinal Manning, and for Lord Shaftesbury to lead the meeting and become President. Stretton subsequently attended the opening of the Shelter, in premises apparently located by her nephew. She wrote to Agnew on 14.7.1884, to express her gratitude for his work in advancing the formation of the London Society. For a decade Stretton committed herself to the aims of the Society. Writing to [Mr] Pattison in about 1886, she confesses to putting off writing to friends because of the quantity of work each day – probably a reference to the LSPCC project, rather than other preoccupations, as she alludes to the issue of mothers begging with babies, adding ‘we have drafted a bill for the Protection of Children, which if passed gives us the power to prevent it next winter.’ Her formal involvement was to end in 1894: a letter to Lord Ancaster (15.12.1894) containing Stretton’s resignation and expressing her regret at being compelled to leave a Committee on which she had served since its formation, indicates that, the Hon. Director having prohibited the release of information to members of the Executive, Stretton could not ‘continue liable for expenditure and debt over which I have no control, and of which I can obtain no information’.

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Awareness of ‘active cruelty’ among the ‘degraded’ had rendered urgent the means to ‘deliver us as a nation from the curse and crime, the shame and sin of neglected and oppressed childhood’ (The Times, 8.1.1884). Yet despite this apparent indictment of the ‘degraded’ classes, and the sometimes harsh wording of Appeals, Stretton calls into question the issue of cruelty as class-specific. At the same time, she highlights the connection between abuse or neglect and material conditions. In a lengthy exchange of correspondence in The Times during 1885, she draws attention to the mismanagement, by an Anglican sisterhood, of an orphanage where two girls have suffered brutal corporal punishment (8.1.1885), and urges debate concerning the surveillance of institutions. Enraged, Stretton demands: ‘If a trained and cultivated woman calling herself a sister of charity can so yield to cruel and passionate impulses as to cane helpless girls entrusted to her care … what can we expect from poverty-stricken, drunken and degraded men and women whose children are a burden and a hindrance to them?’ Such sentiments underpin her narrative exposure of the effects of deprivation on human responses, and her concomitant empathy with the wrong-doer. Stretton decries the use of physical chastisement, hesitating ‘to believe any child incorrigible’ (The Times, 13.1.1885). She takes issue with the respondent (‘Common Sense’), who laments the encouragement of ‘rebellion and disorder’ – not to mention descent into juvenile prostitution – through the misguided softening of attitudes towards ‘bad girls’ and ‘incorrigible thieves and liars’ by teachers and philanthropists (The Times, 10.1.1885; 16.1.1885). Hesba Stretton, of course, had long been exploring textually the management of such miscreants, and her narratives, as we shall discover, embody complex and sometimes conflicting reactions to these issues. Peaceful Prosperity; Revolution and the Russian Texts The current of rebellion which permeates Stretton’s life and work is bound up with her unremitting outrage at the abuse of power and her attendant concern to liberate the oppressed; this combination fosters an engagement with other, sometimes unlikely, champions of the outcast. Despite suggesting, in 1892, at the age of 60, that she had found the previous decade more interesting, more useful and more peaceful (my italics) than any other (Webb, 1964: 15), certain activities and themes during the final decade of the century reflect ideas and events associated as much with revolution as with peace. Such a cause is Stretton’s commitment to exposing the political and religious persecution of the Russian Stundist Sect. This ‘Russian connection’, including literary collaboration with leading Russian anarchists, forms the subject of Chapter 7. Captain Webb’s notes and isolated extracts indicate that related diary entries were, as ever, frustratingly terse, and quotations sparse. Investigation into textual themes and relevant personal and cultural factors, however, proves illuminating. Appealing to Stretton’s engagement with the oppressed or excluded, and also providing a textual focus, such preoccupations furnished a counterbalance to the comfortable, prosperous and ostensibly more tranquil – yet inherently more ‘stagnant’ – existence which she enjoyed towards

Personal Writings, Published Texts, Biographical Perspectives

Fig. 1.3

45

Hesba Stretton, Hulda Friederichs and Stretton’s sister Elizabeth (1907). Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives

the end of the century, and, arguably, constituted a vehicle for articulating the frustrations of ‘other,’ competing selves. Having achieved independence and stability, and now settled, with her sister, in her own house on Ham Common, Stretton perhaps fitted the image of the ‘charming, sensible, dear old maiden lady’ which she envisioned in David Lloyd’s Last Will (166) as the future manifestation of the ‘clever woman’, and which accords with her legendary public persona. Later texts, together with glimpses afforded by other sources, suggest ambivalence about the acceptance of such a role. Stretton continued to write during the 1890s and beyond, publishing several full-length novels. These late texts, including the ‘Russian’ narratives, focus on both the romantic fancies of youthful protagonists and the journey towards self-development and mature affection, as had her earliest writings for the adult market. Situations of poverty still feature in her work, but there is renewed attention to middle-class anxieties, and a continued emphasis on moral complexity.

46

Fig. 1.4

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

Late portrait of Hesba Stretton, Memoir, Sunday at Home, December 1911 (Courtesy of Lutterworth Press). Reproduction courtesy of Shropshire Archives

Political concerns surrounding ‘otherness’ or marginalization, sometimes relocated in different surroundings, figure as both central and underlying themes, demonstrating an ambiguous engagement with the radical processes implicated in social and cultural change, as subsequent chapters will confirm.

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In 1906, aged 74, Stretton professes herself painfully aware of the solitude of later years. Prefacing her selection of others’ Thoughts on Old Age – a collection built up over time and embracing the philosophies of writers, poets and thinkers from Confucius, Plato and Cicero through to the authors of her day (with female writers represented by Barbauld and Rossetti) – Stretton comments on her experiences of growing old. Although still living with Lizzie, who died only shortly before Stretton in 1911, she laments the loss of other familiar faces. She claims to find peace and tranquillity in having ‘finished one’s work of youth and middle life’ (1906: 4), perhaps endorsing Benjamin Jowett’s appreciation of being ‘free from illusions about wealth, or rank, or love, or even about religion’ (73), and drawing parallels, unsurprisingly, between the state of old age and that of childhood (5). If she likewise endorsed Shakespeare’s sentiment that ‘Youth is wild and Age is tame (18) – and certainly her texts focus on the wildness and spirit of youth as well as the restraint of maturity – it might conceivably also be argued that a ‘wilder’ Hesba Stretton – not altogether amenable to being tamed – is continually threatening to surface, resisting ‘self-government’ and the impositions of others, throughout her life and work.

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Chapter 2

Publishers, Writers, Readers and Responses In seeking to understand a body of work in terms of the broad social and cultural circumstances from which it emerges, it is important to recognize that questions of publishing environment, audience and reception are fundamental considerations – part of a multifaceted process of interaction and negotiation. In the case of Hesba Stretton’s oeuvre, diverse agendas – both overt and hidden – on the part of writer, publishers and reading public are at work. As a result of the success of books such as Jessica’s First Prayer (1867) and Little Meg’s Children (1868), historians and critics have placed Stretton’s writing predominantly within the confines of juvenile evangelical fiction – and, more narrowly, of ‘waif’ literature. Closer analysis, whilst confirming the significance of these areas, reveals the deficiencies of this limited frame of reference. It is essential not to imprison Stretton’s work within too narrow a setting, or to restrict interpretative approaches. The hybrid nature of these writings renders contextualization a complex and illuminating process; the narratives are poised to burst the boundaries of accepted context, inviting us to explore crucial tensions and to speculate more imaginatively about what lies below the surface. The freedom denied to the reader of prize or reward texts in terms of choice is offered within the texts through more diffuse mechanisms than is generally acknowledged. The complexity is intensified by Stretton’s range, with full-length, sometimes three-volume novels existing alongside shorter, ostensibly child-oriented texts. Significant factors are her commitment to writing for an adult secular market, the addressing of apparently separate audiences in terms of age and type of material, and the blurring of distinctions between those audiences across her work. It is necessary, therefore, to take into account the conditions of production relating to the areas of evangelical publishing, children’s literature, adult fiction and nonfiction, writing by women, serial and other forms, and the conflicting or converging agendas which emerge. Valuable insights can be gained by exploring the various facets of the market and identifying forces and pressures at work. Stretton’s association with publishers, including the Religious Tract Society, Henry S. King and others, as revealed by archive and diary material, merits particular attention. The little that  J.S. Bratton (1981) explores the notion that evangelical fiction and reward texts cannot be understood apart from their publishing context. Their production is not subject to the relations or choices applicable to the novel (20); adult values are implicated in processes of writing, criticism, publication, distribution and consumption, with sales figures not necessarily indicative of popularity (21). However, a scarcity of reader testimony redirects us to the texts to assess possible effects (22).

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is known about actual readers can be supplemented by a speculative approach to possible readership and response, drawing on historical and cultural indicators and on clues provided by the texts themselves. Issues identified in the process can profitably be developed, and arguments illustrated, through the subsequent exploration of textual and wider cultural representations. We will discover that multiple motivations and responses, together with fluid generic and publishing boundaries, generate a range of voices and meanings within works which have been viewed, according to received ideas, as closed and didactic. Multiple Motivations and Intersecting Agendas: Women Writers, Writing for Children, Evangelical Aims and Audiences Within the network of factors influencing the circumstances of production, it is possible to trace particular patterns of interaction. Agendas emerging from nineteenth-century publishing developments are bound up with social, cultural, educational and political trends and expediencies. Fears about the decline in religious belief and accompanying secularization, anxieties with regard to degenerating morality, insecure class barriers and increasing social mobility are entangled with developments in literacy and with changing concepts of childhood. Also implicated in this web is the position of women – in the home, in society and in the literary market. Robert Southey, as Catherine Judd reminds us, famously advised Charlotte Bronte that ‘literature cannot be the business of a woman’s life.’ Despite the fact, however, that women undoubtedly did experience prejudice in the realm of publishing, it was during the nineteenth century that ‘the female voice gained authority and dissemination’ (Judd, 1995: 251–2). At the time of Stretton’s entry into the field in the 1860s, novels by women were beginning to flood the market. The reviewer of Stretton’s The Clives of Burcot (1867) declared it ‘hard to keep pace with the lady novelists of the present day. Not only is their name legion, but the volumes which they give to the world succeed each other in such rapid succession that scarcely is judgment passed on one than another three volumes demand notice’ (The Standard, 30.8.1867). Such an opening, despite the ensuing praise, highlights a process of classification by gender which carries implicit value-judgements. Developments in the sphere of children’s literature are closely connected with women’s fight to secure a place within the literary market. Writing for children constituted an ‘acceptable’ female literary activity, as it frequently centred on home and family. A respectable means of supplementing – often providing – an income, it offered varying degrees of independence and an escape, albeit partial, from domestic mundanities. Discussing women’s longstanding productivity in the market as writers for children, Julia Briggs (1989) identifies a common cause, and 



See my fuller discussion of childhood in Chapter 3.

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notes the ‘coincidence of timing’ between women’s entry into the profession and the significant expansion of children’s publishing (223). The realm of juvenile literature potentially afforded an outlet for various forms of subversion; Briggs cites Stretton as an exception to the prevailing tendency among evangelical writers, the majority of whom were women, to accept existing social structures (238–9). Mitzi Myers (1997), exploring issues of child and adult markets and mixed authorial agendas discusses ways in which the conventions underpinning children’s literature might lend themselves to political aims (120); she advocates ‘taking child-centred texts seriously politically, as reformist spaces intertextual with grown-up works and lives’ (126). Such questions are particularly relevant to the work of Hesba Stretton, traversing, as it does, the already ambiguous and unstable boundaries of what might be termed child, juvenile and adult literature. Examination of Stretton’s published writings reveals the extent to which they constituted a vehicle for social and political critique, not only in relation to society’s treatment of the poor and outcast figure, but also concerning the position of women in general. Scrutiny of her diary suggests that texts function as a medium for both illustrating social expectations and privations and for articulating personal, gender-related, dissatisfactions. For an aspiring writer of adult novels, publishing for a younger market also provided a springboard for wider activity and renown within the literary establishment; the arena of literary philanthropy into which her writings expanded served not only her social and political project, but her wider agenda as a popular fiction writer, although, perversely, her association with religious publishing and the child market may actually have limited audiences for her adult-oriented fiction. The notion of woman as guardian of home and family, as moral educator and spiritual guide, has wider social implications, and significantly, intersects with evangelical publishing agendas concerning the moral and maternal emphasis of texts. Engaging spiritually, socially and economically with the drive to educate, reform and ‘improve’ the population, societies such as the non-denominational Religious Tract Society published books for all ages of reader, producing fiction and non-fiction, educational and scientific texts as well as religious material. The 1860s witnessed substantial growth; the 35th Annual General Meeting (1864) reported a year-on-year extension of the Society’s operations (RTS Minute Book, Additional Papers). From the 1850s, periodicals such as the Leisure Hour and Sunday at Home (the latter including material for younger readers) formed part of a programme to entertain, inform, and supply an alternative to mass literature judged pernicious and ‘sensational or worse’ (Green, 1899: 126). They provided a source of material, as well as a testing ground from which many texts – including those of Stretton – made the transition to volume form. The Minutes of Tract Society Committees afford an insight into intended audiences: the Society aimed to reach a range of classes, through differentiated  Notable male authors for the Religious Tract Society include G.E. Sargent and W.H. Kingston.

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reading matter or material offering cross-class appeal. Editions suitable for prize or reward purposes were directed at the Sunday, Ragged, National or, later, Board School pupil, more expensive versions at the middle-class reader. Minutes refer to the suitability of books for ‘all classes’, adding, on occasion ‘especially for the young’, as with Stretton’s Max Kromer (H8501, 24.1.1871). The somewhat ambiguous term ‘class’ (of reader) sometimes implies ‘category’, but frequently alludes overtly to social class. Whilst some texts were designed for young ‘educated’ girls, others might be ‘adapted to every class …, but especially to the lower, such as that to which the principal persons of the story belong’ (H8501, 4.12.1866). Stories were directed at those of ‘humble condition’ (whose conduct in Stretton’s The Fishers of Derby Haven, 1866, met with Committee approval), or those with ‘little advantage of education’; working boys and Sunday scholars were targeted and numerous texts were produced specifically with the servant class in mind. Even where books were ostensibly directed at a young audience, religious publishers were attempting to reach not only children, but also parents and adults of the ‘lower-classes’. Adults might share books and absorb messages or ideas through the practice of reading to children, but a growth in literacy among the young meant that children were also likely to be reading to older members of the community. Furthermore, material intended to be salutary or uplifting for the masses could at the same time have appeal for middle-class readers, raising awareness of deprived and apparently godless conditions beyond their own milieu, promoting compassion and charity, and fostering mutually profitable ‘good works’ in terms of the spiritual well-being of the donor and the salvation – both bodily and spiritual – of the recipient. Increasingly, evangelical publishers found it necessary to walk a tightrope between the religious and the secular: Tract Society archives reveal agendas which simultaneously embraced and challenged secularism, exposing tensions between economic and moral imperatives. Through their publications, they claimed to occupy an important sphere ‘in supplying … moral and religious truth in this intellectual and reading age’ (37th Annual Meeting, 4.12.1866). At the same time, they were eager to exploit the expanding demand for popular and sensation fiction. As early as 1859, Stretton herself had expressed, in ‘The Post-Master’s Daughter’, a recognition, formed at first-hand, that religious books no longer appealed to the buying public, except ‘to give away’ (38). Society Minutes demonstrate an ongoing quest for ‘more modern books’ and material to ‘enliven’ texts. No doubt the ‘adventures and dangers’ recounted with ‘vividness and interest’ which they  ������������������������������������������������������������������������� General illustrative quotations are from RTS Executive Committee Minutes (H8501) or Sub-Committee Minutes, Joint, Copyright and Finance (H8502).  Cutt (1979) discusses the problem of attempting to address two reading publics without offending either – an imperative which contributed to idealization, sentimentalization, and, arguably, the proliferation of increasingly stereotypical narratives. Cutt acknowledges that Stretton, writing before the establishment of such ‘deadening conformity’, carefully circumvented RTS regulations to develop ‘realistic though limited’ depictions of slum life (146).

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identified in The Fishers of Derby Haven fulfilled this prerequisite, as did, from a rather more nuanced perspective, her portrayals of society’s underside. On the other hand, Minutes contain general warnings against the inclusion of ‘sensational’ incidents, or matter unsuitable for children. Teaching must be of the ‘right kind’, with evangelical principles interwoven into the narrative. Material considered in poor taste, or lacking in evangelical content, was referred for modification. Stretton’s texts generally complied with criteria, but occasional changes required by ‘Readers’ (two or more of whom reported before recommending adoption) reflect religious imperatives, and demonstrate the constraints on writers to meet the exigencies of publishers. Attention was drawn to a ‘defect’ in Pilgrim Street after its original acceptance (H8501 and H8502, November 1867) and it was remitted to the editor for changes relating to the atonement; the report on Little Meg’s Children stipulated an addition to the religious teaching (H8501, 21.4.1868). Max Kromer and Bede’s Charity would, Readers decided, be ‘in every way eligible for the Society’s purpose’ or ‘quite up to the Society’s requirements’ after suggestions or additions to evangelical principles had been attended to (H8501, 24.1.1871; 20.2.1872). Stretton complained that the editors were ‘extremely fussy’ (Log Book: 5.11.1866); she had already demonstrated her assertiveness by insisting, in response to demands that The Children of Cloverley (1865) be toned down, on seeing alterations before sale of copyright (Log Book: 2.10.1865). However, when presented with a cheque and transfer papers (and a promise from Editor Mr Cross of ‘very few alterations’), she had felt ‘obliged to sign’ (4.10.1865), and her determination to take the Society by storm over the rejection of her brother-inlaw’s engravings for The Fishers of Derby Haven (1866) was similarly thwarted by the editors’ refusal to capitulate. Quick to satirize aspects of the Church, Stretton evidently touched a raw nerve with her perceived ‘caricaturing’ of religion for the character of Mrs Lloyd in the 1869 two-volume David Lloyd’s Last Will (Log Book: 11.12.1868). Finding, when proofs arrived from the RTS, that parts had been suppressed, she declared herself ‘vexed’; the story appeared in the Leisure Hour, but Stretton arranged volume publication with Tubbs of Manchester, in conjunction with Sampson Low, Marston. The accusation of caricature (unexplained in the journal) perhaps related to her somewhat negative portrayal of other-worldliness. Similar, overt, criticism of religiosity may have prompted the move within the Society to withdraw the 1881 novel Cobwebs and Cables from circulation; here, Stretton compares the evangelical mission-field, with its scramble for souls and factional infighting, to an overcrowded vineyard where husbandmen pluck each other’s plants and prune each other’s vines (263, Ch.39). No reasons for the suggested withdrawal are recorded, but Stretton’s determination to explore, rather than condemn outright, immoral conduct perhaps also provoked disapproval; after debate the motion was defeated (H8501, 3/10.1.1882). Nonetheless, from the mid-1860s evangelical publishers were engaging increasingly with commercial forces; with the extension of literacy, they were also alert to the financial potential of the rapidly expanding market for children’s literature, an area in which they were to become a major influence. In September

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1865, the Minutes of the RTS Copyright Sub-Committee directed the attention of the Editors to Children’s Books and Devotional Books, as ‘among the most saleable issues of the society’. In 1869, highlighting a pressing need for original material, they reported a constant demand for shilling books for the young, which they were unable to satisfy. Recovering Readers, Reconsidering Responses Whilst such sources point to the audiences for whom books were designed, identification of actual readership is problematic. We can ascertain facts about the sale and distribution of texts, but it is more difficult to track ongoing dissemination, or to obtain more than fragmentary evidence about reading patterns and responses. Purchased predominantly for, and not by, readers, the books nevertheless found their way into countless homes – perhaps augmenting meagre collections and swelling the readily-to-hand material needed, according to Edward Salmon (1886b: 116), to tempt the working-classes – to be read, arguably within and across families and generations, as part of a shared reading experience which also engaged with individual interests, desires and needs. Numerous factors point to the unusually wide and sustained popularity of texts such as Jessica’s First Prayer, Little Meg’s Children and Alone in London. Sales of Jessica were estimated at Stretton’s death to be in the region of two million; originally planned to sell at sixpence or one shilling, it was issued in numerous editions, as were many of her books. The sixty-thousandth Jessica appeared within about two years, the hundred-thousandth by approximately 1871, with numbers approaching four hundred thousand by the mid 1880s. There were also many unauthorized editions (White, 1984: 3–4). Large numbers of cheaper formats were produced; in 1886, a Society announcement of a new cheap series, to include Stretton’s Pilgrim Street, refers to the publication over the preceding four years, under ‘Cheap Reprints’, of well-known tales like Jessica at prices from a penny to threepence. Although figures for Stretton’s stories are not specified, overall sales for the period of 2,500,000 indicate the volume of such editions (H8501). Texts show that by 1911, in addition to Jessica, Little Meg and Alone in London, stories such as Jessica’s Mother, Lost Gip (1873), Cassy (1874) and No Place Like Home (1881) were all appearing in the Penny Series. Throughout the latter part of the nineteenth century and beyond, her books continued to be published in a variety of sizes and editions, many appearing in the Shilling ‘Gift’ Series as well as more elaborate formats. The combined circulation of Little Meg and Alone in London, according to the Sunday at Home Memoir, reached three-quarters of a million. As Stretton’s diary reveals, by 1870 the Jessica story had been made into lantern

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������� This sequel appeared in periodical form in 1867. A separate volume was proposed in 1870, but declined (H8502, May/June) without explanation, the sensational elements perhaps considered inappropriate. A hardback version did not appear until early in the twentieth century.

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slides (‘some of which were very good’, 3.6.1870); as well as a ‘service of song’, two silent film versions were produced, one in 1909 and another in 1921. The Readers were optimistic that Little Meg’s Children would ‘prove a most successful work, to sell at 1s.6d.’ (H8501, 21.4.1868). Their confidence was not misplaced: by November 1868, sales had reached 10,000 (Log Book: 19.11.1868), and in February 1869 Stretton received a cheque for £131. By summer 1869 another 14,000 had been sold (24.7.1869) and continuing popularity guaranteed substantial royalties; in March 1871 (H8502) the Tract Society recorded a payment of £273. 2s. 6d. in respect of Little Meg (further sums listed are not text-specific). An indication of early sales of other Stretton stories can be gathered from textual advertisements, which show, for example, that numbers of The King’s Servants (first published 1873) had by 1877 reached thirty-six thousand, with Cassy at thirty thousand and The Storm of Life (1876) – commended for its beauty and pathos – at eleven thousand. By the following year, according to the sixty-first thousandth Lost Gip, these texts numbered forty-three, thirty-eight, and twentyone thousand respectively. Dissemination extended far beyond Britain. The Publication Books of H.S. King confirm a connection with the publishers Dodd and Mead in America (where a number of the titles issued by King also appeared) and Stretton records the first remittances from them in May 1871. The American Tract Society also published her work, awarding her the Society Gold Medal for A Night and a Day, 1876 (Friederichs, 1894: 331), as did others in America, where some titles have remained in print, often in specialist editions. The Religious Tract Society produced and distributed literature at home and in Europe, the Colonies and missionary locations world-wide. Minutes record early requests for French translations of Alone in London and Little Meg; by the time of Stretton’s death, according to their Quarterly Seed Time and Harvest, Jessica had been translated into at least fifteen languages. Their Memoir notes the distribution by a lady in Budapest of between 200 and 300 copies, and cites the testimony of a Jewish woman in Beirut in 1903. In Russia, by order of Tsar Alexander II, copies of Jessica were routinely placed in schools, although this order was later revoked (Memoir, Sunday at Home, 1911). Stretton logs a meeting with a missionary and a ‘black man from Liberia’, who both knew her books (Log Book: 19.6.1871); the RTS writer Samuel Green (1899: 202) reports news from Asiatic Turkey that Jessica had been ‘a great message of good’ to girls. The emphasis of commendations is inevitably selective,  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ The British Film Institute indicates that the 1909 Walterdaw film, like many silent films, has been lost or destroyed. The reissued 35mm Seal Film Company version survives in the National Film and Television Archive.  Stretton had already published A Sin and a Shame in America (Log Book: April 1870) – to the displeasure of the Scottish Temperance League, who simultaneously published this story.  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Highlighting a���������������������������������������������������������������������� deficiency of children’s books in certain countries, RTS Minutes���� in 1866 ���������������������������������������������������������� recommend the printing of translations of juvenile works.

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reflecting, in part, the interests of publishers and church newspapers anxious to register the book’s potential for making a ‘beneficial impression’, to moral and spiritual ends; the influence of Stretton’s work was considered such that the Sunday at Home numbered her ‘amongst the great company of women preachers’ (1911: 123).10 Nonetheless, Stretton’s books were evidently popular as well as effective, remaining in print for decades, and whilst the spiritual effectiveness is, undoubtedly, enmeshed with the appeal to the popular imagination, the popularity arguably serves more than instrumental objectives. First-hand evidence of actual reader response is, in Stretton’s case, limited. Inscriptions show that her texts were being awarded as prizes from the 1860s through to the early decades of the twentieth century, in Sunday and mainstream schools. The Tract Society made grants to public libraries, and the accounts of H.S. King indicate that copies were routinely distributed to libraries at the time of publication. Sally Mitchell (1995: 142) cites the records of an East End free library, used by poor and working-class women during the 1890s, which confirm the popularity of writers including Stretton and Ellen Wood; in general, however, information on individual authors is scarce, and the isolation of class as a variable presents difficulties. Reader surveys such as those conducted by Edward Salmon in the 1880s constitute a further source, but despite attempts to obtain a crosssection, problems of bias still obtain.11 Salmon’s surveys of pupils’ favourite authors and books reveal Hesba Stretton as a popular author for girls, and Little Meg as a favourite book.12 Salmon (1888c: 515), concluding that girls’ literature would profit from being ‘less goody-goody’, found girls as intolerant of ‘preaching’ as boys; his summarized results suggest that Stretton’s narratives were not viewed as such. The survey registered girls’ preference for ‘a good stirring story, with a plot and some incident and adventures’ (Rose, 1995: 201) – ingredients often perceived as less necessary for girls’ reading. Arguably, for Stretton’s readers, such characteristics compensated for more negative considerations; certainly publishers and reviewers recognized her 10

Newspapers including the Watchman and Queen praise religious content; the Non-Conformist also applauds the ‘free’ but ‘compressed and masterly’ character of Cassy. 11 See Rose (1995). Mindful of misrepresentative findings, Salmon claimed that his research into pupils’ favourites spanned ‘the ordinary Board Schoolboy to the young collegian’. However, school attendance by older working-class offspring was infrequent (Rose, 196), and these books were beyond the reach of many street-children. Sales, Salmon concluded, were also influenced by the books’ status as presents and prizes. 12 His table of girls’ favourite authors (Rose, 1995: 199) includes forty-eight writers, headed by Dickens (355 nominations). Stretton holds thirteenth position (27) – below Charles Kingsley, Charlotte Yonge, Ellen Wood and George Eliot, but above O.F. Walton, Louisa May Alcott, Charlotte Bronte and Elizabeth Gaskell. Girls’ favourite books, ranging from Kingsley’s Westward Ho to Carroll’s Alice, include Little Meg in fourteenth place, behind Walton’s A Peep Behind the Scenes and Yonge’s The Daisy Chain, but above Eliot’s Mill on the Floss and Wood’s East Lynne (Rose, 200). The eclectic selection highlights both the diversity of reading experiences and the difficulty of drawing conclusions.

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ability to tell a story, noting, of Carola (1884), that ‘from first to last, the interest of the story never flags’ (The Glasgow Herald). Prize-labels suggest that, although Stretton does not feature amongst their listed favourites, boys probably also read her books; peer pressure perhaps hindered open endorsement of the perceived emotional appeal. As narrator, Stretton voices the perception that girls live ‘in a region of sentiment and feeling’ (Cobwebs and Cables, 36, Ch.5) and ‘most men shrink from any unusual exhibition of emotion’ (126, Ch.18) – an assertion of women’s greater susceptibility to emotion often challenged, nonetheless, through her practical and reasoning protagonists.13 Yet the affective element of her books perhaps filled a significant gap in boys’ reading experience in a world where emotions were relegated to the feminine and domestic sphere, and ‘manliness’ was increasingly promoted in mainstream material for boys. In fact, the Sunday at Home Memoir (123) records ‘strong men’ reduced to tears and rough sailors ‘choking red-eyed’ over Jessica. We know that numerous contemporaries were impressed by the power of her portrayals; Lord Shaftesbury, ������������ identifying Jessica, in an 1867 letter to the Record, as the work of a woman, since ‘no man on earth could have completed a page of it’,����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� declared the story unrivalled for its ‘simplicity, pathos, and depth of Christian feeling, and noted the author’s ‘minute, and accurate, knowledge of that class, its wants, and its capabilities’. Stretton ������������������������������������������������������� logs, without further comment, on 13.12.1867, a letter forwarded by the Tract Society, ‘+ a copy in his own hand of his letter to The Record’.��������������������������������������������������������������� T������������������������������������������������������������� he Reverend C.H. Spurgeon, confessing to the need for a ‘dry handkerchief’ after reading the tale, found Little Meg equal to Jessica in ‘simple pathos’, adding ‘What encomium can be higher? … The writer has the key of our heart’ (Seed Time and Harvest, December 1911). Journalist Hulda Friederichs (1894: 332), however, considered Stretton’s books devoid of ‘mawkishness’ or ‘weak sentimentality’. Edith ��������������������������������������������������������� Nesbit – who apparently read the story to her maid – endorsed the ‘pathetic simplicity’ of Jessica (Moore, 1967: 107); Nesbit was to draw extensively on Stretton’s work, echoing themes and alluding to the books in ways which reflect their mythic status as encapsulations of ‘waif’ poverty – in this way underlining, as Nesbit frequently does, the notion of fiction, rather than life, as the initial, defining experience. Historians have found it useful to mine autobiographical works for clues regarding reading matter; although studies include working-class writings, many accounts reflect middle-class lives. Reactions to Stretton’s work recorded in such sources appear polarized between those who wept over the tales, and those who expressed distaste for the moral imperative and the unrealistic piety of certain protagonists. ������������������������������������������������������������� Appreciation of the ‘heart-rending portrayals’ is registered by Leonora Eyles (1953, quoted by Flint, 1993: 222), and negative������������� impressions of moral didacticism by Lillian Faithfull (1924, quoted by Flint, 221). Herbert Read (1947) was struck by the ‘grim pathos’, but retained positive memories of 13 ����������������������������������������������������������������������� Ideas regarding physiology and women’s disposition were the subject of contemporary debate.

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Little Meg’s influence (Cutt, 1979: 143). More recently, a reader’s letter in History Workshop Journal relays memories of family reading including waif stories such as Jessica’s First Prayer, which left everyone ‘spellbound’ and often tearful, ‘except for my father, for whom weeping would have been unmanly’. Such books, he asserts, generated sensitivity to social causes, directing him, and many of his generation, towards socialist ideas (Newens, Issue 53, 2003, 285–6). The comments retrieved, however, represent only a very small proportion of the readership; most are comparatively recent, extracted from late nineteenthcentury and twentieth-century sources, and relate predominantly to Jessica and Little Meg. What light can we shed on the response of the vast majority whose reactions have remained unrecorded, and on the other textual features which might have resonated with audiences? What picture can be pieced together regarding the appeal of texts such as Cassy, Lost Gip, Carola and others – perhaps less popular than those legendary titles, but still published in significant numbers? Ongoing recovery of historical reader response may yet reveal specific information about such reactions. It is, however, fruitful to turn to the content and language of texts themselves, the readers implied within them, and the reading positions potentially available. Whilst we must be cautious of assuming the influence or effect of works simply by textual examination, if we take into account the multilayered nature of Stretton’s writings, and the range of possible responses, closer exploration exposes the potential for diverse readings, which can be productively related to the wider cultural climate.14 Uncertain Boundaries: Adult-Child, Cross-Class and Cross-Gendered Audiences Like Dickens, who considered it not only unnecessary, but the greatest of mistakes, Hesba Stretton resists the temptation to ‘write down to any part of [the] audience’ (Dickens to Wills, 12.10.1852, Lehmann (ed.), 1912: 87). Stretton’s writing does not, overall, display condescension. Nor does it share the self-conscious tone or avoidance of serious issues sometimes associated with children’s literature. Critics have dwelt at length on the difficulties of defining children’s literature, and the questions which might facilitate – or complicate – identification of a text’s status; the possibility (and desirability) of establishing definitive boundaries is increasingly called into question.15 The division between adult and younger 14

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Rose (1995: 209) criticizes the so-called ‘receptive fallacy’, highlighting the unpredictability of reading processes; Sally Mitchell (1995), underlining the relationship of reading to the unconscious, ������������������������������������������������������������ recognizes�������������������������������������������������� the multiple, sometimes conflicting functions of these texts for the same, and different readers (143); Lissa Paul (1998: 14) endorses analysis of affective responses; she confirms that reader-response depends on who is looking, how, and under what conditions (15). 15 See, for example, the essays collected in Beckett (ed.) (1999). Knoepflmacher (1998: xiii) suggests that the comparatively recent idea of segregation has undermined serious consideration of children’s literature.

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readerships was already less marked in Stretton’s time than it is today, and I have suggested the particular difficulty of locating her books as specifically for children, whether in terms of targeted or potential reader. Nonetheless, it is helpful to consider them in relation to areas of distinction conventionally highlighted, even if such issues are difficult to resolve. Clearly, numerous Stretton texts centre on the experiences of child or juvenile protagonists, offering a child’s perspective and inviting identification or empathy. Children often figure in the longer novels, but are less frequently the central focalizing character. The diary indicates that Stretton considered early submissions to the Tract Society as children’s stories. However, the Society’s ‘Readers’ identified The Children of Cloverley as likely to ‘interest adults as well as the young’ (H8501, 3.10.1865); underlining this ambiguity, the Sunday at Home Memoir cites comments that Jessica was ‘a child’s book truly … but its effect on sailors was marvellous’ (123). Textual lists frequently show Stretton’s works as general rather than children’s stories (as with new editions listed in Pilgrim Street, edition c.1890); The Day of Rest Annual which includes The Lord’s Pursebearers does not list this under the Children’s Section. Forthcoming inclusions in the Sunday at Home do not place Under the Old Roof (1882) under titles for children, and advertisements for Carola appear with those relating to full-length novels. Yet the ‘Favourite’ Gift Series (c.1911) lists texts as diverse as Jessica and Under the Old Roof as ‘approved stories for Boys and Girls’, and the anxiety of the Sunday Hours interviewer (1896: 164) to share insights into Stretton’s girlhood with ‘the girls, and boys too’ links the author with younger readers.16 Stretton’s writing consistently demands a capable level of literacy and comprehension; the reader must understand and engage with mature, often painful issues. The apparent narrative simplicity of certain texts might initially suggest their appeal to a younger or less sophisticated reader, while the density and complexity of others point to an adult or young-adult audience, skilled in literacy and abstract understanding. Many stories, including Bede’s Charity, The King’s Servants and Carola, occupy a more uncertain position, for reasons which will become clear; such texts perhaps fulfilled, for some readers, a transitional role in the progression towards full-length novels. In terms of narrative voice and register, there is little obvious accommodation of the child reader. There is seldom an overt or intrusive narrator, or a consistently strong authorial presence; direct address to the reader is limited and generally serves to impart information and raise consciousness rather than create an intimate narrator-narratee relationship. Stretton occasionally suggests, ‘I need not describe to you’ (Fern’s Hollow, 1864/n.d.: 43, Ch.6), or uses a preface or footnote to stress factual underpinning, as in Alone in London (1869/inscr.1872: 34, Ch.4) which cites City Mission Reports to confirm that the religious ignorance portrayed is not exaggerated. Direct engagement with the reader – for example, the Brontelike ‘Reader, you ...’ – in Stretton’s early periodical fiction becomes less evident 16 Narratives such as Silas Hocking’s Chips were also advertised as offering pleasure to young and old.

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in later writings, although occasional authorial intrusions occur in bible-based texts including The Sweet Story of Old [1884]. The narration rarely exhibits a conspiratorial or maternal adult-child tone, a fact which tends to set Hesba Stretton apart from writers such as O.F. Walton or Mary Louisa Molesworth, whose books, in varying degrees, are more recognizable as children’s texts. Unlike Georgina Castle Smith (‘Brenda’), who, in Froggy’s Little Brother (1875), directly addresses ‘my little readers’ (and later, their parents), Stretton does not identify her audience. Her writing is not linguistically patronizing; she addresses an intelligent reader and does not assume a position of superiority. The mode of address might be described as ‘dual’ rather than ‘double’, in the sense that the author employs a tone of seriousness, sometimes with overtones of irony, but generally privileging context, story and ideas over an overt consciousness of addressee.17 Importantly, she views child and adult (reader and protagonist) not as categories, but as human beings with rights, whose experiences and needs are equally valid. Such a stance contributes to a more ‘open’ address, offering shared access and different levels of interpretation. If the child’s perspective is sometimes a naïve one, and if adults are addressed over the shoulder of a child narratee, this often serves to accentuate the vulnerability of the young and to interrogate authority; it is rarely at the expense of the dignity or credibility of the child protagonist, although some immaturity of viewpoint may be implied. In using his voice to critique society, Stretton does not mock the child’s ignorance or naivety. Rather, she takes advantage of the interplay between immaturity or unawareness and accuracy of perception to expose the world, or society, as it is; when Cor (Bede’s Charity) suggests that ‘folks oughtn’t to die o’thinness, ought they?’ (62, Ch.8), he is bluntly identifying a situation often couched in less plain terms by adults.18 Overall, we can identify a continuum in terms of narrative complexity, with content, language and structure varying in intricacy. This is not chronological, although over time texts become less child-reader-friendly as disturbing and violent issues are confronted with increasing seriousness. Continuity, or overlapping, of themes and concerns is evident across the range. The emphasis on dialogue and incident – often a feature of children’s literature – is blended, in varying proportions, with the more intense preoccupation with description and introspection associated with a mature audience. In terms of material and context, 17 Barbara Wall (1991) explores the characteristics and effects of single, double or dual address. The idea of ‘dual address’ suggests the ability to engage equally (although perhaps differently) with both child and adult, whilst ‘double address’ carries implications of duplicity. See also Hunt (1994). 18 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������� Stretton arguably achieves an intermingling of adult-oriented critique and identification with the child’s experience which does not constitute authorial exploitation, but underlines social exploitation. In considering younger readers’ ability to appreciate Stretton’s sometimes pronounced use of irony������������������������������������������ —����������������������������������������� as, for example, in Jessica’s or Cassy’s innocent critiques of authority and oppression (to be discussed in subsequent chapters), I would invoke J.D. Stahl’s argument regarding the effective blending of adult irony and authentic child-like feeling or experience (1990: 120).

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there is a blurring of boundaries and the likelihood of engagement by readers of diverse ages, with social issues and psychological subtexts – even in earlier texts such as Fern’s Hollow, Enoch Roden’s Training, or stylistically straightforward narratives such as Jessica’s First Prayer – providing layered readings and more nuanced cross-generational attraction. The effect of texts such as Jessica and Little Meg, and, from a rather different perspective, slim volumes such as Michel Lorio’s Cross (1876) and Left Alone (1876) – the latter encapsulating the intricacies of the human condition, and displaying the leanness and clarity characteristic of the classic short-story – is one of crafted simplicity, contributing to their adult appeal. Of particular significance, as we shall see, is the proximity of many of Stretton’s themes to issues perceived as more appropriate to adult audiences. Reporting on The King’s Servants for the ‘Christmas Books’ section in 1873 (alongside texts including Juliana Ewing’s Lob Lie-by-the-Fire), the Athenaeum critic recognized that Stretton’s name, as author of ‘that delightful little book, “Jessica’s First Prayer”’ would ‘attract readers to anything she may write’. It was thus deemed all the more regrettable that the unsuitability for immature minds of certain subject matter rendered the present text ‘not a book we should put into the hands of young people’. Nor, according to the reviewer, was the ‘terrible social problem’ of ‘fallen girls’ to be ‘made the subject of entertaining reading’ (13.12.1873).19 Whilst the clear-cut moral structuring often associated with juvenile texts is apparent at one level, with polarizations of good and evil providing a framework, this is consistently brought into question. Furthermore, Stretton’s themes double as displaced arenas for issues which transcend class; they tap into cross-class insecurities and discontents, and articulate unspoken fears surrounding abuse and violence, broaching issues deemed inappropriate for middle-class readers, whatever their age. Stretton is not afraid to engage with the situation and emotions of male protagonists, young or old, and role reversals in terms of gender and generation feature prominently. At the same time, her preoccupation with the concerns, and shared marginality, of women and children contributes significantly to the crossaudienced nature of her work. Overt comment often appears to be addressed to a female reader whose sympathies might be co-opted, but is, arguably, directed at any reader who needs, regardless of age and gender, to be made aware of power or gender inequalities. The publishers’ designation of Cobwebs and Cables as suitable for ‘young men and others’ is both justified and challenged by the multiple perspectives offered; Stretton clearly engages, across the age range, with the female viewpoint. The problems facing the adult woman in Bede’s Charity, 19 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� By contrast,��������������������������������������������������������������������� writer Dinah Mulock (1858) considered that women should be ‘brought face to face with “lost women”’ in fiction rather than remain ignorant (quoted in Flint, 1993: 147). Edward Salmon (1886c: 524) felt that, given life’s ‘unsuspected dangers’, all girls should read Ellen Wood’s East Lynne. Underlining fears about unsuitable content, the Church Quarterly Review, Vol.2 (1876: 62) stressed that a book’s presentation in one or two volumes rather than three no longer guaranteed that it was a ‘tale’ and therefore ‘innocent’.

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The Storm of Life, A Thorny Path and other texts are considered both in relation to, and apart from, the plight of the child, engaging, for example, with both fears of abandonment and of being the abandoner. Although moral dilemmas may be more acute or complex in Stretton’s longer texts, an acknowledgement of ambiguity permeates her writing, whether it concerns the choice between integrity and obedience or loyalty to a parent, between conflicting legal, moral or emotional imperatives, between honesty and survival, or, as in A Thorny Path, between escape from and adherence to parental duty. She examines the motivation behind actions and choices, venturing to suggest, through the thoughts of the protagonist of Hester Morley’s Promise (1873/1898: 405, Ch.57), that sometimes even the most heinous crimes are not unpardonable, not without extenuating circumstances. Messages, Manipulation, Multiple Perspectives Readers’ perceptions of themselves and the world about them are, in part, shaped by their reading, and by the ways in which textual ideas, and individual responses to them, interact with wider assumptions and representations. Texts operate as potential sites of cultural manipulation through which identities are moulded and values transmitted, often through the incorporation of what the RTS writer Samuel Green (1899: 79) praises as ‘deep but unobtrusive’ moral teaching.20 If literature directed at impressionable young readers is inevitably implicated in processes of enculturation, this premise can be extended to include the wider target audiences for Stretton’s work: readers may be subordinate in power, if not in age. Contemporary critics often grouped together books for ‘children and the poor’. The child reader is potentially elided with the less educated or less sophisticated adult; he or she is equated with the less ‘spiritually-mature’ or ‘spiritually-literate’ reader (‘young’ in faith), and with those apparently untrained or unschooled in civilized values, reflecting processes of infantilization applied to class, education and race, as well as chronological age.21 The very notion of books as rewards for appropriate behaviour highlights the potentially coercive nature of the enterprise itself, the issue of offering such ‘bribes’ forming the subject of public discussion during the 1860s.22 Scrutiny of Tract Society language, as we have seen, exposes the use of terms implicated in processes of socialization, with books designed to promote not 20 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ Critics Hollindale (1988) and Stephens (1992) highlight the inscription of ideology in children’s literature and its operation through various narrative and linguistic processes. Fairclough (1989: 85)�������������������������������������������������������������������� recognizes��������������������������������������������������������� ideology as ‘most effective when its workings are least visible’, an acknowledgement implicit in Green’s comment. 21 Charlotte Yonge recommended teaching the poor while they were young—the only time they were within reach (1876: 97) 22 ��������������������������������� Interestingly, an���������������� article in the Observer (14.1.1867) on this ‘undesirable’ practice laid blame at the door, not of the instigating institutions, but of the child recipient, who was considered a ‘wretched little sham’.

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only religious doctrines, but also interlinked cultural messages. Reports evidence the intention to teach ‘valuable lessons’ to the young (H8501, 26.3.1872); they highlight the mission to promote ‘desirable’ qualities and to eliminate unwelcome traits ranging from procrastination to deadlier vices. For those both poor and young, the dangers of environmental evils and ‘vicious companionship’ were singularly potent. Young girls in service, many of whom were, like Stretton’s Cassy, little more than children, were particular targets for moral guidance and instruction. Literature might function to ‘root out’ ‘self-willed indulgence’ or the ‘evil passions’ of the ignorant; in some cases, it might be designed to inculcate a spirit of contentment with one’s lot. The ‘special object’ of Stretton’s The Children of Cloverley (H8501, 3.10.1865) was to ‘enforce submission’ (to God’s will, but, by extension, to other forms of authority). Evidencing mechanisms of self-policing as well as overt religious discipline, words or phrases such as ‘struggle’, ‘overcome’, ‘self-conquest/denial’ and ‘resistance to temptation’ or ‘moral degradation’, underpin RTS Readers’ recommendation of books including Pilgrim Street and Little Meg (H8501, 26.2.1867; 21.4.1868). Readers of ‘refined’ classes were subject to similar attempts at enculturation through texts directed at combating their ‘worldly dissipation’; they could take on board warnings which formed part of wider – often gender-oriented – discourses of control, linked, in turn, with ideals of nationhood and civilization. As a consequence of such emphases, evangelical writers have been associated primarily with instruction and moralizing, and denigrated – generally without consideration of the contradictions and complexities of their work – by a critical establishment which has equated religion unequivocally with social control.23 Nevertheless, if Stretton’s writing received contemporary approval from certain quarters precisely because of its evangelical or morally instructive qualities, the gap between the surface intentions of author and publishers and the ultimate function of the stories – opened up by their complex layering – has wider implications than might be initially assumed, rendering the narratives much more ideologically uncertain. It is clear, of course, that diverse, sometimes conflicting, didactic agendas are operating in Stretton’s writing – some chiming with the interests of publishers, others reflecting her own project, as in the case of her views on women’s rights, and her intermittent bursts of ‘feminist’ polemic. Theme and character are harnessed to convey personal, religious and social messages.24 Cultural expectations and moral attitudes are reproduced through various forms of instruction encoded within, and activated by, the narrative – such emphases no doubt accentuated as a consequence 23

As Mitchell (1995: 140) notes, readers of texts such as Jessica (perceived as a ‘prime example of evangelical moralizing’) have been considered ‘passive receptors brainwashed by Christian morals and gender texts’. 24 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ Melrose and Gardner (1996) discuss the use of character, dialogue and narrative for instructive purposes. They suggest that elements in Stretton’s narratives ‘designed to capture a young audience’ compete with factors ‘designed to please the book-buying adult’ (150).

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of demands by publishers, of the kind cited earlier. Although overt ‘sermonizing’ is less readily identifiable than, for example, in the work of Charles Kingsley, bible quotations are sometimes woven into the narrative or dialogue, or appear, almost as an afterthought – perhaps part of a revision – at the end of a chapter. Authorial judgement is implicit in statements such as ‘Thus, sinful unbelief prevailed’ (Enoch Roden’s Training, 1865/label 1902: 74, Ch.7); chapter headings serve as a vehicle for instruction, with titles such as ‘A Troubled Conscience’ (A Thorny Path) underlining moral threads. There is overt didactic purpose of a different kind behind the preoccupation of the final chapter of this text, entitled ‘A Shameful Verdict’, where, as in many instances, the social critique is explicit and uncompromising. Conservative and progressive messages exist side by side. In the early Fern’s Hollow, the narration preaches duty, diligence and obedience to God’s will, but simultaneously explores counter-arguments and moral ambiguity. Stretton takes issue with those who ‘possessed great authority over the poor’ and exercised that power ‘to oppress them and grind them down to the utmost’ (29, Ch.4). She condemns exploitation by employers and landlords who pay low wages, charge high rents and ignore safety, highlighting the fact that the promotion of forgiveness and acceptance should not preclude the critiquing of social wrongs and class inequalities. If, in Enoch Roden’s Training, Stretton is complicit in the agenda set out by the publishers with regard to submission to God’s will, this is not an unthinking, depoliticized acceptance, but one which is again juxtaposed with the exposure of social and sexual inequalities. A factor generally underestimated, and present even within the early Stretton texts, is the sometimes contradictory nature of the messages transmitted, with didactic effects complicated by divergences between the views of author and publisher, or by authorial ambivalence. Stretton’s extended use of multiple viewpoints serves to challenge judgements, often raising questions rather than dictating solutions. Many stories are relayed by an omniscient third-person narrator; others take the form of a first-person narrative. However, the point of view is not always straightforward or stable; changing perspectives which reflect varying agendas and hybrid target audiences arguably generate open-endedness. Throughout, Stretton demonstrates a facility for entering imperceptibly into the consciousness of different characters. This draws the reader into the thought processes and shifting opinions of protagonists, with authoritative judgement – endorsement or criticism – both implied and withdrawn. An example occurs in Carola (101, Ch.10), in which the narrator asserts, ‘there was scarcely any end to the qualifications necessary in Philip’s wife. It was simply impossible that he should marry a village schoolmistress’. Here, Mrs Arnold’s thought processes are being explored (in this instance with overtones of sarcasm); only later – if the irony is not initially detected – will it become evident, as events and experiences modify attitudes, that such an opinion is flawed, if understandable. Sometimes the narrative stance merges with the viewpoint of the character for long stretches, often without evident irony or implied judgement. Understanding of social

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critique may be dependent on familiarity over time with Stretton’s sympathies, with attitudes subject to initial misinterpretation; a stance arguably relayed as part of an exposure of different, class-related perspectives may be interpreted as underwriting class divisions. The potential for contrasting readings is shown up by Gillian Avery’s (1965: 95–6) equation of disapproval of Jessica’s attire by other characters – whose perspective dictates the judgement that she is ‘plainly too dirty and neglected’ to sit beside them – with a privileging of appearances by Stretton; consequently Avery presumes endorsement, rather than exposure or examination, of social prejudices.25 Such ambiguity could arguably pose difficulties in terms of how far an unsophisticated reader might recognize the intended stance. Faced with competing voices and messages, children may also ‘miss the condemnation of unsatisfactory attitudes which the author makes’ (Pinsent, 1997: 26). Conflicting perspectives, shifting subjectivities, and the possibility of selective interpretation might engender confusion for a young or naïve reader. However, such instability also highlights the complex and potentially interrogative nature of Stretton’s address. If the religious and moral emphasis was too pronounced for some, even in Stretton’s day, the notion of fluid and active reading positions throws simplistic assessment into question. Foster and Simons (1995: 8) note Elizabeth Sewell’s recognition that late nineteenth-century readers often overlooked moral advice or religious messages, as indeed, she herself had done. Readers are actively involved in the process of making meaning, and may opt to ignore religious frameworks and overt moralizing in favour of selected interest areas and standpoints available within the text.26 Narratives such as Carola, which centre on adolescent protagonists, arguably position the reader as a developing (and tractable) young adult. However, not only do these narratives engage with a range of social and generational perspectives, but, additionally, the moulding of the adolescent is undercut by the liberating tendencies identified in relation to Stretton’s personal inclinations. Crosscurrents which actively invite the possibility of reading against the grain have the effect of disturbing didactic design, even though contemporary anxieties and attempts to direct the developing adult are identifiable. The unfamiliar, sordid, yet colourful aspects of the urban lifestyle of the ‘romping and hoydenish’ Carola have the potential to intrigue; the world of the circus, presented by Stretton in An Acrobat’s Girlhood [1889] as a spectacle of movement, glitter and cheering crowds, may appear exhilaratingly free from conventional restraints – tantalizingly exotic, 25 ������������������������������������������������������������������������� In similar vein, Melrose and Gardner,������������������������������������ analysing�������������������������� strategies of control in Enoch Roden’s Training, allege Stretton’s ������������������������������������������������������������� concern that characters should ‘know their place’ (1996: 151). As discussed in Chapter 6 of this study, class assumptions expressed in that text arguably form part of an exploration and critique of social hierarchies, rather than a straightforward endorsement of social divisions. 26 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Disapproval�������������������������������������������������������������������� or condemnation is of course influenced by the reader’s situation, experience and ideological viewpoint. The ����������������������������������������������������� same texts, as����������������������������������� Flint (1993: 40) emphasizes, ‘may elicit complicity or resistance’.

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anarchic and ‘other’ – despite the exposure of merciless exploitation. Texts which offer glimpses of the unknown or forbidden are as likely to stimulate curiosity as to encourage submission to regulatory demands.27 The situation or response of the child in Stretton’s narratives is sometimes employed in the service of adult instruction, as in the exposure of Church official Standring’s religious hypocrisy (Jessica’s First Prayer). The third-person narration here is not exclusively from the child’s perspective; the inclusion of an implied adult male addressee underlines the hybrid target audience.28 Such harnessing of the child character to highlight adult failings is identifiable in the foregrounding of maternal neglect in the Jessica stories. However, as exploration of mother–child relations will reveal, both child – and, to an extent, narrator – alternately reject and support the mother, the narrative voice appearing variously condemnatory and sympathetic; an awareness of material circumstances and moral conflict invites reflection. The flawed process of interpreting motive and character is often pinpointed, as in the early novel The Clives of Burcot (1867), where we are reminded that facial features can mislead, identities can be multiple and precarious, viewpoints subjective and changing. The reader is informed, in a retrospective address reminiscent of Bronte’s conclusion to Jane Eyre, that the narrator-protagonist scarcely recalls the convictions which influenced her youthful actions (Ch.58). Such a resolution may serve as a corrective to immature ideas; nonetheless, awareness of the heroine’s misprisions and misjudgements develops gradually – her uncertainties, insecure perceptions, and changing priorities have, in the meantime, become our own. In addition to unstable impressions of authorial empathy or endorsement, breadth of perspective is sometimes afforded by changes of narrator. In her magazine stories, Stretton had adopted alternative persona in first-person narratives, writing, for example from a masculine viewpoint in ‘No Bribery’ (1869), or in diary form from the stance of an initially naïve but gradually maturing female narrator (‘Not to be Taken for Granted’, 1865). She was later to experiment with changes of narrator within texts, to various ends. In Bede’s Charity, an alternative firstperson narrator breaks into a single account to particular effect, as will emerge in Chapter 6. The full-length Half Brothers (1892), more clearly addressed to a mature audience, opens as a first-person narrative relayed by the abandoned young bride. The narration continues in the third person, with shifting focalization, but the initial establishment of a personalized account by the woman whose relationship, birth-giving and death determine the course of the story, grants identity to her and forms a dialogue with subsequent, less sympathetic perspectives. In order 27

Higonnet (2000: 31), concurring with Perry Nodelman that the activities of the unwise are potentially more appealing than those of the wise, suggests that apparently didactic texts may ‘function in the opposite direction, opening a window onto risk-taking, defiance ... and other activities that we normally inhibit’. 28 Recognition of adult fallibility may also privilege the child’s status, empowering him or at least producing a levelling effect.

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to present different characters’ perceptions of events, Stretton juxtaposes thirdperson narration in Hester Morley’s Promise with chapters in epistolary form. It is in The Doctor’s Dilemma (1872), however, that she most strikingly articulates an appreciation of the precarious nature of viewpoints, the elusiveness of ‘truth’ – an awareness which informs all her writing. Here, she uses first-person male and female narrators to relay alternative accounts. In the concluding postscript by her male narrator (Part 3, Ch.27), Stretton explicitly identifies the fragmented nature of recall, the unreliability of individual storytelling and the potentially biased reception of messages and ideas. Her narrator-protagonist questions any attempt to narrate events with fidelity, and suggests that interpretation rests on impressions which are ‘but slightly second-hand’. For a particular individual, certain memories may dominate; for another, different aspects may be more vividly recalled and hold greater significance as ‘leading and critical’ experiences (264). Arguably, such strategies promote a consciousness that no point of view – including that of the author or individual reader – can be definitive. Generic Interplay: Something for Everyone There has been a tendency to associate children’s literature with distinct generic features rather than the intermingling of genres.29 In Stretton’s work, fluid boundaries of class, gender and generation combine with other hybrid elements, the interplay of characteristics contributing to the range of textual voices and positions. Discussion of publishing agendas has highlighted the tensions between the religious and the secular, which intersect with similar conflicts at social and personal levels. The emphasis of Stretton’s very early fiction is predominantly secular (although, like much nineteenth-century fiction, it incorporates religious principles embedded in the cultural consciousness). Subsequent stories display a religious preoccupation, often incorporating disguised or displaced bible motifs such as the ‘Prodigal Son’ (Enoch Roden’s Training) and ‘Dives and Lazarus’ (The Soul of Honour), or engaging with well-known texts such as Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress (Cassy). This does not, arguably, greatly distance them from wider literary and cultural discourses, within which biblically-generated models and symbolism have traditionally, if sometimes less recognizably, been inscribed. If we consider the ‘waif’ novel as a genre in itself, close scrutiny of the ‘waif’ figure will confirm the relationship of this motif to the orphan as a trope in wider fiction and cultural discourse. Often assuming the character of overt social polemic of various kinds, Stretton’s compelling and personalized narratives also contribute in more subtle ways to the project of social reform. Her work interacts with social novels and with contemporary debates in the areas of poverty, health, housing and legal or human rights – where fact and fiction intermingle within and across fictive and non-fictive forms. 29

���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� See Nikolajeva ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ (1999: 66). This is less applicable to children’s literature today.

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Although the category of evangelical social fiction ostensibly stands in direct opposition to the genre of fairy-tale or fantasy, there are many ways in which such categorization can be broken down. We can, of course, identify the social intent embedded in the work of contemporary fantasists; Stretton’s work runs parallel to the evangelical social fantasies of Kingsley and MacDonald, intersecting, as we shall see, at numerous points. If her morally- or socially-grounded texts imply a rationality which opposes the otherness of fantasy, there is, as Bratton (1981: 29) concurs, much that is ‘other’ in these stories.30 Critic Herbert Read (quoted in Cutt, 1979: 143) identified Little Meg, with its ‘strange country’ setting, as akin to a fairy-tale, involving emotion and imagination. Interwoven into Stretton’s material accounts, and engaging with readers’ awareness of such patterns, are familiar fairy-tale allusions – overt and implied , ranging from the wild wood or forest with its grasping boughs and menacing shadows, to motifs of Bluebeard and the wicked stepmother or matriarch. As in traditional tales, children are frequently neglected, abandoned or abused. Carriage-riding philanthropists or rich ladies appear – or fail to act – in the capacity of benefactress or ‘fairy-godmother’; the attitude of the passing rich lady, who, unlike her intervening counterparts ‘in books’, is oblivious to the plight of those destined for the workhouse, stands exposed in Enoch Roden’s Training. The unfeeling superiority of the Baroness in Left Alone, wrapped to the chin in furs as she drives beneath the gathering snow-clouds, suggests the iciness of Andersen’s Snow Queen. The protagonist of The Doctor’s Dilemma (Part 3, 206, Ch.19) underlines the failure to ‘meet the prince’ or find ‘treasure’, and speaks of future fortune-making; in David Lloyd’s Last Will, real-world activities are compared to riding ‘in a fairy carriage through an enchanted region’ (Vol.1, 61, Ch.6). When the starving protagonist of In Prison and Out feels as if ‘a wolf was gnawin’ me’ (1880: 6, Ch.1), the evocation of physical deprivation is overlaid with resonances of the archetypal wolf image and intensified by the blending of the material and the mythical. The use of fairy-tale motifs highlights both the differences and the overlap between fairy-tale and religion, permitting responses which involve both reason and unconscious drives, and revealing opposing moral forces common to both. Realms which appear distinct from each other, but which tell comparable stories about lives and relationships – and, indeed, demand a similar suspension of disbelief – are thrown into relief. By eliding these worlds, Stretton’s writing serves to question as well as to reinforce the solidity of religious belief. Whilst suggesting the strengths of faith over make-believe, her narratives simultaneously underscore the providential ‘if you believe, it is so’ quality of both, although fulfilment is less certain in the material sphere. References may serve to demonstrate the dangers of living in a fantasy world – to warn of what Charlotte Yonge (1876: 64–5) terms an excess of ‘impossible reality’; they also highlight the disappointments and inadequacies of real-world experience. 30 Bratton recognizes, within the moral tale, a ‘separate world to be entered free of the self’ (29–30).

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Critics have recognized the influence of Romanticism and the links between secular romance structures and the moral/evangelical tale; they have likewise noted the paradoxical relation of Tract Society or Reward stories to contemporary sensation or romantic fiction, strands which emerge as central in relation to themes in Stretton’s work.31 If hearts such as Hester Morley’s feed on ‘fancies half religious and half romantic’ (97, Ch.15), Stretton likewise blends these aspects. Themes of melodrama lace her stories, from situations of pathos to dramatic shipwrecks and sexual misdemeanours; scheming fathers or lovers, fraud, bigamy and identity exchanges abound. Her magazine fiction is replete with the ingredients of sensation; the Athenaeum reviewer identified Hester Morley’s Promise as a ‘complicated tale of passion’, embracing ‘an actual adultery and two attempts at murder’ (6.9.1873). Traces of melodrama and ‘flash[es] of the grotesque’ (Hester Morley, 406, Ch.57) erupt into her wider fiction, where blazes, robberies, suicides and heroic rescues blend with her social project. If moral fiction speaks to the intelligence or conscience and melodrama operates through feelings (Mitchell, 1995: 157), both are represented here; as will emerge strongly, the absolutes associated with conventional melodrama vie with moral complexities, rendering the writing more than formulaic. Furthermore, the connection between Stretton’s use of melodrama and its pervasive deployment within the area of social reportage brings us full-circle in this generic web. Publishing Relationships; Critical Acclaim Just as identification of the intertextual relationship between Stretton’s forms of writing is instructive in terms of pinpointing her appeal, so the critical reception of her work as evidenced by available reviews indicates contemporary perceptions of her calibre as a writer, further illuminating her overall popularity. In whatever light Stretton’s work came to be regarded and categorized, her reception as a contributor to journals and a writer of fiction for a mature market forms a significant reference point. Examination of critical responses also affords an appropriate opportunity to assess and further contextualize her publishing and business relations. During the 1860s, Stretton’s journals foreground what were to remain concomitant preoccupations. They evidence her persistence in submitting and re-submitting, to numerous periodicals and with varying success, her articles of journalism and light fiction. The logging of remuneration received indicates her early engagement with pecuniary aspects, and presages a continued recognition of economic imperatives and the necessary close scrutiny of financial matters. Entries chronicle her increasing success as a contributor to Dickens’s Household Words and All The Year Round, and chart milestones in the writing of her first full-length novel. In ������������������������������������������������������������������������� one late 1866 entry, for example, Stretton records the publication of The Clives of Burcot, the appearance of The Fishers of Derby Haven, and the receipt 31

������������������������������������������������������������� See Cutt ��������������������������������������������������������� (1979); Bratton (1981); Myers (1991); Demers (1991).

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of £30 from Mr Wills (Dickens’s sub-editor). The diaries evidence regular contact with William Henry Wills, and confirm her as a sought-after contributor, particular to Dickens’s Christmas editions. Her relationship with Wills was generally good, but negotiations were occasionally problematic, perhaps reflecting what Webb describes as Stretton’s ‘mercurial’ views. Certainly, as the journals confirm, she displayed a tendency to take offence or condemn in the first instance, only to revise her opinions quickly, sometimes more than once. She ������������������������ also records in the diary her sensitivity to approval and criticism by the local community – reactions possibly echoed by the writer-protagonist of the much later novel Cobwebs and Cables, to whom it has never occurred that ‘local criticism was certain to follow the appearance of a local writer’ (67, Ch.8). Stretton’s pleasure at the appearance in the press of an extract from her article ‘Aboard an Emigrant Ship’ (All The Year Round, 1862) was marred by an acquaintance finding faults in its composition; she was peeved to receive ‘cutting criticism’ and to find her sense of the moral or immoral questioned by a friend, in respect of the well-travelled ‘Alice Gilbert’s Confession’. She counters that her brother-in-law, declaring ‘Hang the immorality’, judged it the best story she had written (Log Book: April/May 1862). Heralded as a ‘New Novel by the Author of “The Travelling Post Office” in “Mugby Junction”’ (All The Year Round, 1866), The Clives of Burcot was the subject of numerous notices in the Pall Mall Gazette in early 1867, along with advertisements and reviews of fiction by Eliza Lynn Linton, Ellen Wood, and Edmund Yates, and correspondence on books including Eliot’s Felix Holt.32 The PMG (1.2.1867) also carried a Notice for Stretton’s ‘Maurice Craven’s Madness’, forthcoming in Temple Bar. At Christmas, writing her journal in France, Stretton notes the publication of ‘Rhoda’ (The Clives of Burcot) and in January records the receipt of reviews transmitted from England by Charles Wood. A number were extremely favourable, causing much excitement within the family. However, initial responses by critics, who might conceivably have been acquainted with the author, should perhaps be viewed with scepticism; George Eliot, in her article ‘Silly Novels by Lady Novelists’ (1854) condemned the overblown ‘journalistic approbation’ accorded to many women’s novels (quoted in Judd, 1995: 254). Nonetheless, it is instructive to consider the qualities and comparisons suggested by reviewers of Stretton’s books, and to note a general consensus on her work as worthy, despite certain flaws, of serious literary consideration. The Observer review (6.1.1867) details the plot, and despite noting some overdrawing of character and the perceived detraction of ‘frequent feminine reflections’, finds ‘strength and power in the conceptions’. In contrast to the modern assessment of Stretton’s three-volume novels, with their complicated plots, as a ‘gruelling test’ of endurance (Cutt, 1979: 146), the Observer’s critic – like Hulda Friederichs, who later admired Stretton’s ability to construct a long and intricate story so that 32 ���������������������������������������������������������� Books advertised or discussed include Eliza Lynn Linton’s Sowing the Wind, Ellen Wood’s Lady Adelaide’s Oath and Sir Cyrus of Stonycleft, and Edmund Yates’s The Forlorn Hope.

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no reader need lose a single thread (1894: 331) – found continuity undisturbed by the complexity of issues. The interest of the book was ‘unquestionable’, its likely status as a ‘general favourite’ assured. Unreserved approval was expressed the following week by the Morning Star’s reviewer, and it was with apparent satisfaction that the author noted that the lengthy critique had ‘gone the round of the Shropshire papers’ (7.2.1867). This commentator, acclaiming Stretton’s contribution to the Christmas number of All The Year Round as equal to the best productions in that number, suggests that The Clives placed her ‘in the foremost rank of living authoresses’. Unlike others reviewed, the novel contained ‘much force of dramatic character’, reflecting a ‘profound acquaintance with the springs and motives of human action’; the reviewer posits repeated – and favourable – resonances of Jane Eyre. The recognized ability to combine sympathy with analytical faculty is arguably key to the impact of Stretton writings, and the suggestion that the book resembles ‘a fine play produced by an able and conscientious manager’ seems apposite, given the ‘theatrical’ elements in her work. In August the Standard advertised a cheap (six-shilling) edition; a review appeared during that month, again identifying Stretton as the authoress of the ‘clever little story’ in All The Year Round. Deemed a ‘clever woman who has studied human nature in all its varied aspects’, she is suggested as ‘the heroine of her own romance’. This time, she is briefly criticized for intricacies of plot, but praised for realism of character and scenery, and the ability to draw the reader in. The reviewer notes the constituents of melodrama, and endorses Stretton’s representation of the complexities of relationship and self-realization, which he judges devoid of overt didacticism. Amongst the plethora of books by ‘ladynovelists’, the novel is singled out as one of the ‘soundest and healthiest’ of the season, containing ‘finished pictures’ of which George Eliot would ‘have no need to be ashamed’. Whatever we might think today about such comparisons, we should hesitate to dismiss them altogether. The same critics readily proclaimed other writers ‘dull’ and without interest. If the Athenaeum review was, as Stretton records, only ‘tolerably favourable’ (15.1.1867), their critic’s reaction later that year to Paul’s Courtship, was, according to the diary, ‘bad’ (15.6.1867), as were two others. In fact, the Athenaeum (12.1.1867) had judged The Clives to be ‘the offspring of a bold imagination’, generally ‘well written and ingeniously worked out’; Paul’s Courtship was, however, foolish, and not to be recommended (15.6.1867). Stretton, gratified that Sam Manning had found the story ‘most charming’, also cites a ‘flattering’ critique in the London Review (Log Book: 3.6.1867). Her third full-length novel, David Lloyd’s Last Will, for which she received £50 when it appeared in the Leisure Hour (Log Book: 19.11.1868), apparently gained two good (unnamed) reviews on publication as a volume (Log Book: 24.12.1869). Stretton had commenced The Clives of Burcot and Paul’s Courtship during the early 1860s, but before securing publishers had already branched into the area of what she described as the ‘child’s story’. Her evangelical background and family

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connection with Sam Manning, Book Editor for the RTS, rendered the Society’s book department a natural destination for this type of work. Their ‘Readers’, who remarked upon the originality of her narratives, had been swift to recognize writing ‘far above the usual average of such works’ (H8501, 21.6.1864).33 The first stories were published in book form, but just as Stretton’s early writing had emerged in periodicals, so her most famous story was to appear in that medium, this time serialized in the Sunday at Home. ‘Numerous and urgent requests’ prompted the issue of Jessica’s First Prayer as a separate text (H8501, 4.12.1866); similar ‘attention’ during serialization would also ensure volume publication of the ‘highly recommended’ Alone in London (H8501, 17.8.1869). The question of serial publication is of particular interest, in terms of the narrative drive and sense of anticipation encouraged by the form, and the sustained connection it guaranteed between author and reader. The writer–audience relationship maintained over the career of a popular and prolific author is likewise crucial, facilitating not only prolonged familiarity and identification, but the cumulative dissemination of ideas and values – the gradual sowing of political and social seeds. By February 1867, when Pilgrim Street was recommended for publication, publishers were unhesitatingly promoting her as a ‘popular author’; whilst applauding the capacity of her books to ‘do good’ – Little Meg was judged to exceed Jessica in ‘pathos and power’ – they were also increasingly aware of her commercial potential and consequent importance to the Society. The Committee could not ignore the ‘prominent’ fact that by 1869 her books represented over one-third of new books, and approximately one-fifth of their circulation – a proportion which commanded particular attention, such unquestionable marketability confirming the ‘desirability of another book by her this Christmas’.34 Emboldened by a growing confidence in her status and popularity, Stretton had already begun to take charge of negotiations and to dictate terms within the male-dominated publishing world, something she continued to do – unfettered by the legal constraints of matrimony – throughout her career. She undoubtedly did play a part in expanding boundaries, although, as the Minutes show, she was forced on occasion to concede conditions or accept a compromise. Stretton’s own thoughts, as an independent-minded and assertive woman, are without question mirrored in comments by the female writer-protagonist of Cobwebs and Cables, who resolutely declares in relation to her business dealings: ‘I am a woman, and I will act for myself’ (128, Ch.18). 33

An anonymous article in the Church Quarterly Review, Vol.2 (1876) deemed ‘poor people’s and children’s literature’ generally ‘second or third-rate’ at best, and urged (like Strahan in the Contemporary Review, Vol.26, 1875) that standards be raised; however, Little Meg was considered an excellent example of the popular street-Arab genre, and Bede’s Charity ‘better reading’ than many, which were simply poor novels with a ‘dash of daily services …’. 34 ������������������������������������������������������������������������ Circulation figures appended to the RTS Joint Sub-Committee Minutes for 15.7.1869 (H8502), when Alone in London was recommended for publication, reveal that Stretton’s books accounted for 122,162, ‘leaving 446,218 for all the rest’; of new books, they accounted for 28,228, ‘leaving only 55,436 … for the other 22’.

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Whilst we should be wary of making simplistic associations, this late text may, through the perspective of its protagonist, afford glimpses into Stretton’s earlier experiences (or those of contemporaries). It highlights the problems of writing for a living: although the £50 paid for this character’s first book might appear sufficient to a well-off woman, it is ‘too small – as the result of many weeks of labour, by which she and her children were to be fed’. Felicita’s heart sinks at the thought that, at this low figure, ‘she must write at least six such books in a year, and every year!’ (132, Ch.19). The protagonist’s emergence as a well-paid writer, challenging the scorn of publishers who ‘laughed … at the idea that she could gain a maintenance by literature’, and the assessment of her books as ‘clever, though cynical and captious’, with ‘passages of pathos and beauty’ arguably incorporates a self-conscious mixture of seriousness and satire aimed at both writer and publisher. The same protagonist – too ‘original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and truthful work like hers was’ – deplores the need to resort, against all her instincts as an author, to offering a manuscript ‘as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the best bidder’ (132, Ch.19). This, however, was precisely what Stretton had done with the manuscript of Little Meg, although with more success than the fictional Felicita. The latter ingenuously admits to the second publisher that, writing for a living, she must obtain more money than the first is prepared to pay – only to be dismissed as another little-known ‘hopeful’ who believes her work to be better than the hundreds of manuscripts submitted. By the time that Stretton approached publishers with Little Meg, she was aware of the consequences of having sold the copyright of Jessica outright for a low initial payment,35 and was determined that Little Meg would fare better. By the late 1860s, Stretton’s diary records increasing frustration with the publishing world: after an altercation with Edmund Routledge (pronounced a ‘scamp’), she denounced all men – especially publishers – as cheats. She had quickly seen through Routledge’s attempt to limit to £10 the payment for a sizeable manuscript (the ‘story’ unnamed), and her swift rejection secured an immediate increase to the £1 per page demanded (13–14.3.1868). Now, having already shocked the Tract Society’s Mr Stevens by signalling her intention to ask advice from Mr Wills regarding Little Meg (such counsel, if forthcoming, remains unrecorded), she also expressed her displeasure with the Society. Whilst Stretton 35

���������������������������������������������������������������������������� Concerning������������������������������������������������������������������ periodical material, RTS Sub-Committee Minutes in 1865 specified that receipt of payment should stipulate that transference of manuscript copyright included issue in separate form by the Society at its discretion. Stretton received additional small payments after the initial success of Jessica First Prayer, including £5 in late 1866, following adoption in separate form, and £10 in recognition of large sales (Joint SubCommittee, January, 1868). In 1873, when the book was once again proposed for reprint, the Society, acknowledging the ‘very large sale’ realized, agreed a £200 bonus on that and other successful works for which Stretton had received ‘ordinary payment’ (H8502, Finance Sub-Committee, 17.7.1873).

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had earlier gladly accepted sums between 30 guineas and £50 for single-volume stories – the 35 guineas paid for Enoch Roden a few years previously had been deemed ‘capital pay’ (24.6.1864) and the success of Jessica had not been fully apparent at the time of Pilgrim Street’s adoption 1867 – she was by now acutely aware of the commercial value of her stories.36 Indignant at the Society’s present offer of only £50, and determined now to ask ‘so much a thousand’, she prepared to engage battle with the publishing establishment on her terms. Stretton’s subsequent dealings, during which hopes were alternately raised and dashed as she played various publishers off against each other, are charted in unusual detail in her diary. Her demand on 23 April 1868 that the RTS should forward the manuscript to Nisbet’s was swiftly followed by an offer – repeated the next day – from Mr Davis of the Society, for £25 for the first thousand, plus £10 per thousand thereafter. Amazed, Stretton retrieved the manuscript from Nisbet’s (who affably conveyed their disappointment and requested another similar story), only to be told a few days later that the Society’s offer was a mistake. Sam Manning of the Society wrote to her, offering, much to her indignation, £5 per thousand, but it was only after Stretton had received an offer of four guineas per thousand, sight unseen, from Houlston and Wright that Dr Davis increased the Society’s offer to £6. 5s. for each subsequent thousand. Negotiations culminated in Stretton’s somewhat reluctant acceptance of this figure (‘I suppose we must take it’), the outcome plainly representing only a partial victory, and just one among a ‘series of worries’ recorded on 30 April, including the arrival of bonnets ‘which would not go on our heads’, and the discovery that several items had been stolen from a hamper. Society Minutes confirm the above arrangement (with a sum of £25 for the first thousand), but include a restriction not mentioned by Stretton: the £6. 5s. per thousand would apply ‘during Ten years after which time the copyright to be wholly the property of the Society’ (H8502, Copyright Sub-Committee, 21.5.1868). Records show later agreements for texts including Alone in London ‘on the same scale’ as Little Meg (H8502, Copyright Sub-Committee, 16.12.1869), but testify to her continued efforts to stipulate terms. During negotiations relating to Max Kromer – accepted in December 1870 for publication in the Leisure Hour and for subsequent issue, subject to report and approval, as a separate volume – Stretton’s request for terms similar to those offered her by the Scottish Temperance League, including a demand for ‘no limitation in time of the royalty’, is minuted (H8502, Copyright Sub-Committee, 16.2.1871). The secretary read from Stretton’s letter of 30.11.1870 to the effect that she wished, in addition, to receive £25 for the first thousand, and for the numbers of each thousand copies to be printed on the title page. It appears, however, that Stretton accepted a compromise: after interview, she withdrew insistence on the latter two conditions as she was to receive £25 for the periodical publication, and, according to the minutes, stating the number of editions was ‘wholly alien to the practice of the Society’. As to the first condition, 36

Society records show additional remuneration for Pilgrim Street in Spring 1868.

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she agreed that at the end of ten years, the Society could publish a cheap edition, with a proportional reduction to herself (H8502, 16.2.1871). Later that year, book publication of Bede’s Charity – accepted in the first instance for insertion in the Sunday at Home at a payment of £100 – was arranged at ‘the usual royalty paid to Miss Stretton’ (H8502, 22.6.1871). The journal charts increasing contact with London publishers; Stretton’s move to London in 1870, mirrored in the actions of the writer-protagonist of Cobwebs and Cables, doubtless reflected a similar need for ‘easier communications’. She regularly took tea with editors, on one occasion meeting with nine; the ‘homage’ she records in the diary (16.9.1868) suggests – despite the ironic tone – that whilst she found the meetings irksome, unlike her protagonist, Hesba Stretton rather enjoyed being feted. With characteristic ambivalence, Stretton both savoured and played down claims to glory, evidently gratified, during her stay in France, to find that everyone ‘knows who were are’ (Log Book: 16.3.1867). She expressed amusement at – but nonetheless put on record – her dentist’s comparison of her fame to that of Lord Byron, and later revelled in the embarrassed reaction of a Swiss hotelier who failed to recognize her until she was paid homage by a publisher (8.8.1875). Despite referring to a disturbance with the Tract Society as possibly her last, and being ‘cold-shouldered’ by the Mannings (Log Book: 27.5.1871), she had agreed to publish Max Kromer and Bede’s Charity with the Society. Increasingly dissatisfied, however, she turned to other publishers, notably H.S. King. Appreciating the importance of publicity, she was no doubt heartened that, unlike the Society, they readily advertised numbers of copies already published and printed the information on the title page. Perhaps she envisaged fewer constraints on material, and more scope for longer novels. A number of stories appeared in the associated journal The Day of Rest (and subsequently in the Sunday Magazine), but publication books and ledgers relating to King/Kegan Paul include references to her work from about 1872, when they took on publication of several two- or three-volume works, including David Lloyd’s Last Will, The Doctor’s Dilemma and Hester Morley’s Promise. Reviews for the latter two novels appeared in the Athenaeum, under ‘Novels of the Week’, during February and September 1873 respectively. The critic, surprised that The Doctor’s Dilemma had been reviewed in America before it came under scrutiny in England, judged this to be the best novel of the week, possessing ‘a good deal of life’. He detected ‘a certain imitation of the manner of Mr Wilkie Collins’, but asserted that in descriptive writing, the authoress must be given a high place (15.2.1873). The reviewer of Hester Morley’s Promise, despite finding that not all parts were of equal merit, with some characters ‘coarsely drawn’, assessed Stretton as ‘a writer of purity and skill’, possessing ‘an eye for the subtle influences which go to mould [character]’ (6.9.1873). The 1870s also saw the book publication with King of titles addressing a more uncertain audience, including Lost Gip, The King’s Servants, Cassy, and The Storm of Life, as well as shorter stories like Michel Lorio’s Cross, A Man of His Word and specifically biblical works.

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King/Kegan Paul archives reveal various types of agreement, ranging from an arrangement where two-thirds of the profit passed to Stretton (resulting, for example, in a payment for Hester Morley of just over £52 in 1874), to a straightforward royalty of 1d. in the shilling for editions of books priced at 1s.6d. or 2s.6d. For Through a Needle’s Eye, published in 1878 at twelve shillings for the two-volume edition, and subsequently issued in a six-shilling edition, Stretton negotiated £75 for the first 750 nett, and £25 for every 250 additional copies of the work in the same form, ‘C. Kegan Paul to incur all expenses’. In 1880 a new agreement was made for one shilling per copy ‘on all sold’ of this text. Records give an incomplete picture; overall remuneration is unclear, and many sales involved discounted prices. Royalties fluctuated, but accounts show regular amounts during the 1870s, continuing for some texts into the 1880s and 1890s, by which time only a few were being sold each year. Small sums representing royalties for David Lloyd and Through a Needle’s Eye (1878) appear until the turn of the century. Through her extensive connections, Stretton was publishing with an increasing number of houses, in both periodical and volume form; new and existing stories were later produced separately by firms including Nisbet, Isbister, and Hodder and Stoughton. By the 1880s Stretton had also re-established dealings with the RTS, who adopted titles published elsewhere, and issued novels such as Cobwebs and Cables and Carola, and shorter volumes including No Place Like Home, Under the Old Roof, and bible-based texts such as The Sweet Story of Old (possibly the text listed as From Bethlehem to Olivet in the RTS archives). In 1885, according to Webb’s account, she discovered that some of her books at the RTS were out of print, and not being reprinted. However, Society records show that during the 1890s she was receiving sums of £125 for the copyright of novels including Half Brothers and other titles adopted by them – amounts in excess of the general level of copyright fees. By now, despite the fact that advertising reviews maintained that she had ‘lost none of her skill’, her name was appearing infrequently among books under consideration by the Society. Just as, in the 1880s, Stretton had increasingly devoted her energies to reform and child protection, in the last decade of the century she turned to wider political issues, collaborating extensively with the revolutionary émigrés in the writing of Russian-themed material including The Highway of Sorrow (1894), published by Cassell; stories such as the similarlythemed In the Hollow of His Hand (1897) were taken up by the Tract Society. As royalties declined, Stretton had reached an agreement with the RTS for a yearly sum of £250 to cover books not the copyright of the Society. She fared slightly better than she might have expected from the arrangement, the editors failing to realize until 1897 that this now exceeded net profit. Despite hastily advocating regular reviews of royalty agreements (H8501, 12.1.1897), they were obliged to wait a further year before paying a revised sum. Once again – if inadvertently – Stretton had gained an advantage over them. In 1898 the Committee reported a proposal of £200 a year for Stretton’s life, or £150 for the joint lives of herself and her sister; Minutes record her acceptance of £200 yearly, for the next five years (H8501, 7/21.6.1898).

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Late texts such as The Soul of Honour, published by Isbister in 1898, again unambiguously addressed a mature reader. Just as Stretton’s development as a children’s writer had paved the way for wider projects, so her growing engagement with social issues and the consistently serious tone of her texts seemingly began to compromise her position as a writer of juvenile fiction. Names such as Amy Le Feuvre, E. Everett Green and Talbot Baines Reed now occupied an increasingly prominent place on RTS lists. With the continued expansion of the secular market in juvenile literature, the popularity of adventure and school stories, and changing views of both the child and children’s reading, Stretton’s work was less fashionable and less saleable, even within the evangelical establishment, whose own agendas were reflecting shifting moods and interests. She had, however, largely fulfilled her personal and political projects; she had exerted an influence within the maledominated publishing world, and reached a wide public. Across the continuum of adult and children’s literature she had articulated psychological and cultural anxieties, and engaged creatively with debates affecting all sections of society. Her profile as a popular writer-campaigner had contributed to programmes of reform; her titles and protagonists had become, and would remain, household names.

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Part 2 Roles, Representations and Social Relations

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Chapter 3

The Child: Text, Context and Intertext Stretton’s sustained preoccupation with the concerns of children is reflected in the recurring textual motif of the child – not least the lost, orphaned or abandoned child – across social categories and situations. Encompassing material childhood experience, her project is simultaneously caught up within a web of symbolic images which, in turn, intersect with personal, social and ideological factors. Poised between a nostalgic vision and a potentially ambitious reclamation of the child-figure, her work intervenes in a multifaceted discourse, illustrating not only the multiple otherness of the child, but also its entanglement within a wider network of difference. Images and Discourses of Childhood Whilst acknowledging continuities, historians and critics alike have drawn attention to the constructed and shifting nature of concepts and definitions of childhood. Ideas about, and attitudes to ‘the child’ are fluid and charged; embodying the changing concerns and values of society at particular historical moments, and conditioned by prevailing material circumstances, they are enlisted to serve political, ideological, moral, emotional, or psychological ends. Concurring that ‘what a “child” is’ changes to suit particular needs and situations, Kincaid (1992) contends that childhood can be created as a hollow category, ‘able to be filled up with anyone’s overflowing emotions, not least overflowing passion’ (12). Childhood is simultaneously marginalized and valorized, disenfranchised and empowered; the idea of the child is fraught with contradictions. On the one hand, it is constructed as ‘other’ to the adult; yet, the adult self cannot really be separated from the child the adult once was. Childhood and the child-figure are harnessed as repositories for individual and cultural yearnings, representing that which is prized and lost, and, at the same time, a symbol of future possibility. If the child represents in one sense the ‘self’ (or a part of the continuum of ‘self’), the figure is also exploited to represent facets of otherness – to serve as the object, embodiment, or projection of fears and fantasies. Furthermore, different kinds of childhood are constructed in relation to each other, shattering notions of a universal child – notions which, nonetheless, continue to underpin our all-encompassing vision of childhood. As Stretton’s writings make clear, configurations of ‘otherness’ operate  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ Carolyn Steedman (1995), exploring the development of notions of interiority, identifies the child-figure as becoming ‘a central vehicle for expressing ideas about the self and its history’ (5).

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both between and within classes, exposing common fears and the perpetual drive to construct difference. Such complexities have implications for the depiction of the child; they underlie the values and desires invested in, and perpetuated through, literature for the child. Literary representations participate in the construction of mythologies, moulding as well as reflecting beliefs, influencing youthful selfdefinition and the formation of adult subjectivity. Childhood, Mitzi Myers (1995: 3) suggests, is read as simultaneously an ‘unspecified abstraction and the name of (or sign for) an apprehensible entity’. Clearly, children exist as social beings, living ‘in social worlds and networks of social and economic relationships, as well as in the adult imagination’ (Steedman, 1995: 97); in the material world, however, children have consistently less voice than might be supposed from the prominence of, and society’s investment in, their symbolic image. Some accounts seek to recover lived childhood experience, to reproduce the so-called ‘authentic’ child. Yet to make a sharp distinction between ‘experience’ and ‘representation’ is problematic; though often in tension, image and reality are interlinked. Concrete experiences shape responses and representations, but are bound up with abstract ideas. Circulating images of all kinds colour self-perception and the perceptions of others, determining attitudes and actions, impinging on behaviour and experience, identity and social relationships. Critical opinion differs with regard to the precise moment which marked the appearance of modern ideas of childhood as a distinct period or category. However, it is generally recognized that such notions took hold with a peculiar force during the nineteenth century, for a variety of cultural and political reasons. Reflecting an interweaving of symbolic significance and material and demographic imperatives, the child became a particular focus of attention. Although literary and artistic movements had already harnessed child-images, themes of childhood and the individual child now became increasingly popular. If we examine the complexity of such images, a range of contrasting but interdependent concepts emerges; these, in turn, interact in different configurations with concerns of gender, class, race and empire. Importantly, the work of Hesba Stretton provides us with a particularly favourable arena for examining the intersection of these ideas surrounding the child. It is pertinent here to consider what might, in general terms, be deemed the defining characteristics of childhood, and the factors which condition  Mitzi Myers (1995: 1) recognizes ‘literary childhood’ as beginning to ‘play a significant part within the Anglo-American cultural tradition in a Revolutionary era’. James Kincaid (2000: 30) sees Dickens as central to the development of the modern child, with all its contradictions. Critics including Anne Higonnet (1998) and Michael Benton (1996) chart artistic and literary images of the child from the eighteenth century and earlier, relating these to societal changes. Benton concludes that whether influenced by cultural, political or commercial considerations, images generally represent ‘a construction by adults of the child they wanted to see’ (59). Significantly, Leslie Williams (1994), examining the representation of girlhood by John Millais, attributes the subject’s appeal to ‘its complicated symbolic value as a meeting-point for subordinance and control, marketability and pricelessness, eroticism and innocence’ (124).

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these perceptions. The state of childhood is, broadly speaking, accepted as one of dependency on, or attachment to, adult figures; it is associated with vulnerability, a lack of power (although, as we shall see, child power make take various forms), and a susceptibility to enculturation. Perceptions are measured in terms of what childhood should be. Dominant ideals largely reflect a white, middle-class perspective, but at the same time rest on assumptions about the nature of middleclass childhood which may not be characteristic of lived experience. In Stretton’s representations of childhood, we find particular constituents both reinforced and complicated. Linked to Rousseau’s theories of education, the notion of spontaneous play and uninterrupted happiness as the natural state of the child is significant; playing children are viewed as free and without care, and the unhappy child is perceived as ‘unnatural’, the blame attributable to someone: ‘parent, institution, nation’ (Kincaid, 1992: 80). Stretton likewise assumes an entitlement to certain forms of childhood experience – the right to ‘unbroken childish happiness’ (The Lord’s Pursebearers, 1883/n.d.: 248, Ch.19) and freedom from responsibility and burdens. Such idealized conceptions are embodied, and frequently enacted, in the prelapsarian setting of garden or rural space, with its associations of unblemished innocence. They underlie, in part, the practical preoccupation with the provision of a healthy, carefree environment – evidenced, at least in token or temporary form, in the popular ‘outing’ to the country, from which, as Stretton (1893: 10) writes, children return with something resembling the [normalized] ‘merry faces of childhood’. In an LSPCC Appeal of 1884, she reiterates the importance of sunlight, fresh air, and laughter in restoring frightened and neglected children to health, a perception echoed by Mary Molesworth (1893) in an article, ‘For The Little Ones – “Food, Fun and Fresh Air”’, concerning children’s need for ‘country air’. In Stretton’s Hester Morley’s Promise, the park is ‘a very garden of Eden’ to those who live in the close and crowded town (1873/1898: 54, Ch.8). The cares of Hester are perceived as unchildlike: she sighs ‘as a child seldom sighs’ (35, Ch.4). The duties and obligations undertaken by the young protagonists of the earlier Fern’s Hollow (1864) herald the end of childhood; there is too much responsibility, and no more play-time; more ominously, the sounds of play or laughter are painfully absent from the grim lodging-houses of The Lord’s Pursebearers (36, Ch.2). Stretton’s concerns echo those expressed in Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop: surprised to find Little Nell cooking for her grandfather, and suggesting the accompanying diminution of childhood qualities of confidence and simplicity, the narrator laments ‘the initiation of children into the ways of life, when they are scarcely more than infants’, and the premature sharing of sorrows (1841/1985: 48). The response that, ‘the children of the poor 

��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Childhood, as Steedman (1995: 7) notes, was ‘a category of dependence’, defining relationships of powerlessness, submission and physical inferiority, prior to its application to chronological age, a perception pertinent to the intersection of Stretton’s ‘child’ with other categories of marginalized humanity.

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know but few pleasures’ (48–9) is telling, evidencing a particular construction of lower-class childhood. Stretton’s Hester is a middle- or trade-class child weighed down by uncharacteristically heavy burdens. But, just as ������������������������ the wild ‘child who had never been a child’ of Dickens’s ‘The Haunted Man’ has a ‘face rounded and smoothed by some half-dozen years, but pinched and twisted by the experiences of a life’ (1848/1995: 296), the �������������������������������������������������������� poor child of the streets, like Stretton’s ten-yearold Meg – with her slow, unchildlike step and heart ‘full of a woman’s heaviest care and anxiety’ (Little Meg’s Children, 1868/label 1889: 13–14, Ch.1; 73, Ch.7) – is typically represented as old before his or her time. Georgina Castle ����������������� Smith, in Froggy’s Little Brother (1875), describes children with ‘boys’ bodies and men’s heads’ (Ch.6); the attitude of George MacDonald’s girl crossing-sweeper towards Diamond (At the Back of The North Wind, 1871/1966: 43) reflects a perception that the need to ‘work for her bread … so soon makes people older’. At ������������������ the same time, the ����������������������������������������������������������������������� boundary between child and woman may be blurred; Stretton’s motherless Cassy is able to ‘play with [other children] yet’, in spite of her otherwise womanly ways (Cassy, 1874/c.1888: 119, Ch.14). Hesba Stretton, then, emphasizes play as an intrinsic part of childhood, perceiving that the existence of disadvantaged children such as Tony (Alone in London, 1869) is characterized, and judged to be blighted, by a lack of opportunity to play. The borders of childhood are exposed as precarious, determined in part by age, but also by social class, with definitions predicated on, and feeding into, a web of images and assumptions. The child-figure is enlisted both to reinforce and to bridge class borders. Representations may serve to underscore difference; at the same time, the child, in its incompleteness, is constructed as, in certain respects, beyond class, apparently transcending differences and limitations of situation never entirely erased in the adult. Stretton both reproduces and explodes the myth of ideal childhood, participating in different, but equally romanticized mythologies which both idealize and render alien the child-figure. If isolation or protection from adult preoccupations entails an ignorance of life’s complexities, that ignorance also implies innocence – a condition synonymous with ideal versions of childhood and imbued with multiple symbolic value. The narrator of Stretton’s story ‘Not to be Taken for Granted’ (1865: 20) longs for the ‘innocent ignorance’ of her enclosed childhood, sheltered from adult knowledge and sorrow; Rachel and her fellow prisoners in The Storm of Life harbour memories of childhood ‘before sin had laid its heavy hand upon them’ (1876/label 1910: 10, Ch.1). The conflation of childhood with a state of innocence is bound up with the concept of the Romantic child as akin to nature, uncontaminated, uncorrupted, and occupying a state of heightened perception or intuition – different from adults and, at the same time, superior. Anne Higonnet (1998: 9) discusses the widespread 

����������������������������������������������������������������������������� In Henry Mayhew’s account of the Watercress Girl (1861–62 /1985), the writer clearly assesses his respondent according to a middle-class perception of childhood: the thinly-clad girl has ‘entirely lost all childish ways’, and is ‘in thoughts and manner, a woman’ (64). His treatment of her as a child is frustrated by her pragmatism and contempt for play.

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diffusion of the Romantic vision of childhood during the nineteenth century, when the visual construction of childhood innocence took root in popular consciousness, filtering down into mass-market representations such as Millais’s ‘Cherry Ripe’ (1879) and ‘Bubbles’ (1886). Intersecting with the biblical image of childhood simplicity, this figure of Romantic spirituality (arguably an alternative focus for ‘religious’ feeling amidst growing secularization) is potentially powerful, possessing agency and influence. The Gospels emphasize the centrality of the child – his or her right to society’s time, care and attention. They also contain the injunction to be ‘as a child’ in terms of simplicity of faith, and underline the role of the child as potential leader, guide and redeemer. The Christ-like purity of the child is reflected in art, with the naked child-figure of Madonna and child images transposed into wider mother-and-child representations. The association of childhood with heavenly or angelic perfection surfaces in artistic images and in the application of the common epithet of angel. In one of many similar cameos, Elsie, the golden-haired, white-capped infant of Stretton’s Max Kromer sits, angel-like, at the attic window, with ‘nothing to be seen beyond her, save the deep blue sky’ (1871/n.d.: 17, Ch.2). In The Children of Cloverley (1865/label 1876), a family painting of ‘a cluster of the faces of angel-children’ (9, Ch.1) echoes biblical motifs and evokes the composition of Reynolds’s ‘Angels’ Heads’ (1787); the face of the child protagonist mirrors the ‘pure and heavenly expression’ represented. This and other Stretton narratives participate in an empowering discourse of children as intercessors, agents of awakening, conversion, and redemption. The mere presence and voice of an innocent child may exert a restraining influence in respect of immoral behaviour, as in The Lord’s Pursebearers or Hester Morley’s Promise. Hester’s innocent gaze, her saintly face and gentle seriousness suggest a redemptive power reminiscent of that embodied by Bronte’s Helen Burns (Jane Eyre) or Alcott’s Beth March (Little Women). Interestingly Hester’s ‘ignorant innocence’ – her unawareness of sexual deviance and its ramifications – allows her to be more perceptive, less bigoted or judgemental in her approach to others. Whilst the protagonist of The Children of Cloverley may display a piety unpalatable to some readers, Stretton’s approach is far from simplistic. The vision of childhood innocence contrasts, yet overlaps with, Calvinist notions of innate depravity and ‘wickedness’. For Stretton, puritanical influences are largely supplanted by a recognition of the child as innocent, but always present is the evangelical idea of potential corruptibility; if not innately sinful, children have that within them which is all too easily led astray, particularly as they leave childhood behind. The state of childhood remains an ambiguous one, its Lockeassociated tabula rasa a site of struggle between good and evil influences, private and political agendas. The battle, of course, concerns not only the child’s mind, but also his or her body. If ideas about the child are rooted in beliefs of what childhood should  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ Such a������������������������������������������������������������������������ stance perhaps anticipates aspects of the understanding shown by Henry James’s Maisie (What Maisie Knew, 1897).

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or should not be, the question of when a child might not, properly, be a child assumes particular significance in relation to sexuality. The idea of childhood innocence conveys an image of asexuality, yet the area is fraught with ambiguity. Paradoxically, the notion of innocence operates within an eroticized discourse; the innocence of the modern Romantic child, as Anne Higonnet (1998: 37) explains, entails sexual knowledge, because it is defined in opposition to that knowledge. At the same time, innocence itself becomes the object of desire (132). Representations of innocence may carry a sexual charge. Anya Silver (2000) writes about the conflation of child and adult in Victorian art as part of a wider cultural confusion between child and adult, with images of the passive girl-child providing a substitute for the woman. The child in Millais’s ‘Cherry Ripe’ is perceived to be both submissive and ‘disturbingly sexual in pose’ (Silver, 41). Issues of class, and the reinforcement or confusion of borders, again become pivotal. Significantly, the security of the middle-class child depends on the construction of the poor or untamed child as ‘other’, a distinction which emerges forcefully in relation to sexuality, where instincts are viewed as potentially wild and uncontained. Appeals for girlhood ‘restraint’ by writers such as Charlotte Yonge engage with fears of that sexuality spilling over into the impulses of the middle-class child, in whom its existence is denied. It is in this context that Stretton’s street-child becomes particularly interesting. Sexuality is an issue largely avoided by children’s literature, but undercurrents arguably present in numerous representations of the child-figure – particularly the lower-class or street-child – expose the signs generated by this lack. We have only to look at Lewis Carroll’s presentation of Alice Liddell as ‘The Beggar Maid’ (c.1859) in order to see how the confusion of class borders is intensified and complicated in this image. Whilst there is a danger of imagining sexual undertones where none exist, evidence points to the Victorians’ understanding of particular markers and nuances, as we shall see. Stretton’s protagonists – innocent, but on the edge of knowing, available and corruptible – participate in this ambiguous discourse. This aspect of lower-class childhood represents one facet of a complex contemporary engagement with childhood poverty and deprivation. If the Victorian obsession with, and idealization of, the child is played out in relation to middle or upper-class society, it is against this background of assumptions that we begin to appreciate the factors underlying society’s fascination with the lowerclass child – in particular, the child of the streets – with Hesba Stretton’s work occupying a central place in foregrounding this complexity. Precisely because such a picture shatters middle-class conceptions of ‘proper’, protected childhood, the alleviation of child misery – a condition so antithetical to the ideal image – assumes a heightened significance, such distress eclipsing, yet standing in for, other, potentially more threatening, manifestations of deprivation. 

Laura Berry (1999: 5) argues that in nineteenth-century writings, children become ‘crucial to mediating anxieties about hungry others’; in the representation of oppressed childhood, the ‘pitiable needs of an innocent (and therefore socially pure) victim’ stand in for, and deflect fears concerning, ‘powerful adult appetites’.

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This preoccupation with the condition of children, evidenced from the 1830s onwards, continues to be reflected in the latter half of the century in representations across literary and non-literary forms. Newspapers are replete with accounts of children wandering the streets, dying of cold and starvation. From the ‘heaps’ of children evoked in Dickens’s Oliver Twist to Mayhew’s readily encountered ‘ragged, sickly, and ill-fed children’ squatting in courts and alleys (1861–62/1985: 120), such images abound. Silas Hocking, prefacing Dick’s Fairy (1883: 5), confirms the ‘deep and … growing interest in the lives of the poorer classes …, and especially of the waifs and strays’, and the unabated sale of street-life stories, with one hundred and fifty thousand volumes disposed of during the previous five years. Benjamin Waugh’s impression of ‘children everywhere’, swarming on the doorsteps, nursing or fighting (1873/1984: 73), is echoed in Stretton’s assertions of ‘thousands and thousands of poor children … everywhere’ (The Lord’s Pursebearers, n.d.: 87, Ch.4). Highlighting the discourse of the child as victim, the narrator of Stretton’s short text Left Alone (1876) reminds us that ‘a great French writer has said, “He who has seen only a man’s misery has seen nothing: he must see the misery of a woman. He who has seen only a woman’s misery has seen nothing: he must see the misery of a child”’ (n.d.: 25). A preoccupation with the cultural and symbolic place of the child is increasingly juxtaposed and elided with social concern for his practical welfare. Stimulated by a heightened awareness of material want, and reflecting a contemporary engagement with social realism, representations of working-class children were subject to exploitation and manipulation by writers, artists and photographers targeting an art market eager for images of children – particularly poor children (Williams, 1994: 127). In the process, portrayals became romanticized and sentimentalized, sanitized and made picturesque, capturing interest and sympathy whilst, as Benton (1996: 55) emphasizes, avoiding an overt, potentially alienating, social message. Whilst images of the poor child are exoticized in order to appeal, this exoticism is harnessed, degraded and manipulated to diverse ends. If the Rousseauesque noble savage is valorized because of its natural wildness, the image is infused with darker undertones; the ‘wild’ street-waif – already a victim of, and scapegoat for, society’s shortcomings – becomes the object of mingled fascination and prejudice. Victorian discourse proposes both the primitive and the poor child – particularly the streetchild – as manifesting unbridled savagery, and lacking social and sexual restraint. Furthermore, the association of the child with the savage and the immature or uncivilized of race and society underpins Victorian colonialist thinking and reflects

��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� This quotation, from Victor Hugo ����������������������������������������������������� (whom Stretton admired, attending an oration by him and acknowledging in French the photograph received from him in 1870), recurs in The Lord’s Pursebearers. Interestingly, a protagonist in Left Alone is named Fantine.  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� According to Bill �������������������������������������������������������������������� Ashcroft (2000: 188), the ‘concomitant growth in the Victorian idealization of the child and the brutalization of the children of the working class is a contradiction suppressed within the discourse of childhood’. 

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fundamental issues of power and subordination. The process is multi-directional, as Stretton reveals through her representations of the outcast city and the marginalized or ‘uncivilized’ of other cultures; not only are the colonized of the distant dark continent infantilized, but the dark continent is displaced to regions nearer to home. Across literary and non-literary representations, the bare feet of the city-Arab (often, as in Stretton’s Alone in London, presented as dirt- or mud-black feet) not only reflect material conditions but become emblematic of the metropolis and its alien subtexts. As part of an educational and disciplinary enterprise involving the dissemination of values to the ‘uncivilized’ at home and abroad, the representations, language and symbolism contained in the fiction of evangelical writers are implicated in the transfer (or elision) of such motifs. The intersection or conflation of childhood, class, and ethnicity forms a connective strand in Stretton’s exploration of otherness, in which civilization and barbarism, good and evil, self and other interact in diverse permutations.10 The manipulation of interchangeable discourses, encompassing philanthropy, sexuality, colonialism, and eugenics, has been identified as an intrinsic part of rescue projects such at that undertaken by Dr Barnardo, generating debate regarding the motives and methods surrounding ‘philanthropic abduction’ (Cunningham, 1991: 145). According to Barnardo’s ‘Kidnapped’ (1885/6), ‘6,829 poor boys and girls have been saved … from the evils of street life, from the dangers attending orphanhood’ (23). Yet his Tracts, with their references to ‘fishing’, ‘baiting the hook’, ‘catching’ and ‘kidnapping’, exhibit an uneasy relation to the rhetoric of seduction. Although Stretton’s language is less charged and emotive, the parallels with Barnardo’s accounts are striking. Like Stretton’s Jessica, Barnardo’s citywaif is drawn by the comforting warmth and fragrance of the coffee; the hungry, cold and half-naked are not only lured into vice and crime, but enticed by philanthropists. Despite the multiple nuances of Jessica’s condition and situation, however, Stretton’s narrative – subverting a straightforward rescue encounter – imagines a two-way process whereby the hypocritical and socially dysfunctional Daniel is also ‘rescued’, emotionally, morally and spiritually, through the agency of a child.

 Such tensions reflect the collision between Rousseauesque and Locke-inspired views of the child, the latter, as summarized by Ashcroft 2000: 189), being of ‘an unformed person who through literacy, education, reason, self-control, and shame may become a civilized adult’. Associations between childhood and primitivism pervade the writings of explorers and colonizers, and extend to wider culture. See also Cunningham (1991) regarding the intersection of these discourses, with particular reference to the waif/delinquent. 10 �������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Exploring����������������������������������������������������������������������� links between East End street-children, photography and discourses of colonialism, Smith (1996) discusses the street-Arab as a reduced, displaced version of the ethnic ‘other’ (32) – a ‘knowable’, less threatening other, harnessed to stand ‘between self and absolute other’ (31). (See Thomas Barnardo’s ‘“God’s Little Girl’” for a description of a sweep’s child with dark-skinned ‘negroish’ look, and my discussion, in Chapter 6, of black/white motifs.)

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The Lord’s Pursebearers contrasts society’s lack of concern about crimes against the child with the attention paid to crimes against property. In fact, the children concerned, despite belonging to no-one, represent a form of property, in more than one sense. The wealthy man who, from honest motives, sets out to rescue a child, attempts literally to buy one from the beggar community, here underlining the child’s lack of agency, and position as a commodity which serves to gratify adult desires, self-esteem or nostalgia. The child, as social being, as well as idea or image, is confirmed as cultural property. Such an acknowledgement points up the ambiguities which surround the rescue enterprise. Late nineteenth-century concern for the child brought, along with increased protection, an increasing acceptance of the right of society to appropriate the child and assume control over it, to identify inadequate families and ‘parents who are no parents’ (Pike, 1875: 17), and to usurp parental decision-making. With hindsight, the extent of society’s duty or entitlement to intervene in lives and relationships has been questioned, the process of balancing the rights and needs of children with those of parents and families recognized as complex. Today, we struggle with the dilemma that assisting a child may mean the rupture of a family, to the detriment of adults and child; that freeing the poor child from labour in order to provide time to play and learn may deprive the child and his or her family of independence and a vital economic contribution. Hesba Stretton (1893: 5–6) writes of the influence of works such as Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s ‘The Cry of the Children’ (1844) in awakening the consciences of women, with ‘eyes keener to discern any evil threatening childhood’. In 1899, Samuel Green, writing the story of the Religious Tract Society, emphasizes Stretton’s own textual contribution to the awakening of interest in the condition of poor and outcast children (79). Stretton’s commitment to child rescue also involves an undertaking to reach out to parents. In an appeal on behalf of the LSPCC in 1884, she stresses the intention, where possible, to ‘exert only moral suasion’ – to ‘reason and remonstrate’ with parents (or employers) and, having issued a warning, to ‘entrust them again with their children’, under the certainty of ‘careful though friendly supervision’ (2–3). In confirmed cases of protracted cruelty, offenders would be prosecuted and the ‘rescued victims of vice’ re-housed. It was not the intention to ‘offer any premium to brutality and neglect by relieving the parents of their natural charges’; cruelty would be punished when it could not be prevented (3). In an 1886 Appeal Leaflet (No.2), Stretton – citing instances of brutality and wilful starvation – states that during the two years since the opening of the Harpur Street Shelter in London, they had dealt with 242 cases of cruelty and sent 38 men and women to prison for periods from one month to five years.11 Focusing on rehabilitation, Stretton’s fictional narratives display a commitment to families of all kinds; at the same time they foreground other aspects of policy, betraying ambivalence. In their efforts to save children from the dangers of streetlife or apparently unfit parents, philanthropists, as Smith (1996: 48) confirms, 11 �������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Out of 754,732 children on whose behalf the Society intervened between 1889 and 1903, only 1,200 were removed from parental custody (����������������������� Cunningham, 1991: 145).

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often pitched children against parents, a situation echoed, as we shall discover, in the hostility intermittently displayed by Stretton’s Jessica and other protagonists towards the errant mother. Social and eugenic concerns underlie the growing emphasis on rescue, re-education, regeneration, or relocation of society’s poor – children and adults. We can recognize in Stretton’s accounts society’s readiness to remove children – for example, through emigration – from unsuitable or incomplete families (which fail to conform to myth) to an arguably ‘better life’. Engaging with scientific interest in the condition of children, Stretton challenges the social Darwinist or laissez-faire view that, assuming survival of the fittest, the species of the street-child will disappear if left unsupported and will contribute to race deterioration if assisted. She points to the ability of these children – ‘the very individuals whom nature has selected for existence’ – to survive and endure. Reflecting contemporary preoccupations, Stretton (1893: 12) emphasizes her endeavours as work, not only for God and humanity, but for the fatherland, her mission to lift them from their circumstances part of (albeit more than) a ‘patriotic project’ (1875: xiv-xv). It is now widely recognized that concern for the rights, welfare and education of children resulted in a gradual erosion of childhood independence, a movement from certain kinds of freedom to a higher degree of containment – a shifting of childhood boundaries. As accounts in the Morning Star (5.1.1867) confirm, extheatre fairies like Jessica and ex-crossing-sweepers like Tony were being rescued and, in refuges, trained for service. Yet, for Barnardo’s waif, going into a Home was associated with being made a ‘baby’. From the 1870s/80s, compulsory education brought both opportunities and restrictions; the freedom of the streets, as children like Stretton’s fictional Carola were to discover, was curtailed as a consequence of constant surveillance by the School Inspector. By the century’s end, society’s growing investment in the child implied advantages in terms of safety, security and well-being, material benefit, and future prospects; at the same time, it signalled new limitations for, and expectations of, the increasingly ‘valuable’ child. Notions of freedom and independence, protection and liberation depend upon the situation or perspective of those defining them. Such contradictions, bound up with changes in the structure of the family, and shifting relations between state, family and the child, are reflected in Stretton’s representations of street and home, and in her reenactment or reshaping of social dynamics. A ‘Spectrum of Relationships’ Historian Leonore Davidoff points out that, in addition to parental influences, children’s lives have historically been ‘moulded by a spectrum of relationships’ (1995: 11). In Stretton’s writings, this includes a variety of primary and secondary relationships; these comprise biological, social, and surrogate connections ranging from parents, grandparents and siblings to teachers, state officials, and spiritual authorities. Relationships are central to her writing, and, importantly, ‘moulding’ is often a reciprocal process. Interactions between child and child, child and adult

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and between child and society illustrate the complexity of such relations. Our attention is drawn to the causes and consequences of overprotection, separation and alienation, to the frequent blurring of roles and the diversity of bonds or versions of dependency. Underlining the interdependence of the personal and the political, Stretton’s narratives highlight the tensions between mechanisms of power and individual agency, within diverse hierarchies and systems of support or nurturance. We can see clearly that relationships are shaped and constrained by economic realities and by fluctuating social and moral pressures. Impinging on, and mirrored in, these relations between the child and others in society, are wider social relations – operating vertically and horizontally – which embody fundamental issues of gender and class. Stretton is concerned with the effects of attitudes, expectations and unequal power relations on the lives of individuals – not least those of women – and on the functioning of society. Her work brings into focus a complex network of human relationships and configurations of power, encompassing issues of marginalization and oppression across the range of social interaction, and engaging with contemporary anxieties and cultural change. It is, of course, important to consider the extent to which the author’s treatment of these roles and relations reflects and incorporates the dominant values and distinctions of the period, and at the same time to identify ways in which norms are contested. A number of intriguing patterns and motifs emerge which cannot be accounted for by merely invoking, as some critics have done, the formulaic aspects of her writing (although the identification of formula in itself reveals much about the cultural influences at work). Conflicting forces serve both to underwrite and call into question prevailing orthodoxies. The ambivalence characteristic of Victorian society, and, arguably, inscribed in Stretton’s own relationships and attitudes, has an important bearing on her texts. On occasions, she barely disguises her critique of aspects of social relations, using her fiction as a forum for self-expression; at other times such challenges are implicit or unconscious, interacting with deeprooted assumptions or external agendas. For the purpose of examining the social dynamics played out in these writings, it is useful initially to divide relationships loosely into categories; it will, however, soon become apparent that these categories are overlapping and interdependent. The focus will shift from an analysis of parent-child and wider family patterns in the texts, to an exploration, in subsequent chapters, of other facets of social interaction involving both child and adult figures. Orphanhood, Identity and Alienation As we begin to investigate the parent-child relations depicted within Stretton’s narratives, we soon discover that a characteristic feature is the absence, inadequacy, or ambivalence of such relationships. The situations of her characters arise from a variety of circumstances, and reflect various kinds of displacement; often the implications are economic and class-related. As historian Anna Davin writes, ‘throughout the working class almost all family groups were at times

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under pressure, threatened or actual, from unemployment, drink, illness, old age and death’ (1996: 180). If not actually an orphan, or quasi-orphan left to fend for himself or herself as a result of abandonment, Stretton’s protagonists are often practically and emotionally in a state of virtual orphanhood which involves the undermining or abdication of parental responsibility or capability by sickness, unemployment, apparent moral weakness or criminality. In some instances, paternal identity is uncertain: Sandy, in Lost Gip (1873), for example, muses on the likelihood of his baby sister’s eyes being the eyes of a gypsy (an image charged with all the contradictions at work in nineteenthcentury notions of otherness). However, if not strictly, in terms of the law, the filius nullius of Victorian legal discourse, the position of the protagonists(s) reflects the rootlessness, loss of identity, and social stigma inscribed in the term ‘nobody’s child’, and at the same time evokes the pathetic response. Such a designation has not only physical implications, but is bound up with social and emotional identity. The concept represents the embodiment of nothingness – a negation of existence and social validity. As Barnardo’s Tracts illustrate, the gutter child is likely to be identified not as ‘somebody’ but as ‘something’ (‘A City Waif’, 1885/6: 5), a perception of the outcast as ‘object’ – devoid of human identity – reflected in the common elision of the human and the inanimate, as an intensive focus on language, identity, and the objectification of outcast society in Chapter 6 will confirm. When Dot in Stretton’s A Thorny Path (1879) runs away, a neighbour’s child expresses surprise at the ensuing panic: ‘she didn’t belong to nobody that they should make such a fuss’ (c.1882: 99, Ch.12). Identities are often elusive: Don (A Thorny Path) has no ‘proper’ name, having ‘lost it afore I can remember’. He takes action to create an identity for himself, adopting the name Don – borrowed from a local dog – because ‘folks kept calling’ me anythin’ they liked, till I didn’t even know who I was’ (17–18, Ch.2). Nonetheless, when he is buried, he has ‘no name that they could put upon the headstone’ (158, Ch.19). Tony of Alone in London, describes himself as being from ‘nowhere particular’ (1869/1872: 21, Ch.2), an expression of alienation echoing that of the street-child of Dickens’s ‘The Haunted Man’, who, when requested to give his name and provenance, replies, ‘Got none’, and, ‘Live! What’s that?’ (1848/1995: 296). Like Jo in Bleak House (Dickens, 1853/1996: 308), or the girl crossing-sweeper in MacDonald’s At the Back of The North Wind (1871/1966: 41), Stretton’s Sandy (Lost Gip) and his nomadic counterparts are constantly being moved on without destination by authority, stripped of the right to existential space or purpose. “Where are I to go, Gip?” he asked one day, after the police had been more than usually hard on him – “where are I to go, and what are I to do? Go about your bis’ness, eh? Well! Suppose I ain’t got no bis’ness? And I ain’t likely to have no bis’ness anywheres, as I can see. I don’t know what you and me was born for. They’ll begin to tell you to go about your bis’ness as soon as ever you can run in the streets”. (1873/1878: 13, Ch.2)

Whether the typical ‘street-Arab’ or victim of temporarily estranged circumstances, the child or young individual in Stretton’s fiction becomes largely

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responsible for its own – and others’ – survival, in many cases becoming ‘anybody’s child’, this latter term echoing a description recalled by Mayhew in his account of children street-sellers (1861–62/1985: 165) and carrying nuanced implications. Interestingly, a study of Stretton’s characters exposes the possibilities opened up by such a position in terms not only of oppression and exploitation but also of autonomy and wider notions of family and relationship. The image of the ‘waif’ of the ‘street-Arab’ genre is inextricably enmeshed with the material poverty of his situation. However, the orphan as literary or artistic trope, signalling displacement, insecurity and vulnerability, is common in many kinds of text, including the adult novel and other genres of literature for children, and is not class-specific. Such an image – recurring in diverse social settings within Stretton’s work – resonates with archetypal fears of abandonment and has associations with the fairy-tale motif. Sally Mitchell (1977: 34) identifies the orphan as the ‘type-figure of the nineteenth century, symbolically expressing the decline of social and moral certainties’. The figure possibly appealed to the Victorian reading public because of their consciousness that progress, in the shape of industrialization, mechanization and urbanization, threatened to sever them ‘from the past and their origins’ (Reynolds and Humble, 1993: 27). From the point of view of women writers and readers in particular, the legitimate imperative for the orphan to become independent in terms of decision-making and practical survival or enterprise presented an opportunity for the transgression of conventional feminine behavioural boundaries (27). Multiple symbolism and overlapping, but distanced, positions open up the potential for the literary orphan to stand in for diverse forms of loss and alienation, and to act as a vehicle for subversive comment. Forms of Freedom; Deprivation, Desire and Difference The actual or apparent orphanhood of the protagonist, or the temporary separation or alienation of parent and child, whilst reflecting physical realities, can function as a literary device, setting the scene for a freedom from conventional restraints, or, as in much Victorian popular fiction, a mystery of origin and identity – an aspect which Stretton utilizes in novels including the early The Clives of Burcot and the end-of-century The Soul of Honour. As well as the emotional charge which separation or isolation carries, consequent liberation provides opportunities for the trials, adventures and substitute relationships – both positive and negative – which are implicated in the process of self-discovery and, frequently, eventual restitution. The orphan – devoid of family ties – may, as Claudia Mills (1987: 228) observes, be the object of envy, the inherent licence offering engagement with the reader’s resistance to social constraints. If parenthood, and, in particular, motherhood, represent, especially in relation to delinquency and promiscuity, a site of socialization, then the ‘motherless’ may not be subject to socialization and potentially pose an anarchic threat. In the case of certain nineteenth-century children’s texts – particularly towards the century’s end, and where the setting is a middle-class one (as, for example,

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Fig. 3.1

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‘He met with rebuffs, and felt downcast.’ In Prison and Out, 1880, Ch. 2, R. Barnes

in much of the fiction of E. Nesbit) – freedom thus generated is the passport to unaccustomed adventures, experimentation or extended imaginative play, and perhaps a degree of permitted ‘naughtiness’ or subversion of authority. However, freedom is, in these instances, carefully circumscribed, and transgression contained; real responsibility or hardship is often limited, although emotional loss and yearning

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Jessica’s First Prayer, 1867/n.d., Ch.3, A.W. Bayes/Butterworth and Heath

may be intense. For the poor or working-class child in Stretton’s texts, freedom is of a different kind. Independence is a material and economic reality, and escape from the dictates of parental authority may be total. Barnardo’s narratives speak of the free and unrestrained adventure-life of the street-waif, who is his own master; society’s preoccupation with the ‘freedom’ of the outcast is one which pervades Victorian fiction and non-fiction alike. Yet such freedom is again fraught with contradictions; it is at the same time more concrete and far-reaching – and thus potentially more alluring and transgressive – and more terrifying, bringing with it physical and moral burdens and material responsibilities which undermine and negate it. It is a freedom which emanates from a fundamental dislocation, enacted paradoxically both out of doors and in confined spaces, in an essentially adult world – a liberation born of exclusion and a ‘not-belonging’, which is both empowering and restrictive. A feature of these texts is the sense of the child as an outsider

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– locked out or kept at a distance (see Figures 3.1; 3.2). Ultimately, licence or autonomy is limited by different parameters and at the mercy of outside factors which influence the ability to survive, and of wider agencies by which it may be manipulated or curtailed. The versions of childhood which Stretton’s narratives present to the middle-class reader unsettle expectations, and provide encounters with very different kinds of childhood. At the same time, her themes chime with a shared sense of exclusion and deprivation, fear and insecurity which transcends class. Reflecting the precariousness of boundaries in material terms, the second (‘Little’) Hester (Hester Morley’s Promise), as the daughter of a ‘fallen’ mother of higher social status, forced into poverty and frequently in trouble, experiences the same feelings of rejection as her ‘street-waif’ counterparts. Permanently exiled at school, she perceives herself as ‘belong[ing] to nobody’ (425, Ch.60). The streetchild is at once different, and yet, in some respects, disturbingly the same. Hesba Stretton combines a keen documentary eye with an evident recollection of childhood feelings, an awareness perhaps reflected in ‘Not to be Taken for Granted’ (1865: 21), in which the narrator wonders ‘if my father ever felt like a child’. Integral to her sense of compassion is an acute appreciation of what it means to be a child in terms of vulnerability and personal loss, and at the same time by reference to the value and privilege of her own protected childhood. Rejection or deprivation may take many forms; the motherless Hester Morley, because of her gloomy environment and adult responsibilities, is starved of sunshine and the lost laughter of childhood. Often, such deprivation manifests itself in terms of extreme physical hardship – experiences of cold, hunger and pain, which are at the same time redolent of emotional starvation. Stretton captures, and conveys with a sensitivity and immediacy born of first-hand observation and understanding, the child’s experience of multiple deprivation. In company with the fictional coffeestall owner, the reader becomes intensely aware of Jessica’s gaze, reduced and sharpened to ‘a pair of very bright dark eyes’. The wary eyes are fastened upon Daniel, and upon the slices of bread and butter on his board, ‘with a gaze as hungry as that of a mouse … driven by famine into a trap’. Intimately engaging with the child’s impulse to shrink from her material conditions, Stretton directs attention to ‘two bare little feet’ curling up from the damp pavement. Acutely observed detail emphasizes the yearning for even the briefest respite: Jessica lifts ‘first one [foot] and then the other, and [lays] them one over another to gain a momentary feeling of warmth’. The textual situation exposes the vulnerability of the child to the voyeurism of, and potential abuse by, the spectator. However, far from merely reducing her to the status of object for the reader, the emphasis on body parts and sensory experience arguably invites identification, at a primal level, with Jessica’s lack: her eyes gleam ‘hungrily at ‘every steaming cupful’, and she ‘smack[s] her thin lips, as if in fancy she was tasting the warm and fragrant coffee’ (Jessica’s First Prayer, 1867/n.d.: 11–12, Ch.1). Such a cameo confronts us with the intimate sensations of privation; it is suffused with a sense of fear and persecution, and a hunger for human warmth and contact, which foreshadow and give added charge to the revelation of Jessica’s exclusion by her mother and constant hounding by the police. Focusing on the physical blue-

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blackness of Jessica’s limbs, Stretton constructs a double-edged image in which manifestations of coldness and abuse coalesce, generating an impression of not only material, but emotional, chill and bruising. When the child reaches out instinctively to touch the velvet mantle worn by one of the church congregation (36, Ch.3), the representation of unaccustomed, class-inflected, tactile experience speaks not only of curiosity about a social and spiritual world beyond Jessica’s knowledge, but, equally, of sustained deprivation and a longing for primary comfort and interaction. Similarly, in A Thorny Path, the fear and isolation of the panic-stricken child abandoned by her mother is made tangible by elision with the physical environment of mist, drizzle and disorienting darkness (Chs.1 and 2). Throughout these narratives we are made profoundly aware, through the blending of concrete and emotionally symbolic detail, that in contrast to the comforts enjoyed by those ‘cherished little nestlings’ of the author’s family, the lives of her protagonists – frequently as a result of material hardship, but often regardless of social standing – are marked at some stage by rejection or a lack of love. Child and Parent: Psychic, Social and Patriarchal Patterns Where there are biological parent-child relationships, these are characterized by complex patterns of emotions, which span alienation, fear and hatred, attachment, guilt and ambivalence; Stretton’s narratives foreground conflict, moral ambiguity and lack of resolution as well as reconciliation. Loss and the overwhelming desire for reunion are constant motifs. The longing is often for maternal affection: Tony’s sense of yearning and deprivation at the absence of a mother’s kiss (Alone in London) echoes the sorrow of Patience in Maria Charlesworth’s Ministering Children (1854) who has never known a mother’s love; it has resonance in Christina Rossetti’s evocation, in Speaking Likenesses, of the ‘unattainable gift of your mother’s kiss’ (1874/1992: 326) and in the lines, with their religious connotations, of her well-known poem, ‘A Christmas Carol’ (1875), in which the mother ‘worshipped the beloved with a kiss’. When Stretton’s Cassy (Cassy, 50–51, Ch.5) clings to her mother’s old and faded dress, refusing to allow it to be cut and refashioned, this represents a sustaining of the maternal bond, each contact with the garment signalling a rejoining. The motherless narrator of An Acrobat’s Girlhood (1889: 7, Ch.1) imagines, as she falls asleep, that she hears her mother calling; the association of the lost mother with the remembered dress and imagined kiss recurs in ‘Not to be Taken for Granted’, echoing the dream of the ‘mother’s kiss’ and, with it, the sense of restored childhood happiness evoked in Gaskell’s Mary Barton (1848/1987: 272). Indeed, the significance of the mother-figure is such that motherlessness threatens to negate a young person’s very identity as a child. Yet the dread of a parent’s return – and concomitant threat of renewed parental authority – also constitutes a prominent theme for Stretton, whether such fear is associated with the convicted criminal father in Pilgrim Street (1867), the abusing father and stepmother in Cassy, or the drunken mother who has abandoned her small son and recently-born child in Lost Gip. Present actions are overshadowed

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by past abuse or trauma, and the reappearance of such figures constitutes a physical and moral threat to a newly found order and security, in which they have often been supplanted. The parent-child relationship is frequently presented as dysfunctional and characterized by apparent detachment: ‘He did not care much for his mother; how could he, when he seldom saw her sober?’ (Lost Gip, 4, Ch.1); ‘the only proof of relationship she manifested was her demand for any and all of the halfpence he might have in his possession, and her diligent search among his rags for them’ (10). Here, an inversion of expected roles has taken place, with the maternal figure exposed as dependent and parasitic, rather than nurturing. As well as being victims of deliberate or unavoidable abandonment, in some cases the children themselves demonstrate agency by running away. The eponymous Cassy flees from her father, a motif repeated in other street-Arab literature including Silas Hocking’s Her Benny (1880), where the children leave to escape parental beating. The paradox of the rejected child as ultimately the possession of the parent is also a recurring theme – exemplified in the literal sale of Cassy to Mr Simon by her father, and reflecting the proprietorial aspect of parenthood which generally remained unchallenged until the latter part of the century, when views on parental rights began to change.12 Cassy’s sense of self-worth is such that she believes the price of ten shillings to be extortionate: ‘that’s too much! … I’m not worth that much, I’m sure’ (Cassy, 117, Ch.13). As a strand in Hesba Stretton’s writing, this issue of patriarchal ownership extends to the situation of woman as the property of men, a subject already broached in connection with Stretton’s personal preoccupations, and which is central to her treatment of gender issues. The figure of the natural father is more consistently absent in many of the texts, represented as non-existent, or at least non-present. Such absences reflect historical circumstances and harsh realities; the declarations by Jessica or the waif Tony, of Alone in London, that they ‘never had any father’, echo the assertion by Mayhew’s flower-girl that ‘None of us ever saw a father’ (Mayhew, 1861–62/1985: 63), and may invite assumptions of illegitimacy. According to Davin (1996: 26), in the autobiographical literature of poor families fathers rarely ‘loom as large’ as mothers, but the father as a relatively detached and shadowy figure perhaps also resonates with the more general detachment and non-involvement of fathers in the lives of their offspring across classes. The reasons for paternal absence in Stretton’s stories are varied, and sometimes associated with the imperatives of work, but where the figure of the father is present or implicated, it is frequently associated with perceived failure, and bound up with deep-seated, often negative, emotions. For the outcast child, as Stretton stresses in her introduction to an 1875 account of Barnardo’s endeavours, ‘Father is not a name of good omen’; he is either unknown, or known only as their ‘worst foe’ (xii). For the child, or child reader, of other classes, such a perception may not be entirely alien; engagement at various levels with the rejected, deprived or abused figure arguably lies at the heart of Stretton’s appeal to her audience. 12

�������������������������� See Behlmer ���������������������� (1982: 15–16).

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There are, nonetheless, instances of acceptance and tolerance, or at least resignation, as when Little Meg ‘throw[s] a cloak over her father’s faults’ (Little Meg’s Children, 28, Ch.2). Meg defends him against her brother’s enquiry regarding a paternal resemblance to the devil; she maintains that the devil is infinitely more wicked, on the grounds that her father ‘doesn’t get drunk often’ (27, Ch.2), and reasons that the fact that he doesn’t beat them ‘much’ when he is drunk is illustrative of the good care he takes of them (151, Ch.13). In working-class communities domestic violence was accepted as inevitable – an unquestioned prerogative of those in authority (Ross, 1993: 84–5). Such violence, as a threat or undercurrent, constantly figures in Stretton’s texts; adults of either sex may be perpetrators, but male abuse of women is strongly signalled. In Alone in London, Tony, like Meg, matter-of-factly identifies the mother of the stray child as having ‘a bit of a bruise about her eye, as if somebody had been fighting with her’ (18, Ch.2), a recognition of the commonplace echoed by Barnardo’s account, in “God’s Little Girl”, of a street-mother who is ‘knocked about’. The perceived inevitability of violence by authority figures is similarly reflected in Kingsley’s The Water-Babies, in which Tom assumes beating, along with chimney-sweeping and being hungry, to be ‘the way of the world’ (1863/1995: 2). Despite the fact that fathers seldom evoked the loyalty shown towards mothers, particularly where they responded to stress with recourse to drink or violence (Davin, 1996: 26), Meg’s reaction in fact constitutes an instance of allegiance to the father as parent – or to her mother’s protective construction of him – and, in her aloneness, she is sustained by dreams of his homecoming. Nelly (Nelly’s Dark Days, 1870), beaten by her drunken father, bears no malice, making up with tears and kisses. Through such representations, Stretton highlights the child’s naivety and acceptance of the situation as ‘naturalized’, but at the same time points to the complexity and moral ambiguity of parent-child relations. In The Lord’s Pursebearers, the ‘grandfather’ of the street-child Joan paradoxically threatens to flog her if she turns ‘bad’ (227, Ch.10) – an indication, in fact, of his concern for her ultimate good in the face of her potential descent, through exploitation and abuse, into crime and prostitution. Such a response – perhaps obliquely reflecting the Christian fear of ‘sparing the rod and spoiling the child’ – likewise foregrounds ambiguities surrounding moral blame. As critics have noted (Bratton, 1981: 87; Demers, 1991: 138), parents and other adults are not portrayed as infallible in Stretton’s work, and there is, in her overall representation of social roles and relationships, a constant tension between condemnation and understanding. Yet it is interesting to return to the intensity of responses by certain characters to the father-figure, whether it is Tom’s initial loathing of his father (whom he wishes dead) in Pilgrim Street, the hatred expressed for Rhoda’s stepfather (originally assumed to be her natural father) in the opening lines of the novel The Clives of Burcot, or the reaction of Cassy to her father’s betrayal of her dead mother and abuse of his daughter through the agency of her stepmother. Examination, across texts, of this recurrent theme underlines the existence of deeper, conflicting undercurrents. The absence or inadequacy of the earthly father, and lack of emotional ties between parent and child, both closes down and opens up possibilities of a relationship with

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God as heavenly father and provider, thereby offering a medium for furthering the overt evangelical purposes of writer and publisher. The implications, however, are perhaps more complex, involving social and political as well as psychological issues. Situations such as that portrayed in Pilgrim Street reflect the inability of the child in a non-functional father-child relationship to relate to God as a father, and at the same time serve to highlight and rectify a misunderstanding about the nature of God. Arguably, however, the problematical representation of the father-figure potentially interacts with heightened contemporary interrogation of a society rooted in male-domination. Underlining the biblical foundations and spiritual symbolism fundamental to ostensibly secular aspects of patriarchal culture, it calls attention to society’s appropriation (and redefinition) of such a model as the interpretative basis for accepted codes, images and practices. This, in turn, can be related to Stretton’s representation of gender and power relations, and the textual and personal expression of attitudes towards men. Set against her undoubted commitment to the concept of God as consummate fatherfigure, negative images of the earthly paternal figure might suggest an engagement – conscious or unconscious – with cultural resistance to the patriarchal structures underpinning private lives and wider society, and the contesting of ‘authority’ in general, within the context of a perceived ‘crisis of faith’. Stretton’s work embodies the centrality of religion and its exigencies (and concomitant concern for the irreligious) in the day-to-day life of the nation. It also mirrors an unsettling of beliefs – and associated questioning of assumptions – within a network of challenges spanning the controversies surrounding Darwin’s evolutionary theories, the popular diffusion of scientific and secular ideas, the growth of intellectual doubt, and the diverse expressions of early feminism. Assuming an audience with varying degrees of awareness, receptivity or opposition to religious motifs and agendas, these writings offer different channels of engagement within a climate of doubt and uncertainty. Questions of Child-Power: Opportunities, Burdens and Boundary-Crossing If the ideal or normative parental role suggests various facets of provision and authority, the inversion of this role – and of other social categories – is a recurrent feature of Stretton’s texts. Set against the perception of the child as socially impotent is the idea of the empowerment of the child-figure – and the child protagonist of the evangelical text – through its representation as agent of transformation, both practically and spiritually. The Romantic understanding of the child as ‘soul’ underpins representations of children as equally important, and often spiritually more perceptive than adults.13 Drawing on Romantic-inflected notions of agency, Patricia Demers (1991: 133) proposes that Stretton’s children ‘individualize and concretize any visionary capacity by being actively involved in transforming their world’. In relation to the impact of Jessica’s First Prayer, Sally Mitchell (1995: 6) suggests 13

See Cutt (1979: 134).

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that its popularity may be attributable in part to readers’ engagement with the sense of Jessica’s ‘ultimate power over all the adults in the tale’. Such recognition of fictional empowerment may be appropriated by readers across classes, to fit experiences of unequal power relations in a variety of social and domestic situations. Although it might be argued that awareness and agency are confined to the pages of the texts and thus imaginatively compensatory, fictional empowerment may conceivably serve not only to make readers feel temporarily powerful, but also to foster the self-belief which motivates and inspires material action. The extent to which this power ultimately compensates for a lack of economic and wider social power is open to debate, and is difficult to quantify; parallels can perhaps be drawn with the intangibility of areas of female influence. Hesba Stretton’s stories do not convey a simplistic message with regard to the child as spiritual influence on the parent: there are occasions when there is an underlying ambiguity about the effectiveness of the child’s spiritual mission (Cassy); sometimes, as in the case of the mothers in Jessica’s Mother and Lost Gip, and the father of Tom (Pilgrim Street), the parent is not automatically redeemed. Frequently, however, it is other adults who are positively affected, whether it is the coffee-stall holder Standring in Jessica or Pilgrim Street’s policeman, Banner; the child protagonist, in these situations, acts as a direct and indirect instrument for change, the child’s perspective affording a critique of adult positions of authority, both spiritual and secular. The intervention of Lucy (Enoch Roden’s Training) prevents the imposition of a prison sentence on her father; Sandy, of Lost Gip, openly confronts Mr Shafto with his hypocrisy. The effectiveness of the spiritual influence unknowingly exerted by Jessica on minister and church officials (Jessica’s First Prayer and Jessica’s Mother) represents a usurpation of the power of normative male spiritual authority. In Jessica’s Mother, Jessica’s relationship with the minister’s children is also revised; the former waif assumes an advisory or mentoring role somewhat reminiscent of the cross-class influence eventually exerted by Dickens’s Esther Summerson (Bleak House) or Sissy Jupe (Hard Times). In Jessica’s naïve, but pointed, response to a mention of ‘reckoning day’ (Jessica’s First Prayer), it can be argued that the ignorance of the poor and irreligious is being highlighted; at the same time, the child’s straightforwardness suggests a conscience less troubled than that of her adult companion. Moreover, as part of an ongoing dialogue in Stretton’s work, an ironic emphasis on the material subverts dominant notions of the power of the spiritual, neatly deflating otherworldliness. Daniel has God’s Judgement Day in mind, but for the pragmatic Jessica the phrase relates to paid work in the theatre and has purely economic connotations, bound up with basic survival: ‘“Does God have reckoning days?” asked Jessica. “I used to like reckoning days when I was a fairy”’ (62, Ch.7). Critiques of authority and reversals of influence serve to undermine the overriding impression of an imbalance of power relations, underlined by illustrations in which authority figures – often dark, central and overpowering – dominate the images. Furthermore, the child’s viewpoint serves to question ways of seeing. For Jessica, the first glimpse inside a church is a ‘peep into fairy-land’; this may signify a sense of amazement and awe, but the association also carries implications of fantasy and make-believe, or (given Jessica’s earlier stage role) pure theatre. The effect may be

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to invite a view of the church as a superior alternative to those other supernatural preoccupations, but the juxtaposition of these elements, whatever the intent, may well function to unsettle views of the established church as truth – an institution not to be questioned. There is no doubt that the child serves in many instances as a mouthpiece for deliberate comment. Whether the utilization of the child’s viewpoint for such purposes represents a legitimate form of subversion or a case of exploitation, is, as suggested, a difficult question. Arguably, where the status of the child is not devalued (and may, indeed, be elevated), and where, as with Stretton, the child constitutes of itself the ‘political project’, such strategies may be deemed valid. The role reversal implicit in the child’s assumption of the parental function as material provider is an image which pervades the texts, whether it is as breadwinner, household manager, provider of shelter, carer, nurturer or a combination of all these roles involving responsibility for the cohesion of all or parts of the family unit. It is an image which also pervaded Victorian social commentary. Ellen Ross (1993: 8) suggests that in poor districts of London, without the presence of a ‘reasonably competent adult woman or older daughter’, households often disintegrated. Frequently, the responsibility for care fell on those who were themselves still children. The contemporary writer and social investigator, George Sims, records finding, in the attic of a slum lodging-house, a child as young as four placed in sole charge of the baby for eight hours at a stretch (Sims, 1889/1976: 72). Stretton’s pragmatic Little Meg – a few years older than Sims’s ‘little sentinel’, but still, by dominant definitions, a child – struggles to keep ‘her’ family together during their father’s absence at sea. Following the abdication of responsibility by the adults, the eponymous Cassy assumes control of the practical and economic burden of the household, resorting, like Meg (Figure 3.3), to a common management strategy employed by women: the pawning of belongings. Such situations, of course, generate responsibility which is primarily without privilege; nonetheless, an unsettling of roles and positions of authority within the family does occur. In some cases this is a direct role reversal, with the parent, perhaps through sickness or unemployment, in the position of dependant or recipient. Frequently the role of parent is assumed through absence or default, the young person (of either sex) adopting the surrogate position in respect of siblings, responsible for physical, emotional and moral welfare and the devising of survival strategies. Interestingly, in the same year of publication as Little Meg, the temporarily fatherless ‘Little Women’, Meg March and her sisters (Alcott, 1868) can be found battling, in a rather different social and domestic sphere, with the fraught progression to adulthood, whilst also adjusting to being ‘in poverty’. Again in a situation of less extreme hardship, the gradual assumption of premature responsibilities, in the absence of a mother-figure, by Stretton’s fourteen-year-old Hester means an end to the ‘brief season of childhood’ and leads to the acquisition of ‘old-fashioned womanliness’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 96, Ch.15), accentuating the potential for readers’ engagement with commonality as well as difference. Across classes, a child can be robbed of childhood by maternal death – forced to exchange childish ways for the ‘sad self-possession of a woman’ (81, Ch.12).

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Little Meg’s Children, 1868/label 1889, Ch.8, W.S. Stacey/Whymper

Such experiences underline the instability of definitions of childhood, and have deeper, less tangible implications. For various reasons, a child may be ‘precociously learned in trouble’ (The Doctor’s Dilemma, Part 3, Ch.6). The image contained in Barnardo’s ‘A City Waif’ (17, Ch.2) of the ‘womanly independent little creature … yet but a child’ carries multiple nuances. As in Stretton’s The Children of Cloverley,

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the idea of working like a little woman may imply prestige; at another level, this ‘little womanliness’ – childlike innocence mingled with womanly capability – may prove sexually attractive, as with the allure which the eponymous Hester Morley holds for her stepmother’s ex-lover. In the context of the street-child, such attraction is an ever-present subtext, as more detailed exploration of sexual motifs will confirm. In addition to the traditional female ‘little mother’ figure (like Stretton’s Meg or Dickens’s Charley Neckett), the ‘little mother’ could also be a boy (Davin, 1996: 89). Such adoption of the mothering role, unsettling prescribed gender identities, is a common feature of the ‘waif’ novels. It is exemplified in such characters as Sandy of Lost Gip, to whom the new-born Gip is handed over with complete acceptance of his role, and Don in A Thorny Path, whose adopted sister Dot is described as ‘my little gel’. Don becomes the sacrificial mother, bearing the burden of economic management and going hungry to feed the child.14 Alone in London’s Tony assumes a nurturing role in respect of the child Dolly, and sets about earning a living as a crossing-sweeper – a common enterprise recorded by Mayhew, and an image used by Dickens and repeated in works such as Castle Smith’s Froggy’s Little Brother (1875). The sentimentalization of this image is, however, sharply overturned in Stretton’s The Lord’s Pursebearers, in which the narrator castigates the prosperous city inhabitants who perpetuate ‘the sin and shame of having almost naked children to sweep their crossings’ (135, Ch.6). The friendlessness inherent in the plight of street-children is identified by Mayhew (1861–62/1985: 166) and echoed in Stretton’s biblically-charged assertion that Sandy has ‘never known a friend to whom he could say, ‘I am hungry, and cold, and almost naked’ (Lost Gip, 10, Ch.1). It becomes apparent that the sibling, or surrogate sibling, connection may represent the only possible source of an affirmative sense of identity: ‘Nobody belongs to her or me. I’m all she’s got, and she’s all I’ve got’ (A Thorny Path, 112–13, Ch.13). This sense of symbiotic dependency between siblings is acute in many of these texts, perhaps reflecting the intermingling of material realities and currents in authorial psyche.15 Ironically, the protective role is complicated in Alone in London by a recognition of the advantages of the child’s good looks in attracting charity, echoing the exploitation 14 Contemporary reports indicate a high incidence of boys as ‘nurses and caretakers’ (Davin, 1996: 90); charges were often referred to as ‘my baby’. Barnardo’s Taken out of the Gutter (1881: 12, Ch.1) relates that ‘the best and choicest morsels were generously and freely given to “Little Bobbie” while ‘Arthur, brave fellow, contented himself with whatever might be left’. Georgina Castle Smith’s Froggy similarly gives priority to his brother’s nourishment. 15 In addition to the arguably substitute maternal relationship between Stretton and her sister, it is useful to note the reference in ‘Not to be Taken for Granted’ (1865) to siblings which the protagonist never knew – as suggested, possibly alluding to non-surviving Stretton siblings. At another level, the bond between the adolescent brother and sister in Stretton’s In Prison and Out (1880) reflects an intensity of attachment, involving loyalty, devotion, and even passion, not uncommon in nineteenth-century sibling relationships.

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of children by adults for begging and more sinister purposes – this time, child potentially exploiting child. The assumption of the adult role entails burdensome responsibilities, yet, paradoxically, presents opportunities which undermine wider social norms. Mayhew records the involvement of children in the world of commerce on the streets; Stretton’s protagonists, despite hardship and setbacks, prove themselves to be capable and successful entrepreneurs, participating in the adult world in ways not open to the confined and protected middle-class child, to whom such autonomy is denied. They take a pride in their independence; like Barnardo’s bold waifs, youngsters picking up a living or earning their bread hold their heads high. Valorizations of work and play are unstable; as Mayhew’s Watercress Girl asserts, ‘it’s like a child to care for sugar-sticks, and not like one who’s got a living and vittals to earn’ (Mayhew, 1861–2/1985: 68). The need for the child to fend for himself or herself may be deplored, yet an engagement with the prevailing work ethic means that practical effort and independent achievement is endorsed, as in Stretton’s Pilgrim Street, where the young Tom utilizes a monetary gift to set himself up in business. The evident pride displayed by waif Tony in establishing his broom and crossing as his ‘property’ (Alone in London, 64, Ch.9) is clearly appreciated by the narrator. Every confidence is placed in the boy’s ability to act responsibly; his sense of triumph is marred only by the scathing disapproval of respectable Aunt Charlotte. Like certain of her contemporaries, Hesba Stretton displays an awareness of, and often an admiration for, aspects of difference, which is in tension with middle-class preconceptions.16 The fact that inclusion in the adult workplace may be valued by the participant – and envied by the schoolboy counterpart from a more privileged background – is signalled in The Children of Cloverley, where cultural differences and the class-determined delineation of childhood boundaries are exposed, with children themselves contesting conventionally defined parameters. For the orphaned Ben, newly arrived from North America, where he has for two years been ‘holding the post of a man, and doing a man’s work upon his father’s farm’, a return to full-time schooling renders it a ‘very mortifying thing to find himself brought down to the level of boyhood again’ (label 1876: 46–7, Ch.6). At the same time, the educated Gilbert, frustrated by his inadequacy in the adult world, yearns to be more capable: ‘I am nearly as old as Ben, and many a boy begins to earn his own living at our age’ (65, Ch.8). It is too simplistic, however, to suggest that Stretton unequivocally supports the idea of employment for her young protagonists; the freedom from responsibility associated with an ideal childhood is frequently in conflict with the perceived benefits of education or the contemporary work ethic. In Stretton’s relational models, boundaries of diverse nature are crossed or blurred: in certain circumstances, the socializing function of the parent is inverted, 16 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Georgina Castle ������������������������������������������������������������������������� Smith also recognizes, in relation to Froggy’s life as a crossing sweeper, that despite the child’s need to play, ‘whatever work bread depends on is such a serious matter …’ (Froggy, 31, Ch.3).

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exposing conflicting familial and social pressures. Young Jessica intervenes to admonish her mother when the latter’s inebriate state causes her daughter to take charge in matters of social propriety: ‘But, mother … you can’t live here, because it’s Mr Daniel’s house, and he only took me out of charity when … you left me. We can’t look for him to take you’ (Jessica’s Mother (label 1925: 60, Ch.5). Jessica’s response betrays her complicity with society’s rejection of her mother, even though she also acts as defender and mediator. On other occasions, whilst the situation of the child as educator is potentially empowering, the symbolic value of the adult responsibility may be circumscribed, as the class implications of twelve-year-old Annie’s teaching role in The Children of Cloverley suggest: despite the element of status attached to the position, it is significant that the young girl is entrusted with the instruction of adults of the poorer section of her community. Family Configurations: Common Causes, Counterfeit Connections and Child Victims Instances of surrogate parenthood and substitute relationships are numerous and complex, illustrating diverse patterns of social connection and nurture. Such complications are evident not only in the context of the immediate biological family, but across generations, within neighbourhoods and among strangers – involving a recasting of the family which overturns conventional assumptions and highlights alternative versions. In the course of Stretton’s various redefinitions, the ideology of the family is both upheld and subverted. It is represented as potentially a site of both security, and, as Mitchell (1995: 153) observes, of violence and pain; the identification of such negative aspects may again serve to validate experiences and unlock the unvoiceable across classes. Whilst the child is often seen to assume responsibility for siblings – this task sometimes encompassing children beyond the family group – responsibilities also extend to wider social interaction, involving co-operation and mutual nurture. Inevitably, the absence of the natural parent leaves the path open for the assumption of the parental role by other adults in the family or wider community. Among Victorian poor families, household boundaries were somewhat permeable, with neighbours often sharing responsibilities and resources (Davin, 1996: 61). Sometimes in Stretton’s texts neighbours take on the burden; frequently, ‘adoption’ results from more distant encounters, and is generally intra-class, although gradations of social class are involved and barriers in some instances eroded. The alternative parent is often, but not always, another mother of a family. In the case of Jessica, the child is eventually adopted by Standring, a lone male; in Carola, the adult protector of the protagonist’s early life (and honour) is the elderly Jewish landlord. Although Stretton underscores the fundamental nature of the mother’s role, she also subverts conventional paradigms by showing men as well as boys to be sensitive, capable and effective nurturers. Engagement with emotional issues is offered to the male reader, for whom such topics may be deemed unmanly and whose needs may not be met in wider literature for boys. Nonetheless, progress to

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physical maturity is also clearly associated with the acquisition of implied adult male responsibilities, and in certain circumstances, with the capacity for emotional self-restraint. The assumption of certain duties may constitute a rite of passage to manhood: in Max Kromer, the eponymous character feels ‘more like a man’ when he undertakes to protect the family during his father’s absence (n.d.: 13, Ch.1), a sentiment echoed by the protagonist of In the Hollow of His Hand, as he assumes family responsibilities. Here, the adult male role is responsible and protective – associated with manliness – rather than directly nurturing. When Titus, of Enoch Roden’s Training, is moved to tears, he is enjoined not to be ‘a woman’ (label 1902: 161, Ch.17).17 Across the range of her work, Stretton contrasts various models of manhood, with examples of the nurturing or protective male in tension with the motif of the domineering patriarchal figure. The child may look to others to alleviate his or her suffering and loss; equally, the narrative of alternative relationships speaks of the adult’s need for a child. In Stretton’s texts not only do children seek and find substitute parents (and indeed grown men respond to replacement mother-figures), but frequently adoption of the surrogate role is prompted by the urge to nurture a replacement child. This may be as a consequence of social estrangement, as in the case of Kitty’s mother in Little Meg’s Children, or the loss of a child through death, as with the couple who give shelter to mother and child in The Storm of Life. The need to preserve the child’s memory is apparent in the bereaved mother in Enoch Roden’s Training; she transfers the expenditure which would have been incurred in the upbringing of her own child to the care of another, who will, to the family, be ‘something like’ the child which was lost (60, Ch.6). Sandy of Lost Gip, taken in by the parents of a sick child whom he befriends, is, in effect, schooled socially and spiritually so that he may slip into the role of son when the natural child dies. Such yearnings inevitably reflect the high rate of child mortality in Victorian society: in the 1880s, 152 children out of every 1,000 born in London died before the age of one, with much higher rates in poor districts (Davin, 1996: 17). The substitutions enacted in Stretton’s narratives, and the emotions which underlie them, were common features of Victorian life; they are echoed in Barnardo’s account (‘Kidnapped’) of bereaved parents who bring their dead child’s shoes to one of the Homes in order to find and take charge of a child whose feet they fit, and in the adoption by Castle Smith’s Froggy of a replacement sibling. Hesba Stretton emphasizes the links between old and young, and between children and the infirm or disabled, suggesting survival strategies and structures of support among the marginalized, which effectively break down oppositions and generational barriers. As well as reinforcing the pathetic effect, such connections highlight the economic deprivation experienced by particular sections of society; as Davin confirms (1996: 27) ‘poverty was most directly experienced in childhood 17 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Such sentiments, already commonplace, were harnessed self-consciously by Board schools towards the end of the century in order to discourage working-class boys from ‘female������������������������������ behaviour�������������������� ’ (����������������� Ross, 1993: 153).

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and in old age’. Old Oliver in Alone in London provides shelter and nurture for the child Tony; for his part, the latter not only undertakes to contribute to the care of the grandchild, but also attempts to compensate for the failing ability of the old man to organize his business effectively, pledging to protect him from exploitation. In Bede’s Charity, the mature woman who has fallen upon hard times and the young boy of the streets support one another practically and emotionally. Likewise, the old father and abandoned child of A Thorny Path share the experience of desolation, one in his literal blindness, the other in the isolating mist and darkness of night. Age distinctions are blurred, and cross-generational solidarity affirmed, as old and young live, work – like Euclid and Bess of In Prison and Out (1880) (see Figure 3.4) – and sometimes play, together. If the young, participating from an early age in the struggle for survival, have never learned to play, the old have often forgotten. Sylvanus (The Storm of Life) professes a renewed fondness for childish play, previously hindered by a lack of playfellows (label 1910: 79, Ch.9). Similarly, Oliver (Alone in London) regains a childlike insouciance in the company of young Dolly, a positive experience suggesting regeneration, not regression. The child as golden-haired treasure is a repeated theme, the economic and symbolic associations of which will be explored further. The relationship of Oliver and his grandchild echoes the surrogate father-child relationship central to Eliot’s Silas Marner (1861), endorsing the possibility of alternative forms of parenting. Young Cassy takes on the burden of nursing a dying old man, and in her turn receives shelter and protection from the disabled Simon – again, an alliance of the disenfranchised, as in the relationship between the child protagonist and dwarf community in O.F. Walton’s A Peep Behind the Scenes (1877). Davin (1996: 26) observes, in respect of abusive fathers, that men in old age no longer inspired fear; on many occasions in Stretton’s work the old or infirm provide the succour which has been lacking. Interestingly, comfortable relationships between men and women also frequently take place when there has been a shifting in relations of power, a pattern which will emerge in discussion of gender issues. If Stretton‘s work embraces the positive reconfiguration of family structures, it also emphasizes the sinister implications of certain surrogate relationships and counterfeit family ties. Her growing awareness of the vulnerability of the child to exploitation culminates in her stark representation, in The Lord’s Pursebearers, of the predatory beggar community which ‘trade[s] on the agony of babies’ (227, Ch.11). This text underlines the child’s value to, yet abject dependency upon, the adults of the community. The pretty child lightly used as picturesque accessory in Alone in London, or to soften hearts in A Thorny Path, becomes unequivocally, in Pursebearers, the child victim – hired out and exhibited under gaslights as a living skeleton, or exploited for its erotic potential.18 18

Mayhew’s reporter cites instances of children sent out to beg accompanied by younger sisters, whose ‘diminutive size’ drew attention, prompting charity (Mayhew, 1861–2/1985: 502). Mayhew also mentions a young crossing-sweeper accompanied by infant sibling charges (288).

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In Prison and Out, 1880, Ch.7, R. Barnes

Fraudulent family units are created from the fragments of real families; relationships are enacted to excite pity and to serve economic ends, underlining at the same time aspects of the city and city life as theatre or performance. The child protagonist of The Lord’s Pursebearers recognizes the existence of three ‘fathers’ – a role adopted for pragmatic reasons – none of whom is likely to take responsibility

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when the child is in trouble. The children’s dependency on the evil Mrs Moss – another version of the wicked stepmother figure, who has the children under her ‘power’ – evokes the situation in Barnardo’s ‘Kidnapped’, in which Mother Brown (known as ‘Grannie’) keeps children in an underground kitchen, half starves them and sells or hires them out. Despite Stretton’s emphasis on the common cause of women and children, Mrs Moss’s cruelty is an example of female complicity in child exploitation, accentuated here, as elsewhere, by the implied association of the ‘real’ with the predatory hag of myth and fairy tale. (Significantly, in Bede’s Charity, a lost child, after reading a ‘fairy-book’, identifies the fairy-tale nature of her rescuer’s timely appearance, adding that if any of the smaller children had been lost, ‘some wicked woman would have picked them up, and taken them home’ [153–4, Ch.20].) The agency of Stretton’s adult ‘cast’ of beggars – in this instance active creators and perpetrators of the theatrical process rather than passive objects of the spectator’s gaze – reminds us of what Mayhew’s reporter describes as the ‘ingenuity’ of the beggar, a figure possessing a particular facility for assessing the direction of popular sympathy, and tailoring his performance accordingly (Mayhew, 1861–2/1985: 505). It was common practice to assume the appearance of a deserving family unit whose members had fallen upon hard times; children were required to lie and act out situations. E. Nesbit, in Harding’s Luck (1909) – also highlighting the freedom of the road – makes use, in contrastingly lighter vein, of a similar dramatic performance, with the Deptford child, Dickie, engaging wholeheartedly in the game of ‘acting’ as son to his tramp companion and exaggerating his infirmity to elicit sympathy (Ch.2). Stretton, however, despite her understanding of the attractions of a vagabond existence, directs her anger in no uncertain terms both at those who mercilessly exploit the young, and at those whose indiscriminate charity encourages the execrable practice of begging. That the face of society is turned away when it comes to intervention, despite changes in the law, is bitterly clear: ‘it was not a matter affecting property, and had only to do with the lives of little friendless children’ (247, Ch.19); token official action will mean only a brief interruption to the career of Mrs Moss and her comrades. Uncontained anger permeates a later narrative centring on the exploitation and commodification of children – this time within an organized public arena of spectacle, the circus. As the century progressed, the thousands of children employed in theatre and shows were attracting attention, with pressure for reform and effective legislation. In An Acrobat’s Girlhood [1889], Stretton recounts, through the voice of the protagonist’s sister, the story of a motherless young girl whose high spirits, strong will and overt physicality challenge conventions of feminine propriety. Delighting in romping like an ‘unbroken colt’ and ‘doing things a boy would do’ (9–10, Ch.1), Trixy attracts the attention of circus managers. Her father – self-indulgent and lacking a mother’s protective instincts – perceives his growing daughters as ‘burdens’ and is tempted by the promise of fortune to hand over the initially enthusiastic girl to the troupe for training as an acrobat. In this environment, authority figures become ‘tyrants’, exploiting the young workers ‘in their possession’ as objects of the public gaze. The children are

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pushed relentlessly, driven with threats and blows to train their bodies to the point of injury and distortion, exhaustion and collapse.19 Aiming to reinforce awareness – ‘If folks only knew. I wonder if they do know’ – Stretton describes, in terms similar to those employed by Shaftesbury and others, the contortions required of child performers, who are martyred ‘on the rack’ for the amusement of others; the narrator watches her sister twisting, writhing and bending her body, ‘as if there was not a bone in it’ (35, Ch.2). Not only the physical consequences, but also the moral and sexual implications are signalled: Trixy has, mercifully, ‘only lost her life’ (74, Ch.4). Stretton emphasizes that the abuse takes place as part of entertainment directed at the gratification of other children and their families. The perpetuation of such ‘savage’ practices, fit only for ‘heathens and Hottentots’, depends on the complicity of audiences which include, unbelievably, decent mothers, who would not countenance their offspring being subjected to such treatment or exposure, yet willingly support the industry with their ticket money. Despite the shortcomings of family life in all its guises, the hardships and enforced separation of children from their parents – whether through bereavement, imprisonment, persecution, famine or war – represent a constant concern for Stretton. As a result of society’s indifference and insensitivity, estrangement may be emotional as well as physical: the consequences for Rosy of confinement during her mother’s imprisonment (The Storm of Life) include not only short-term blindness, but, because the workhouse staff paint the mother as a wicked woman, a temporary denial by the child of the maternal relationship. In the late, Russianthemed text, In the Hollow of His Hand (1897), Stretton identifies children as pawns in the political persecution of adult communities; she likewise engages, as on many occasions, with the disastrous consequences of religious and political division. In narratives such as Left Alone (1876), the blindness and bigotry of entrenched religious positions within families and society results in the physical and emotional neglect of the child caught up in its destructiveness. Mitzi Myers (1997: 117) has commented on the invisibility and silence of women and children amidst masculine mythologies of war and conflict. Significantly, Stretton’s Max Kromer, set during the Siege of Strasbourg, draws attention to the effects of war on the lives of women and children, and of those who 19

������������������������������������������������������������������������������� The inadequacies of legislation prompted renewed attention to the exploitation of child performers in roles such as acrobat, dancer and stage-fairy, reflecting also an increasing preoccupation with children’s physical welfare. Campaigns were mounted by prominent figures such as Lord Shaftesbury; articles appeared in the press and medical journals, and serious-minded narratives such as E.M. Barlee’s Pantomime Waifs (1884) were published. Tales such as Walton’s A Peep Behind the Scenes (1877) had earlier drawn attention, albeit less graphically, to the perils of circus life; Silas Hocking’s Dick’s Fairy (1883) also concerns the plight of an orphaned girl badly treated as a dancer and tightrope performer. Deficiencies were addressed in the Prevention of Cruelty Acts of 1889 and 1894. For a discussion of debates and discourses surrounding the child performer, see Steedman (1995), especially Chapter 6. Steedman suggests that the child as acrobat ‘was a highly resonant figure for the idea of childhood shaped and forced by adult hand’ (111).

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exist in poverty. For these victims – dying by hundreds and thousands, there can be no glory or gain, only loss. Stretton harnesses the perceptions and responses, the simplicity and straightforwardness of the fictional child in conjunction with the first-person narrative of a male combatant to expose destructive male models which privilege unthinking patriotism, conflict and aggression; she portrays, unflinchingly, the suffering and displacement of ordinary people. Identification of the divisions, created by war, religious differences and overtly nationalistic propaganda, which exist between neighbouring communities – between individuals and families who have hitherto interacted as friends – all too painfully points up the continued relevance for today’s world. At home, Stretton was directing a searchlight onto the plight of the waif or street-child; her writing foregrounds the relationship of that figure to the situation of the child victim worldwide, pressing home the truth that the ideologies, decisions and actions of adult authority figures – within and beyond the family – rebound upon children, whose agency at this level is inevitably limited. This chapter has focused on the representation of diverse aspects of psychological and social relations – or the absence of relations – between child and immediate community, revealing both the reinforcement and the inversion of dominant perceptions. Stretton’s work both incorporates and subverts idealized notions of childhood, juxtaposing powerlessness and resilience, interrogating yet supporting the transcendent function of the child. As an extension of the themes introduced here, her treatment of the relationship between the child or individual and wider forms of authority, as well as the conflicts and confrontations inherent in this relationship, deserves further examination in the context of outcast society; it will become evident that attitudes and power relations within private and public spheres are interlinked, individual and community identities mutually reinforcing. The relationship between notions of the ‘child’ and expressions or representations of class, race and diverse manifestations of otherness is unmistakeable. We have seen that boundaries between boyhood and manhood, girlhood and womanhood, innocence and experience are arbitrarily constructed, materially and symbolically blurred; the full implications of this will become apparent over the course of subsequent chapters, particularly in terms of the markers and mythologies surrounding pubescence, and the class-related nature of responses to deviance, delinquency and crime. Writing later in life about women’s work for children, Stretton emphasizes the link between children’s happiness and the position of women (1893: 4). The converging and interdependent stories of women and children unfold across her work, highlighting issues of motherhood, gender, identity and marginalization. Just as the perspective of the child towards its mother is shown to be – often painfully – significant, so the perspective of the woman, whether uplifted or burdened by motherhood, estranged, bereaved or childless, is brought into sharp focus. Whilst her narratives to some extent reproduce structures of division or opposition, Stretton unremittingly foregrounds deprivation, hypocrisy and inequality. The construction – conscious and unconscious – of distinctions

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between generations, sexes and races is made amply clear. Acknowledging social relationships as highly complex and ambiguous, she is concerned with breaking down barriers – seeking to build or repair bridges and at the same time exposing gulfs, paradoxes and misunderstandings. As part of this reconciliatory project, the child – despite its material limitations, and aided by its unbounded, if sometimes burdensome, symbolic potential – plays a significant role as an agent of interrogation and force for negotiation and mediation.

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Chapter 4

‘Worth her Weight in Gold’: Subtexts of Sexuality A focus on the child-figure has alerted us to the eroticization of childhood and the inherent fascination with the poor child. As we have discovered, adult-child boundaries are unstable and class-dependent, and questions of sexuality spill over into discussions of adult roles and representations. It is apparent that Stretton’s writing is continually on the edge of – always hinting at – sexual concerns, through its social and religious context, its interaction with popular discourses, and through echoes and innuendo within the texts. Societal assumptions regarding sexuality, together with anxieties surrounding its containment – particularly in relation to the young woman – underlie narrative themes and motifs, exposing the crucial relationship between sexuality, gender and class. Recent historians have undertaken a reassessment of Victorian sexual attitudes and practices, questioning generalizations and positing complexity. Engaging with the arguments of Michel Foucault, critics have contested assumptions of the Victorian era as uniformly repressive, identifying, in contrast, proliferating discourses on sex, with networks of expression existing alongside structures of control and discipline. Victorian discourses – literary and extra-literary – demonstrate a preoccupation with sexual matters whilst simultaneously promoting repressive activities which extend from informal influences to official mechanisms and legislative procedures. Any investigation into Victorian culture, of which juvenile literature is a formative part, cannot avoid the implications of this intensified focus, which potentially generates counter-currents, often through oblique allusions or traces – through what is not, or not quite, said. As Foucault suggests, if sex is repressed, merely alluding to it appears transgressive (Foucault, 1981:6). The term ‘sexuality’ embraces not only the material implications of the term, but also the deep-seated mythologies, ideologies and codes surrounding it. This entanglement of diffuse elements leads to the elision, in the nineteenthcentury imagination, of notions of sexual ignorance, goodness and purity, of environmental contamination, wickedness and immorality. Significantly, cultural perceptions and representations are rooted in this conflation of ideas; as a result, imprecision or ambiguity within and across texts operates to complex effect.





See, for example, Michael Mason (1994).

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A Convergence of Anxieties Fundamental to this area is the relationship between religion and sexuality. If, as John Maynard (1993) demonstrates, these discourses intermingle in complex ways, the impulse to separate them exists alongside this: strands of Western religion function in direct opposition to sexuality, generating an emphasis on control or containment. In examining literature written from an acknowledged religious standpoint, and with certain didactic or reformatory intentions, we might expect to identify associations, if only in their regulatory application, with parallels and oppositions harnessed to serve a moral and spiritual message. In fact, Stretton’s evangelical, social and popular fiction provides us with important insights into a complex interplay of cultural anxieties, assumptions and interests relating to sexual matters. The influence of religion on the development of normative social and moral codes is highly significant, and in the case of Stretton’s work, the composition of constituent discourses is particularly pertinent. Religious metaphors underpin constructions of morality, femininity and respectability, overlapping in turn with morally and spiritually-inflected discourses of sexuality, the body, cleanliness, sanitation, and associated languages of social reform. This convergence is identifiable, for example, in Kingsley’s evangelical fantasy The Water Babies (1863), and, markedly, in the plethora of literature on ‘Outcast London’, both fictional and non-fictional. Here, associations between conditions of poverty and pollution and perceptions of sin and immorality mingle with prevailing class prejudices and fears, influencing attitudes and disciplinary mechanisms. At the level of language and the ideas embedded in it, the interdependence is striking. As Maynard (1993: 5) observes, the tendency to focus on a connection between sex and sin stems partly from ‘a sense that the issue is taboo, a dirty subject put against the clean holy of holies’. Maynard also highlights the central fascination in the Jesus story of the Magdalene (5). The preoccupations and consequent linguistic emphasis of Stretton’s ‘outcast’ narratives ensure the relevance of these issues, drawing attention to the processes of opposition and comparison inscribed within them. Gender roles and relationships – major concerns in Stretton’s texts – are intimately enmeshed with ideas about sexuality. Such links are fundamental to the assumptions upon which orthodox definitions and valorizations of womanhood and femininity rest; they underpin categories and distinctions. Importantly, both gender and sexuality interact with class; the definition of female sexuality in Victorian discourse was class-specific, the contrast between virgin and whore connoting ‘the bourgeois lady’s (a)sexuality versus not simply the prostitute, but all working-class women of the “residuum”’ (Bland, 1981: 59–60, quoted in Nead, 1988: 7). These designations have an important bearing on society’s perceptions of womanhood and on women’s actual experiences. The ‘good’ or respectable woman who embodies the acceptable norms – and often childlike qualities – of femininity is perceived as asexual, naturally immune to physical passion; the ‘bad’ woman, constructed as ‘other’, is deemed prone to passion and invested with an excess of sexuality. Just as the opposing images of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ mother in Stretton’s texts are never far

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from those of virgin and whore, so the terms ‘good’ and ‘bad’ (girl) – as ambiguous evaluations of juvenile female worth – appear similarly sexually charged. Kinds of Knowing In Victorian discourse, fears surrounding sexuality coalesce in the figure of the young woman. As Nelson and Vallone (eds) (1994: 8) confirm, girlhood represented – even more than today – a time of ‘liminality’, involving precarious boundaries between childhood and adulthood, purity and desire. Many non-literary writings – including medical treatises and advice books – suggest an acknowledgement of adolescent girls as ‘sexual beings’ (Reynolds and Humble, 1993: 15). Puberty entailed the transformation of the innocent child into the ‘dangerous’ pubescent girl, whose sexuality placed her – and others – at risk, and must be contained. Mechanisms of control were diffuse, but one means was through the moral codes and assumptions embedded in literature for young people. In his history of the Religious Tract Society, Samuel Green (1899: 128), discussing the birth, in 1880, of The Girl’s Own Paper, underlines the special literary provision needed ‘for the girls of our land’ and proclaims the period of girlhood ‘short and perilous’. The paper, Green emphasizes, was a ‘guardian, instructor, companion, and friend’ to readers, preparing them for ‘the responsibilities of womanhood and for a heavenly home’ – sentiments which echo those earlier voiced by writers and critics such as Charlotte Yonge. If fears about the dangers facing young women expressed themselves in increased parental surveillance in middle-class or ‘respectable’ workingclass families, the lives of many poor children were characterized by a lack of surveillance, marking them out as a potential site of deviance. The offspring of the poor, as Stretton confirms in Bede’s Charity, were free to wander the streets at will (1872/c.1890: 108, Ch.14). Such premature independence was perceived by middle-class observers as threatening, but could be simultaneously alluring. Leslie Williams (1994: 128) observes that, although sexuality figures in Victorian discourse on all girls, it is particularly apparent in relation to the poor. Williams (128) remarks on the class distinction implicated in the comparative absence of  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Competing ����������������������������������������������������������������������� notions of the child as innately wicked or naturally pure and innocent parallel the ‘dualistic view’ of women, identified by Davidoff (1995: 106) as a ‘keystone of Christian theology, which justified the subordination of female to male on the grounds of woman’s potential “carnality”’. Images of the child redeemer and the wayward young girl parallel the angel-in-the-house and the fallen woman. Arguably, representations of children such as Jessica are more complex: the redeemer and the potentially depraved in the same figure.  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������� Discussing reformers’ assumptions regarding the monitoring of young women, Gorham (1978: 356) observes that the economic structures essential to the social life patterns of the dominant class meant that, for many working-class children over the age of twelve (who were expected to be wage-earners), parental surveillance was uncommon.

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discourse on the sexuality of middle and upper-class children, with adult males imposing or permitting sexuality for those of inferior class, but not for their equals. We can suggest that, as well as serving as a distancing strategy, the sexuality implied in texts about the outcast poor potentially stands in for a wider sexuality. Stretton’s writings span, in theme and readership, the merging realms of childhood, adolescence and adulthood; given their preoccupation with spiritual concerns as well as physical and moral deprivation and degradation, it is not surprising that religious and social messages overlap with notions of sexual danger. If the precarious nature of the boundary between childhood and adulthood is accentuated in the case of the street-child – with Stretton’s Little Meg, like Mayhew’s ‘Watercress Girl’ or Barnardo’s ‘City Waif’, a child, yet not ‘childlike’, ‘womanly’, although not yet a woman – potential sexuality is implicit. Numerous Stretton narratives foreground the close, squalid living conditions of the urban slum or lodging-house, where numbers of both sexes might be found sleeping in the same room, unable to observe common decencies. It is clear that nineteenthcentury commentators assumed links between overcrowding and sexual licence or premature awareness. Mayhew remarks on the ‘extraordinary licentiousness’ of street-children, suggesting that the ‘promiscuous sleeping together of both sexes, the example of the older persons indulging in the grossest immorality in the presence of the young, and the use of obscene expressions, may tend to produce or force an unnatural precocity’ (Mayhew, 1861–62/1985: 181). Stretton, in The Lord’s Pursebearers, similarly intimates the kind of awareness which children living in confined lodging-house quarters would have acquired. Proximity to the streets indicated a brand of ‘knowledge’ incompatible with innocence – something only ‘babes ����������������������������������������������� and sucklings’ possessed (Gail Eiloart, Meg, 1868, Vol.2, 80); according�������������������������������������������������������������������������� to Mayhew, the opinions of young females reared to a street-life ‘cannot be powerfully swayed in favour of chastity’ (177). This ��������������������������������� assumption of girls’ sexual precocity carries particular implications, both materially and symbolically, because of society’s investment in the woman as guardian or destroyer of morality. Careers, Commodification and Cultural Currency Intimations of sexuality bear wider implications, particularly in this environment. Poverty and prostitution have long been regarded as ‘common bedfellows’, together forming a ‘popular literary “obsession”’ whether as entertaining fiction or as sermon. (Vallone, 1995: 76). The context of Stretton’s stories renders this proximity an ever-present, if not always overtly expressed, thematic concern, 

�������������������������������������������������������������������� Reformers����������������������������������������������������������� including Lord Shaftesbury assumed an association between overcrowding and sexual laxity. Moral corruption was believed to spread like contagious disease or fire in confined conditions (see Mason, 1994: 234).  �������������������������������������������������������������������������������� As Nead (1988: 202) confirms, it was understood that ‘female purity can only be guaranteed within the confines of the home. Outside the home is knowledge and knowledge undermines innocence’.

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and one which interacts with wider cultural rhetoric. We can identify the link – sometimes ambiguous – between sexual precocity or availability and the ‘waif’ of Stretton’s narratives, between the street-seller of watercress or fuses and the seller of sexual favours. The street vendor was perceived as a danger to juvenile morality: ‘… there is very little difference between her and a prostitute, and sometimes these girls are more lawless, obscene, defiant in their language, than even the common prostitute’ (Evidence to the Select Committee on the Law Relating to the Protection of Young Girls, quoted in Behlmer, 1982: 89). Textual representations – literary and visual – contribute to the definition and regulation of female sexual behaviour. Images of the prostitute construe her as a species apart. Perceptions of this figure in terms not only of victimization but of deviancy or social disruption are pertinent to the interplay of attitudes in Stretton’s work, underlining the common status of the prostitute (and, indeed, the sexualized woman) and the outcast poor as belonging to the ‘dangerous classes’ – a threat to the health and stability of home, to social boundaries and the very foundations of society. The wildness of the street-child – the antithesis of the restrained, (supposedly) sexually innocent middle-class child in its protected domestic environment – is enmeshed with the wildness of the sexualized female, and appears at once alluring, pitiful and threatening. Although, as Cutt (1979: 146) claims, the ‘appalling sexual precocity’ of real slum children may not be readily discernible, the lifestyle and appearance of the ragged and thinly-clad child who figures so prominently in Stretton’s narratives carries an unspoken, but recognizable subtext. Economic imperatives undoubtedly forced young slum girls to turn to prostitution – the� Morning Star in January 1867 carries a report of a lucifer seller who, unable to provide a sufficient income to avoid starvation, was driven to this course – and for ���������������������������������������������������������������� Stretton’s young protagonists, material prospects are bleak. The actual extent of Victorian juvenile prostitution is uncertain; when an issue takes root in the popular imagination, facts are difficult to extricate from assumptions or associations. Thomas Barnardo, in ‘A City Waif’ (1885/6: 27, Ch.3), writes that ‘of the eighty thousand fallen women known to be passing lives of shame on our streets, not a few have been drawn from the ranks of wretched little children whose only home has been lodging houses and the streets’. Barnardo’s Tracts refer to children as young as ten being drawn into the practice. Miss Mary Steer,  The term ‘prostitute’, according to Nead (1988: 94), is a construction which operates, by means of various social, institutional, religious and cultural forms and practices, to ‘define and categorize a particular group of women in terms of sex and class’.  This period saw the long-running debates over social purity and the Contagious Diseases Acts.  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� In discussing sexuality and the young girl, it must be remembered that the age of consent – increased from twelve during the 1870s – remained at thirteen until the 1885 Criminal Amendment Act raised it to sixteen. Commentators including Mayhew and Acton acknowledged that biting poverty led to prostitution.

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writing later about rescue work, makes similar observations regarding the age of ‘fallen’ girls: ‘I can scarcely say fallen women, because the large number are in their teens, many only fourteen and fifteen’ (Steer, 1893: 158). Yet the existence of prostitutes under sixteen in London (a perceived mecca for child prostitution) was vigorously denied by The Rescue Society of London, which specialized in the rescue of young girls and women. Whatever the actual incidence, however, the association of the figure of the unsupervised girl of the streets and the prostitute permeates Victorian discourse. Whilst distinctions between male and female roles and responsibilities, in childhood and adulthood, are sometimes effaced – both according to contemporary accounts, and in Stretton’s representations – a preoccupation with the assumed fate of the working-class adolescent underlines the different prospects facing the sexes, within a common state of degradation. If, as we shall see, decline into delinquency and crime is presumed certain for the young male, the future of the adolescent girl in an environment of poverty is likewise read as inevitable and potentially ‘fatal’ – both morally and literally. Godfrey Holden Pike (1875: 155), discussing the female equivalent of the waif, suggests that her sex alone represents a ‘crowning misfortune’. He writes of Barnardo’s encounter with a girl who, although ‘of tender age’, had ‘well-nigh run the length of a career of shame, the seeds of a fatal disease being already sown in her constitution’ (161). In Stretton’s In Prison and Out, the vulnerability – and likely fate – in a deprived, and depraved, environment of the orphaned slum-girl Bess is signalled, if not explicitly named: ‘untold dangers’ lie ahead (1880: 58, Ch.6), and later, ‘on the streets somewhere’, there is ‘not much chance’ for her (145, Ch.16). The philanthropist of The Lord’s Pursebearers, intent on reclaiming a destitute London child, learns ‘how much more difficult it was to rescue a destitute girl from the streets than a boy’; attractive, submissive, and more likely to arouse pity, she is ‘in every way … more profitable to her owners’ (237, Ch.14). Not only was the threat to the young girl from such an environment construed as immense, but the link between them perceived as two-way, as exploration of Carola (1884) reveals. In debates of the period, in evangelical texts generally, and in Hesba Stretton’s narratives, material conditions of existence and moral or sexual contamination are continually entwined in an ambiguous causal relationship. The material and moral future from which the girl street-child is separated by a fine thread attaches to numerous Stretton characters and themes, and hinges on both economic realities and constructions of sexuality and morality. As the boundary between the different street occupations is perceived as precarious, one profession may indicate or symbolize the other. Mayhew’s description of 

���������������������������������������������������������������������������� See ������������������������������������������������������������������������ Walkowitz (1980). Walkowitz deems the ‘throngs of child prostitutes’ to be ‘imaginary products of a sensational journalism’ targeting a ‘prurient Victorian public’. Arrests rarely listed girls under sixteen, with domestic service a common former occupation (17). This latter point seems somewhat ironic, given reformers’ enthusiasm to train street-children for service.

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girls gathered around the coffee-stall and his allusion to loose girls, illustrates the scope for inference and elision: ‘it is … piteous enough to see a few young and good-looking girls, some without the indelible mark of habitual depravity on their countenances, clustering together for warmth’ (Mayhew, 1861–62/1985: 86). The inadequately attired – partly exposed – body of the street-girl clearly signifies more than physical neglect and discomfort.10 I have suggested the erotic connotations of artistic images depicting the beggar girl, signalling both innocence and awareness; she is both ‘an innocent object of benevolence’ and ‘the potential object of male erotic desire’ (Koven, 1997: 27). In Stretton’s description of the torn-sleeved Cassy, or in the figure and attire of Jessica – scantily clothed, ‘wild-faced’, barefoot and hungry, with barely-fastened, tattered frock ‘slipping down’ to expose shivering shoulders (Ch.1), and often illustrated with innocent, open expression – a doubly-nuanced sexuality is implicit; the idea of innocence combined with availability comes into play (Figure 4.1). The pose and body language suggest that the relationship is one of authority and subjection (although this relationship is in some respects reversed as the narrative unfolds). From this perspective, the gaze of the coffee-stall keeper, and that of the reader, must be seen as potentially voyeuristic, constituting the child as sexual object, even as the text works to promote identification and attribute agency to her. Such representations form part of a complex web of material and mythological implications, generating tensions and ambiguous reading positions. We shall learn in Chapter 5 of the urge experienced by Jessica’s drunken mother (formerly an actress, now of dubious occupation) to abandon her to the pawnbroker – in short, to view her as a commodity to be exchanged for money. Jessica, obliged to support herself by begging and working as an errand-girl, is ‘ill-used’ by her employers. Exploitation takes many forms, but these may be linked, the dangers implicit. Textual suggestions of exploitation and commercial value merge with hints of erotic commodification; they also intersect with literary, artistic and cultural commercialization. Little Meg’s premature womanhood entails not only the responsibilities of motherhood and the burden of economic management, but the implied extension of such management strategies into the use of her body as currency in an economic transaction. It is perhaps significant that Meg’s most treasured possession is her red frock – the last item to be relinquished, reluctantly, to the pawnbroker – and that Kitty, unmistakeably involved in prostitution, intervenes with the injunction to ‘run away, and I’ll manage this little bit o’ business for you (1868/label 1889: 87, Ch.8).11 Meg’s emergent sexuality is subtly delineated, and in the unflinching treatment by Stretton of Kitty’s profession – at least as pointed as that of Dickens’s Nancy – issues of female sexuality and As Koven (1997: 27) concurs, the raggedness of the nearly-naked Bridget, of Barnardo’s ‘A City Waif’ foreshadows the likelihood of prostitution. �������������������������� As a result of the erotic power of near-nakedness, raggedness which exposed children’s bodies and limbs could be interpreted as an erotic sign as well as a marker of poverty (Koven, 30).� 11 Patricia Demers (1991: 144) recognizes the alliance of the females, the sexually knowing Kitty aiding and protecting the innocent, vulnerable child. 10

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Fig. 4.1

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Jessica’s First Prayer, 1867/n.d., Frontispiece, A.W. Bayes/ Butterworth and Heath

prostitution are acknowledged, if not named. In Fern’s Hollow (1864/n.d.: 85, Ch.12), ‘bad’ Black Bess, like Nancy, has a red gown; she also wears ornaments, such adornments signalling, as with Hetty in Eliot’s Adam Bede, more than vanity or sartorial excess.

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The child, as we have discovered, is appropriated as cultural property in various ways, material and symbolic. The contradictory, entangled interpretations of the value of the innocent or growing child in monetary terms becomes abundantly clear as we examine Stretton’s work as a whole, with literal and symbolic valorizations constantly overlapping. The angelic, golden-haired child, regarded as ‘treasure’ and emblematic of priceless innocence – appears in texts such as Alone in London (1869/ inscr.1872: 107, Ch.16). The gold represents metaphorical worth, an expression of the value of childlike goodness or purity; it also signifies possessive relationships, with Old Oliver’s desire for this treasure to be ‘his alone’ evoking Silas Marner’s obsessive investment in Eppie as metaphorical gold. Yet, paradoxically, the exploitation of the small child’s appearance to elicit sympathy not only underlines begging strategies, but also presages the exploitation of the female body as street-walker, embodying male hypocrisy: the waif, Tony, simultaneously idolizes his adoptive sister’s image as blonde angel and desires to profit financially from her appealing looks, subjecting her to the public gaze. In this text, and in others such as The Storm of Life, the pure, unsullied child is taken in death before environmental contamination and moral devaluation can take place. Interestingly, in the latter narrative, although young Rosy’s half-blindness has a physical cause, the loss of her ‘blue eyes’ – a characteristic associated with heavenly innocence (as in Diamond’s song from MacDonald’s At the Back of the North Wind, 1871/1966: 246) – may have symbolic resonance since it occurs as an indirect result of her mother’s ‘sinfulness’. Economic worth, ostensibly in terms of begging potential, but arguably involving the sexualized body of the pubescent child, is most clearly signposted in The Lord’s Pursebearers. Here, the ‘overgrown’ girl of twelve or thirteen, with her thick, dark hair, too-short frock, barely-covered legs and ‘promise of beauty’, will be ‘worth a mint o’ money by-and-by’, just as her emaciated little ‘sister’ is ‘worth her weight in gold’ as a begging attraction (37; 39, Ch.2). The commodification of the body, and implicit sexuality of the female child, is made plain in An Acrobat’s Girlhood [1889], where Trixy, scrutinized by circus managers ‘as though she was nothing but a beautiful animal they wanted to buy’ (17, Ch.1), is paraded as a ‘specimen’ in their quest for engagements (28, Ch.2). Whilst Stretton is concerned to expose the physical torture to which such child acrobats are subjected for the amusement of fee-paying spectators, the moral and sexual implications are also apparent. In full public gaze, and in a blaze of light, Trixy is required to adopt ‘positions’ which exceed the bounds of modesty and decorum, in clothes so tight that her sister’s face burns with shame as she watches. Alongside the anger expressed at what is, ultimately, the murder of a child, there is the apparently compensatory message that loss of life has not, for this particular innocent creature, been accompanied by another, unspeakable loss – that of a young girl’s virtue. ������������������������� In an 1884 LSPCC Appeal, Stretton had furiously condemned the cruelty of adults who send children out in all weathers to beg, or who torture children’s bodies during training, continuing, ‘and we call it vile cruelty to train up little girls to an immoral life’ (2).12 12

���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� The Society aimed not only to undertake practical work, but to influence opinions and laws covering child protection, such legislation in England lagging behind that of the United States and parts of Europe (3).

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Language is manifestly ambiguous and charged. The conflation of sexual sin and wickedness is clearly signalled in Little Meg’s Children, where the prostitute Kitty has ‘grown up bad’; the nature of her ‘wickedness’ means she can ‘never, never, never be good again’ (62, Ch.6). As with Barnardo’s ‘City Waif’, the stain can never be wholly removed. Certain deviant activities, as well as constituting a valid narrative element, may operate euphemistically, inviting elision with sexual deviance in ways which circumvent, consciously or unconsciously, proscriptive attitudes regarding explicit description. In The Lord’s Pursebearers (237, Ch.14), the girl will be ‘only too useful’ to the older man in his ‘shameful life’. Likewise, in The Storm of Life, the protagonist’s confessed ‘badness’ involves housebreaking and theft. Consider, however, the criminal husband’s suggested influence on, and exploitation of, the wife and daughter; the pretty, maturing child – in need of ‘more care and watchfulness than ever’ – will be ‘of value’ to, and must be hidden from, the father (102, Ch.11; 119, Ch.14). Arguably, the underlying implications merge with the charge carried by the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ – ‘good’ being synonymous with ‘asexual’ (and morally pure) and ‘bad/wicked’ construed as ‘sexually immoral’. It is declared preferable that a child should not grow up at all rather than be exposed to these moral dangers, and vital that she should avoid the taint of her mother’s background.13 Similarly, in waif novels such as Silas Hocking’s Her Benny, it is deemed better to die than to suffer the repercussions of failing to grow up ‘good’ or, arguably by inference, becoming sexually sinful���������������������� – sentiments earlier expressed in����������� Dickens’s Bleak House and Elizabeth Gaskell’s Ruth. Translated into the cliché of the sensation novel, the fall which awaits the young woman becomes a ‘fate worse than death’. Stretton makes it clear in The Lord’s Pursebearers that it is only by others foregoing Joan’s imminent profitability, and, finally, through escape from the corrupting and contaminating city, that the child can avoid the ultimate, unnamed fate, and remain ‘good’. Contemporary accounts reveal contradictory perceptions with regard to environmental causation and individual moral fault: ‘What theft is to the evildisposed among men, street-walking is to the same class among women’ (Mayhew and Binny, 1862: 454, quoted in Nead, 1988: 108, n.7). Stretton’s Kitty (Little Meg’s Children) is not in the final analysis presented as evil or morally worthless, nor is she entirely a victim. Kitty has apparently chosen to be drawn from a respectable home into this immoral lifestyle, underlining the danger for every girl, irrespective of background. Nonetheless, even without the mitigating force of economic circumstances or exploitation, Stretton’s portrayal is sympathetic, giving identity and voice to the ‘fallen’ girl. This represents an adjustment of the empty stereotype, countering the abstract and dehumanizing notion of the prostitute as merely ‘a marker’ of the boundaries of society’s tolerance (Reynolds and Humble, 1993: 47), rather than an individual, in contemporary novels. Whilst not condoning Kitty’s potentially doom-laden path, Stretton, like Mayhew and others, represents 13 Barnardo cites women begging rescuers to ‘save my child from being what I am’ (‘God’s Little Girl’, 1885/6: 41, Ch.3).

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the prostitute as open to redemption and rehabilitation. Remorse is engendered through example and acceptance; although shame, family ties and affection are harnessed as emotional levers, there is no suggestion of the retribution commonly required. Debates, particularly from mid-century, became increasingly focused on the protection of children and young girls, the high profile given to rescue work reflecting perceptions of the child and the woman as both threat and victim. We can foreground the link between notions of childish innocence and social purity in relation to the causes espoused by Stretton as a founder member of the LSPCC, and which are central to a number of her texts. Narratives such as The King’s Servants (1873), engaging with these debates, chart the rescue of the fallen woman14, with her ‘old-looking’, ‘wild’-eyed and ‘terrible, painted face’, and her shoulders ‘hardly covered’ by ‘dingy finery’ (label 1911: 135, Part 3, Ch.7) – suggestive of the attire worn by street-walkers like Gaskell’s Esther (Mary Barton, 1848). They also underline the ambivalence surrounding this figure in the Victorian imagination. In this instance, the idea of the prostitute as victim, in need of acceptance, is in tension with the notion of shame and the risk of moral and physical contamination; the young male rescuer must be protected from further physical contact: ‘I thrust myself between him and her, as if to hide her from him’ (135). Alternatively, lack of self-control by the male might be indicated here; campaigners such as Josephine Butler (Social Purity, 1879) considered it inadvisable for men to participate in such rescue projects. Also emphasized is the policing of women and their position as objects of surveillance; the portrayal of the slumped figure caught under society’s identifying torch beam (Figure 4.2) – reminiscent of contemporary representations by W. Gray, Gustave Doré and others – raises questions concerning rescue as protection or control. Like the street-child who is reintegrated into a more conventional environment (although, for Stretton, this environment may subvert the normative ideal), the errant girl can be reabsorbed into society, preferably into home and family, as happens with Stretton’s Kitty, whose mother, significantly, does not reject her as parents often did: prizing virtue, they commonly steeled their hearts against daughters ‘on account of sin’ (Pike, 1875: 161).15 The King’s Servants, however, also engages with the question, posed by the narrator, of the advisability of sending ‘some of our rescued girls’ to America (146, Part 3, Ch.9), reflecting doubts about the extent of reclamation and suggesting permanent taint or risk at home. Notions of the progressive influence of a better environment vie with

14 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ The image of the ‘fallen woman’ intersects with anxieties over financial corruption and exploitation, involving what Roston (1996: 65) terms society’s ‘selling itself for profit’, so that the prostitute’s fall������������������������������������������������������������ symbolizes������������������������������������������������� wider moral and economic descent. In Stretton’s work, the obsessive pursuit of wealth or business success and the financial or moral fall of male characters often parallel themes of sexual corruption. � 15 Miss Steer (1893) writes that rescued girls ‘of the better class’ were more likely to be restored to family and friends (149).

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the suggestion of separation – the export of ‘reclaimed’ but ultimately devalued commodities.16 M.N. Cutt (1979: 148) raises the question of whether readers, editors and critics missed sub-themes of prostitution and reclamation, and suggests the broadmindedness of the Religious Tract Society in supporting Stretton. Certainly, Society editors demanded the modification of sensational material in the case of some writers: an 1872 report stipulates in relation to a story by Mrs Coates that ‘passages descriptive of London low life – however true … will be modified or omitted’ (RTS/H8501, 26.3.1872). If such modifications were not required to Stretton’s work (there are, as discussed, instances of other minor changes), it may be that, with an eye to secularization and hybrid markets, they judged that her work achieved an appropriate balance between exposition and intimation. The Athenaeum reviewer of The King’s Servants (13.12.1873), deplored ‘this specific form of sin and wretchedness being revealed to young creatures, who ought not to have their minds darkened by the shadow of such knowledge’, and accused Stretton of a ‘grave error of judgment’.17 No doubt some readers did fail to recognize the implications, but, given the contemporary cultural markers, identification of these nuances and undercurrents by sections of the audience seems likely, particularly as debates over such issues interacted increasingly with trends in fiction and journalism. It is important to pursue this discussion in terms of an audience potentially encompassing a range of ages and classes, and engaging with wider changes in notions of girlhood and womanhood. As noted, evangelical writing draws on strands of popular writing, incorporating apparently antithetical elements. J.S. Bratton (1981: 66) attributes the attraction of reward stories in part to the ‘proximity of moral tales to the kind of amoral or downright corrupt material they sought to supplant’, and to the harnessing of popular story patterns (158), such as the romance form. Stretton’s work owes much to the intermingling of genres, blended with personal preoccupations. We have Stretton, writer of evangelical texts (ostensibly for juveniles), concerned with social equality, and Stretton, writer of secular fiction, sharing a social milieu with authors such as Ellen Wood, and exploring – sometimes with melodramatic overtones – themes of romantic love, bigamy and adultery. In turn, the social concerns which underlie 16 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� There were numerous emigration projects for orphans or wayward children of all ages. Stretton refers, in ‘Women’s Work for Children’ (1893) and in her diary (concerning gypsies), to the project���������������������������������������������������������������� organized������������������������������������������������������ by Miss Rye and Miss Macpherson. Emigration features regularly in Stretton’s texts, offering a new life, but also reflecting social, political and eugenics-related policies. Philanthropist Mrs Wortley (1893: 89) speaks of sending children to the ‘happy homesteads of Canada’, but also alludes to ‘reducing the burdens of overcrowded England’ – a concern intensified during social and economic crises. See also Stedman Jones (1985: 309–10) regarding the colonies as a ‘safety valve’. 17 Interestingly, an 1877 (H.S. King) edition of David Lloyd’s Last Will, announcing the thirty-six thousandth The King’s Servants, refers only to the Athenaeum’s praise of it as a ‘simple but powerful story’.

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The King’s Servants, 1873/label 1911, Part 3, Ch.7, [A. Miles]/ Whymper

her writing are entwined in various configurations with anxiety-ridden discourses of sexuality, morality and reform – discourses which themselves harness the codes and conventions of popular melodrama in relaying ‘factual’ information. If we consider Stretton as a writer of religious, social and popular fiction, frequently focusing on the prematurely knowing child, adolescent or young adult, we can see various agendas operating within and across her texts. Symbolic Subtexts and Sexual Struggle If sexual awareness or awakening is implicit in the poverty of material locations, it is also intimated through symbolic imagery and engagement with psychosocial processes. The forest carries ambiguous symbolism, at times evoking security, fertility and abundance, freedom and release, at others suggesting desire, fear and oppression. Intimations of danger and abuse underlie the imagery.

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Combined with the knowledge that Stretton’s eponymous Cassy has suffered physical abuse from her father and stepmother, her escape (1874/c.1888: 14, Ch.1) through the dark, rain-drenched forest with its traditional fairy-tale imagery of whispering, rustling noises, creaking boughs, snapping sticks, and imagined footsteps, carries symbolic resonance, articulating universal fears. The juxtaposition of the material and mythical lends significance in terms of accepted cultural warnings regarding sexual danger and adult violence. Cassy is afraid of being beaten because, as with Edith in Christina Rossetti’s Speaking Likenesses (also 1874), the fire would not burn. In Stretton’s narrative No Place Like Home (1881), Ishmael will shortly ‘cease to be a child’, and enter the perceived ‘dangerous crisis’ of boyhood (inscr.1904: 34, Ch.3). There is, perhaps, a sense of the erotic – the intersection of infantile oral pleasures and pubescent desire – as Ishmael and young Elsie gather wild strawberries in the woods. Courting Elsie’s admiration, Ishmael yearns, yet hesitates, to reveal the tunnels and subterranean paths of the old stone-quarry (imagery reminiscent of Eliot’s Red Deeps)18 which lie treacherously below the woodland floor: ‘The woods were beautiful; but he knew what was hidden underground as well as what lay open to the eye of day’ (23, Ch.2). He leads her through the concealed entrance to a cave, with its closely-interwoven network of underwood, to an opening which ‘led darkly into some space beyond’ (27, Ch.2). His concern for her dress, embodying disappointment at the limitations of her gender and, perhaps, awareness of her incipient adult femininity, precludes further exploration: ‘“If it wasn’t for your frock …” “Couldn’t I? ...” “No it ud never do”’ (27). Childish pleasure in illicit games merges with anxieties raised about the ending of childhood, the undercurrents arguably hinting at impending sexual maturity – the suggestion and suppression of desire. Similarly, in later texts such as The Highway of Sorrow (1894), evangelical and political themes are interlaced with the romantic elements which characterize Stretton’s novels. Here, the presence or fear of physical desire might be read in the illicit meeting of the young lovers in a wild enchanted chasm of tangled brushwood, with its bloodstained ground and mythical association with violence and superstition (1897: 163, Ch.13). Encapsulating central aspects of the complex discourses surrounding sexuality, class and gender, Stretton’s Carola (1884) represents not only a vehicle for instruction and improvement, but also a site of tension. This interplay, and the reading positions available, will depend on individual engagement with the novel’s strands, and with the conventions of popular romantic fiction. Nonetheless, the text serves as a commentary on society’s fears regarding unregulated sexuality, simultaneously enacting the struggle to put pubescent sexual passion in its place and exposing prejudices and responses to perceived deviance. Carola, in line with the trend for novels about, and directed at, the developing young person, charts the maturation of a young woman. It again embodies a convergence of religious and secular preoccupations, integrating features of the 18

The Mill on the Floss, which Stretton records reading during 1861.

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social novel, the orphan story, the tract, and romantic fiction. The text’s publication in 1884 places it within a period of escalating societal change and diverging views regarding issues of womanhood and social roles. From the 1860s, a wide range of texts testify to the notion of ‘fast-ness’ as a key issue, with perceptions of girls’ freedom and sexual adventurousness accentuated (Mason, 1994: 119–20); the ‘Girl of the Period’ had of course been under debate at least since the publication of Linton’s 1868 essay (reissued with other essays in an 1883 edition). Circulating ideas regarding morality, freedom and autonomy, and the ambiguous figure of the ‘New Woman’, interacted with dominant images of femininity and respectability, with strands of feminism and developments in social and educational reform. It was in 1884 that Stretton, displaying personal and perhaps class-based ambivalence, expressed her anxieties in The Times (8.1.1884) about the new freedoms which threatened to undermine girls’ future abilities as guardians of family life. (She would later, in The Soul of Honour (1898), acknowledge the obsolescence of many restrictions imposed on girls.) The period saw increasingly theatricalized portrayals of outcast society and urban/moral degradation (for example, investigator Andrew Mearns’s ‘The Bitter Cry of Outcast London’, 1883), an intensification of discourses on prostitution – which reached their height in W.T. Stead’s 1885 ‘The Maiden Tribute’ – and a preoccupation with social Darwinism and eugenics. In her choice of Carola as protagonist – orphaned before memory, and named after a passing barge – Stretton again displays an alliance with the marginalized figure, although, as often with these texts, the heroine is effectively one step removed from the depravity around her; she is close to it, partially involved, but not entirely of it. Central characters are frequently precariously balanced on the margins of deviance, sometimes retaining innocence even as they brush with contrary forces, sometimes crossing that boundary, but always susceptible. Stretton emphasizes a tug of war, with particular effects. The setting is a typical, stifling ‘Outcast London’ community, where the very walls exude corruption and immorality, and where Carola’s drunken grandmother fails to protect her physical and moral welfare. Stretton’s description contains all the ingredients of Mearns’s ‘hotbeds of vice and disease’, of which he observes: ‘Who can wonder that young girls wander off into a life of immorality, which promises release from such conditions?’ Here, gin-palaces abound, and ‘all kinds of depravity have … their schools’ (Mearns, 1883/1976: 97; 99. Despite constructing an environment in which Carola – on the threshold of danger – is susceptible to moral and physical contamination, Stretton, with traces of empathy, represents the outdoor life as free and active – a world full of ‘change and stir’; advertising reviews (extracted from The Queen) stressed the graphic, real and powerful nature of the narrative. Carola exists like a ‘wild creature’, suggesting (as with Bronte’s Bertha) an animalistic sexuality; she eats and sleeps at will, frequenting public houses and gin-palaces – establishments commonly associated with sexual adventure. The atmosphere appears both undesirable and alluring in its potency. The hoydenish girl knows ‘all the evil from which most girls are guarded, and but little of the good in which most girls are cradled’ (label 1898: 12, Ch.1). As privy to this ‘knowledge’ – antithetical to all notions of purity

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– Carola represents a figure as close as can be dared to that of the prematurely sexually aware, potentially promiscuous young woman, which whom she is elided, socially and textually. The vulnerability of the young woman exposed to such conditions (and at risk from her own emergent sexuality) is signalled. Her guardian, Matthias, finds her ‘harder to keep an eye on’ as she matures; described as a ‘wild street-girl’, she is tracked down by the School Inspector and forced to attend school.19 However, she ‘shake[s] off’ what Stretton terms the ‘shackles’ of school life (18, Ch.2), with its rules and regulations, to return to the excitement of her free and dangerous existence, resisting curfew or restraint.20 Significantly, in terms of moral instruction, Carola has no female role model; when her grandmother dies, she has no female acquaintance to ask to the funeral; again, in allocating the role of moral guardian – normally the domain of the woman – to a man, Stretton, as with Jessica and Daniel, troubles conventional representations. As a pretty, developing young girl, possessing dark eyes and an ‘abundance of dark hair’, Carola is deemed prey to male attention and malign influence. In her grandmother’s words, ‘there’s not a many girls as don’t go to the bad’ (28, Ch.2); the ‘girls of her class’ refuse to ‘brook any restraint’, and she is left ‘free as the air’ (57, Ch.5). Carola abandons Matthias’s sanctuary for the licentiousness of the streets, where quarrelling, swearing (commonly deemed indicative of actual immorality) and crime are rife, and she associates with mobs of young men. Despite these influences, and her love of excitement, Carola is not totally involved; she rebuffs male advances. She is, however, tempted by drink, which Stretton, like many reformers, identifies as compensatory and an antidote to boredom. Recognizing Carola’s self-will, and her emergence from childhood (‘many of her street companions had lost their girlhood, and had entered upon a hard and wretched womanhood’ – 66, Ch.6), Matthias facilitates a boarding-school education – reminiscent of parallel stages in the maturation of, for example, Esther Summerson and Jane Eyre (a course which lifts the orphan above her childhood environment). Despite her initial resistance to the network of unaccustomed rules and regulations, Carola takes pleasure in equipping herself to earn her own livelihood as a teacher. Clearly, without financial independence – whatever the source – there is little prospect of escape from the slums. The rural cottage which Carola occupies as village schoolteacher represents an a-sexual space; it also symbolizes the desirable domesticity to which the modern young girl, with her gregarious nature and impulse for freedom must be steered. 19 ��������������������������������������������������������������������� A reflection of������������������������������������������������������ prominent efforts by School Boards, as in Barnardo’s Taken out of the Gutter, where the ‘schoolmaster was abroad’ (1881: 8). 20 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Rescue workers found that ‘a ������������������������������������������������������� wild impulsive nature, a restlessness, and a desire for independence’ often characterized young women entering into prostitution (Walkowitz, 1980: 20). Gaskell’s Esther (Mary Barton) supposedly possesses a ‘violent and unregulated nature’ (1848/1987: 276). In Barnardo’s ‘“God’s Little Girl”’, towns swarm with untrained, outcast girls; one such girl is too ‘utterly wild and savage’ to be reclaimed, and people fail to ask, ‘What will this child be as a woman?’ (Chs 2 and 3).

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Despite – or because of – this serene existence, traces of the former wildness exert their magnetism (evoking Stretton’s abhorrence of rural boredom, confinement and conformity); the vitality and spirit of the city, with its chances and changes as well as its sordidness, again appears inviting. Carola suppresses memories of her old environment, which arouse excitement as well as guilt and shame. Unaware of her past, a leading tenant farmer – a ‘prince … come wooing’ (131, Ch.13) – develops an interest in her. Like Bronte’s Rochester, he has eschewed the accomplished ladies; Carola’s simplicity and apparent innocence of his admiration are seductive and serve to tease. The relationship provides a spiritual and moral battleground for the containment of illicit forces which Carola and her background palpably embody, despite the text’s attempts to reconstitute her as innocent. The cottage idyll, although emblematic, at one level, of wholesomeness, carries implications in terms of conflated house/ body images. Frustrated by her indifference, and consumed with jealousy, Philip returns late from the ‘manly’ – and sexually-charged – pursuit of hunting (from which Carola has attempted to dissuade him) to find ‘the gate Carola had held open for him, and behind it Carola’s cottage forming a background of leaping flames’. The illustration (Figure 4.3) depicting Philip’s use of his body to break down the door (‘he ... flung his whole weight against it; it gave way before him’) evokes the physicality of male force in an echo of Carola’s struggles against the attentions of city men, even before the relevant narrative is reached. After groping his way to the inner room, and carrying the now prostrate and insensible Carola from ‘the deadly peril’, Philip finds his strength gone, and is trembling in every limb (118–22, Ch.12). Interpretation beyond the literal content might suggest a rescue from the consequences of Carola’s ‘knowledge’ – an awakened and threatening sexuality. The symbolism of fire also signifies a process of chastening and refining, as well as damnation. Yet the undercurrents hint at a struggle for possession. Uncontrolled, destructive passion poses a threat to the fabric of society. Furthermore, the house represents a site of independence and control for Carola, distanced from male authority. The intermingling of popular codes with moral or spiritual instruction, together with the multiply-charged symbolism, generates energies which compete with the religious message. Carola’s ambivalence and denial of the rescue as an automatic right to her affection suggest a battle for agency. The extent to which the episode encodes female power depends on definitions of power and control in relation to temptation and restraint: feminists such as Frances Power Cobbe considered being a slave to one’s passions contributed to being in slavery to men, with emancipation, from this perspective, associated with self-control rather than sexual self-expression. In exploring attitudes, Stretton exposes assumptions and confusions, class anxieties and hypocrisy. Carola’s economic independence provokes speculation about her past behaviour: ‘a mystery about a young and pretty woman is always to her discredit’ (231, Ch.24), and, as in The Doctor’s Dilemma, is generally perceived to involve shame. If Carola’s schoolmistress status already renders a

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Fig. 4.3

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Carola, 1884/label 1898, Ch.12, [W.L. Jones]/Whymper

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union with her a case of ‘marrying beneath’, reactions to the discovery of her ‘black’ background (a site of struggle for Carola herself) embody widespread prejudices concerning the outcast classes. Values of modesty, innocence and purity, set against the perceived taint of vice and criminality combine with fears of class contamination to shape responses, demonstrating the impossibility of reconciling opposites: ‘How was it possible that she could have been [the pure, innocent girl who had stolen into his heart] … and yet have been so base a thing, so steeped in vice and wickedness?’ (177, Ch.19). Respectability implies ignorance; thus Carola’s proximity to – if not direct experience of – immoral activity places her outside the boundaries of respectability; she is guilty by association, and Philip will be soiled by contact with her. The ‘wealth’ of a good name is all-important, as Stretton demonstrates, underlining the appropriation of economic symbolism. Displaying mingled pity and revulsion, Philip’s mother asserts that ‘nothing can alter the fact that she was born amidst vice and sin – amongst the lowest of the low’ (187, Ch.19). Through characters’ perceptions of vice as inborn, hereditary – a threat to family stock and the future of the race, Stretton exposes social Darwinist-inspired, imperialist anxieties concerning race degeneration: ‘She could never … be … wife and the mother of his children …. We owe some duty to our ancestors and to our descendants’ (187).21 However, through Stretton’s use of shifting perspectives, and the critique implicit in her examination and revision of condemnatory attitudes, the narrative undermines such prejudices, with Carola presented as ultimately morally superior. The threat posed by Carola’s wildness and association with immorality is deflected through spiritual struggle, the discourse of shame, and conventional ideals of feminine worth, in terms of true love, modesty, humility and service. The resolution effectively endorses traditional models, with the revaluation of Carola as ministering angel in a nursing role, and passion redirected into its legitimate place within marriage (albeit on revised terms which include threatened social and economic ‘castration’ for Philip – reminiscent of the ubiquitous Jane Eyre model). The containment of disruptive elements renders the text ultimately conservative. Nevertheless, the representation of Carola’s adventures and trials illustrates the pervasive power of mythologies and assumptions to construct identities and influence concrete responses and experiences, just as material circumstances constrain choices, actions and self-image. Importantly, Carola proves capable of surviving independently; she is shown to be an agent of spiritual and social change, and the sense of her autonomy is powerful, with religious strength again facilitating a certain independence from men. Moreover, Stretton explores moral complexities, interrogates perceptions and allows opposing forces to surface. Condemnation of immorality is tempered by empathetic currents generated through 21

������������������������������������������������������������������������������ According to ����������������������������������������������������������������� Sally Shuttleworth (1992: 36) marital selection directed towards ameliorating the condition of class and species was under debate well before Darwin’s Descent of Man (1871); the late nineteenth century saw heightened, eugenics-inflected, anxieties regarding the ‘purity’ of the nation.

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telling, personally-driven language, while traces of the unacceptable and exotic – as with the vicarious excitement offered to social explorers by the underworld ‘inferno’ – exert a pull. This text hints at a transgression more inviting than the limited, temporary licence permitted the rebel adolescent in a middle-class setting. Arguably, the underlying inscription of anarchic vitality and, arguably, sexuality in texts such as Carola, represent a force which, in tension with restraining elements, at least troubles the conservatism of the text. Inevitably, texts which embrace vice and scandal, focusing on the forbidden, incorporate constituents of the otherness they ostensibly condemn, attracting engagement. Stretton’s writings demonstrate a frank, if partially coded, acknowledgement of issues and anxieties, in terms of material and psychological experiences, social and moral perceptions. Desire – as temptation, threat, abuse or misuse – may represent more than a force against which the didactic aims militate – although it is that. Clearly, these narratives operate at the level of regulation, reform and redirection, opposing the spiritual to the carnal, or identifying the spiritual as a substitute for the inadequate in the earthly. Nonetheless, allowing for alternative readings, the themes constitute not only a warning, but an invitation – in part though the attraction of what is unspoken, but glimpsed. Opening up such ideas, Stretton’s work manifests both the suppression and residual expression of sexuality, potentially releasing as well as containing energies.

Chapter 5

Versions of Womanhood: Perspectives on Motherhood and Gender In her preface to Woman’s Mission (1893), a collection of Congress Papers by women philanthropists, Baroness Burdett-Coutts charts the phases which characterize female maturation, from the unfolding of infancy into childhood, through the blossoming of the child into the girl, to the transition into ‘responsible womanhood’ (xii). Clearly, these stages are overlapping, the implications and smooth passage from one to the other intertwined. Having directed a searchlight onto the figures of the child and emerging adult, we can now, in line with the variable focus of Hesba Stretton’s narratives, profitably direct our attention to the perspective of the woman, wife and mother. It is striking to note Stretton’s interaction with contemporary discourses and representations of motherhood and gender, and her engagement with perceptions of women as ‘other’ – not only in relation to the male sex, but also within the ranks of womanhood. Once more, issues of class, poverty and morality intersect with questions of gender and sexuality; again, relations of power, within and across classes, emerge as significant. In her own contribution to Woman’s Mission (‘Women’s Work for Children’), Stretton suggests the division of the world into, on the one hand, ‘men’, and on the other, ‘women and children’ (1893: 4). The particular relationship between women and children, and their joint position on the margins of male-dominated culture are of prime concern. The intense bonds, convergent interests, and shared subordination of these mutually-dependent figures are powerfully articulated throughout her work, intersecting with the preoccupations of visual artists such as the photographer Julia Margaret Cameron. Motifs of the outcast woman and child abound (see Figures 5.1; 5.2), resonating with literary and wider images of shared exclusion such as those evoked in the paintings of Frederick Walker and Richard Redgrave, the engravings of Luke Fildes and Gustave Doré, and in novels including Elizabeth Gaskell’s Ruth (1853) and George Eliot’s Adam Bede (1859). Blending melodrama, realism and political comment, Stretton’s texts juxtapose alternative paradigms of wife and mother, as well as different perspectives on maternal loss and separation. Her strategies invite identification and facilitate questioning, bringing to the reader’s attention, and often overtly critiquing, women’s oppressive positioning under patriarchy. Again, fictional representations are entwined with material and psychological aspects of mothering, and participate in the shaping of individual and collective identities.  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� See Kaplan ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� (1992: 6–7) regarding the intersection of institutional, historical and psychoanalytical levels of mothering in relation to fictional portrayals.

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Fig. 5.1

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‘A tall policeman came up and stood over them.’ The Storm of Life, 1876/label 1910, Ch.7, W.S. Stacey/Whymper

Versions of Womanhood

Fig. 5.2

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‘Homeless but not friendless.’ Bede’s Charity, 1872/c.1890, Ch.25, Illustrator unknown

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The Worth of a Mother It is clear from the patterns of relationship within these narratives that definitions of the ‘mothering’ role are fluid; ‘parenting’, ‘family’ and ‘home’ take many forms, challenging traditional models and exposing the artificial nature of prescribed roles. In numerous instances, Stretton’s themes call into question the prevailing conception of woman or biological mother as nurturer. At the same time, they reinforce the importance of a ‘nurturer’, whether or not this role traverses age or gender boundaries. The author, nonetheless, displays an unmistakable concern for the situation, both concrete and symbolic, of the woman as mother – and, indeed, of the mother as woman. Her stance reflects the ideological centrality assigned to motherhood as an institution and, at the same time, its profound marginalization – its status as a bastion of female identity and, paradoxically, one of the mainstays of male power. Stretton’s exploration of the maternal condition affords insights into the contradictions and complexities of motherhood and gender relations. As we have seen, idealized images of childhood and youth are set against, and mingle with, alternative depictions of the child and adolescent; likewise, models of the ideal wife or mother are juxtaposed and blended with different versions of the female and maternal role. Just as Stretton draws comparisons between fathers, so she offers diverse and conflicting mother-images. Her representations of women – fusing and contrasting the material and the spiritual – intersect with wider mythologies and contemporary debates; stereotypical portrayals are undercut by less simplistic depictions, raising questions and revealing anxieties. Motherhood figures in these narratives as potentially fulfilling, empowering and resistant, worthy of respect – even veneration. Yet maternity also constitutes a form of entrapment; women are constrained by the physical realities, the spiritual or sacrificial connotations, and the cultural expectations or limitations of the role. Stretton herself highlights the dominating influence within the Christian religion of the idea of ‘Mother and Child’ (‘Women’s Work’, 1893: 4). This iconography is, of course, widely encountered in art and literature, its implications powerfully experienced in lived relationships. The notion of the mother as Madonna – and the consequent emphasis on the spirituality and value of motherhood – permeates culture at all levels, from its basis in the purely religious sphere to its incorporation into general images and qualities of domestic motherhood. ������������������������� Henrietta Synnot, friend and associate of Stretton, observes that, for the child, the mother represents almost a ‘Divine Being’ (1875: 496–7). Such associations are ideologically charged, harnessed for wider purposes; the special position is vital to the future of society and nation. E. Ann Kaplan (1992) points to the influence of Jean-Jacques Rousseau 

��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Higonnet (1998: 42) discusses perceptions of motherhood as a ‘holy calling’. The Virgin-and-Child image provided a reference point for artists, including William Mulready whose ‘The Lesson’ (1859), combined religious resonances with suggestions of the value of maternal influence on the child’s moral and spiritual welfare (Holdsworth, 1992: 7).

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on the discourse of motherhood. The new focus on the child produced an emphasis on the mother ‘in her role as there specially to care for the child’; by virtue of her ‘skills in emotions and relationships’, she was seen to fulfil the crucial function of ‘cementing the family’ (20). During the Victorian period, the role of wife and mother – physical and moral guardian of the domestic sphere – assumed heightened significance and prestige. Charlotte Yonge viewed homemaking as the prime duty of ‘womankind’ (1876: 264). It was, indeed, largely because of the danger that it would undermine the nurturing capacities of girls of the lower classes, and thus ‘unfit’ them, specifically, for ‘patient’ and ‘gentle’ motherhood, that the growing love of freedom cited by Stretton (The Times, 8.1.1884) provoked so much anxiety. Likewise, it was the provision of suitable ‘mental food’ for ‘build[ing] up’ women as ‘the future wives and mothers of [the] race’ (italics mine) which, as part of the eugenic impetus towards moral and physical improvement of the nation, preoccupied critics of juvenile literature such as Edward Salmon (1886c: 526). If the orphan or ‘waif’ signifies alienation and uncertainty in a changing world, the maternal figures as the site of comfort, security and stability. The mother represents the primal shelter, the ultimate refuge: the child ‘whose face is hidden in [her] close embrace’ no longer sees the terrors which have driven it to that place (Hester Morley’s Promise, 1873/1898: 392, Ch.55). The value placed upon the ‘good’, respectable and nurturing mother means that failure to live up to the ideal has severe consequences in terms of society’s censure. Maternal representations in Stretton’s texts carry the weight of all the symbolism invested in the role; the often polarized valorizations of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ mother reflect the pervasive tendency to construct images in reductive binary terms. Her work ostensibly underwrites notions of the ideal mother as nurturer and spiritual and moral example and guide, transmitter of positive cultural values. The need for, or memory of, a mother’s instruction – suggested as a powerful guiding and protective force in the early The Children of Cloverley and other Stretton narratives – is central to countless contemporary works, from the fiction of Elizabeth Gaskell to juvenile texts such as L.T. Meade’s Scamp and I (1877), this iconic influence often preserved and intensified by bereavement. Yet the lack of a mother, or a mother’s care, has, as we will continue to discover, far-reaching implications for the child’s emergence as an integrated and morally or socially acceptable being. Such a tenet is reflected in the observation by Stretton’s contemporary, Mrs Sumner, in ‘The Responsibilities of Mothers’ (1893: 67), that a child’s character is shaped to a great extent ‘by the influence of the home, and above all, by the mother’. This formative influence – and the consequences of its absence – is frequently invoked by Stretton, as we have seen in relation to Carola. Deprived of maternal companionship and guidance, ‘motherless girls’ must conduct themselves with particular care (‘The Postmaster’s Daughter’, 5.11.1859: 40). Gaskell, in Mary Barton, likewise underlines the lamentable loss which motherless girls experience in terms of an absence of direction concerning right and wrong, particularly in relation to the opposite sex (1848/1987: 383). In texts such as Stretton’s No Place Like Home, mother and home are conflated as prime

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socializing force and supporting strength – a perception shared by contemporary commentators such as Benjamin Waugh. Similarly, the actions of David, of Stretton’s In Prison and Out, are motivated by concern for his mother, his reaction to imprisonment conditioned by the effects upon her of his incarceration. As in Gaskell’s Mary Barton, in which the death of Mary’s mother marks the departure of one of the beneficial influences binding John Barton to the ‘gentle humanities of earth’ (1987: 22), the perceived softening, restraining influence of a mother is emphasized in Stretton’s narratives: it was only Cassy’s mother, ‘as kept her father tolerably decent’ (Cassy, 1874/c.1888: 25, Ch.3). In An Acrobat’s Girlhood [1889], the lack of a wife’s influence means that the man spends his wages on drink and fails to protect his children from danger and exploitation. Elsewhere, differences between types of mother underpin the narrative, as in the case of the responsible and caring surrogate maternal figure against which the neglectful and slatternly biological mother-type in Lost Gip is set. In such instances, the comparison of women in terms of character serves potentially to obscure class difference or material circumstances, thus depoliticizing distinctions; the social implications, however, are never far from the surface. Just as motifs of virgin and whore characterize representations of the young woman – and even the child – parallels surface in the different versions of wife and mother. If the normative maternal role is inscribed with a civilizing and humanizing power, some mothers are, by contrast, perceived as barbaric – in need of being civilized. Links between domesticity and virtue, slovenliness and immorality are apparent. The eagerness with which reformers, including Stretton, set about transforming female street-wanderers into trained domestic servants – coupled with perceptions of the incompetent housewife as ‘amongst the sorest evils of our day’ (Pike, 1875: 157) – points up associations between the fallen girl and the slatternly wife. It is in contrast to the virtuous and respectable domestic ideal – its connotations of purity, love and sacrifice rooted in religious iconography – that the dissolute slum mother, symbolizing all that is unregulated and degenerate, is invoked. If ‘woman’ is already constructed as ‘other’, the slum mother, like the fallen woman, represents another level of otherness – a screen for the projection of the unacknowledged and undesirable. The ‘dramatization’ of poverty and street-life – identifiable across cultural forms – surfaces in Stretton’s representations of both the woman and the mother. Much of her work centres on, and refracts, the ubiquitous image of the destitute child; competing with this motif is the figure of the poverty-stricken mother – a preoccupation which, reflecting a mix of social, scientific and mythical ideas, parallels the upsurge of interest in the mother as ‘object’ of concern and investigative study, and the simultaneous 

Temperance stories such as Nelly’s Dark Days (1870) examine the consequences of a father’s dependence on drink.  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Woman, as ‘other’, might represent ‘the tender heart to man’s cool, directing head’, but might also be consigned, like other outcasts, to������������������������������������� ‘unsavoury�������������������������� nether regions below the waist’ (Davidoff, 1995: 6).

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dramatization and vilification of the figure. Many shades of this player feature in Stretton’s stories, representing a spectrum which spans the pathetic to the resilient or flamboyant; in different guises, and sometimes in the same character, the mother stands admired, reviled, pitied and understood. The image of drunken irresponsibility which attaches to the mother in the Jessica narratives, and which is central to stories such as Lost Gip, mirrors stereotypical perceptions which find increasing expression in novels, ‘melodramatic’ temperance tracts, journalistic articles and visual texts, as the period progresses. Associated with the transmission of solely negative values, it represents the antithesis of feminine respectability, maternal propriety and nurturing qualities. The terms in which the drunken woman is evoked by Stretton ostensibly endorse this ‘otherness’; the tattered filth, tangled hair and slumped, grovelling pose, the wretchedness and supposed moral baseness of such characters echoes descriptions of physical and moral ‘foulness’ such as that presented through the eyes of Stephen Blackpool in Dickens’s Hard Times (1854). These portrayals feed into a continuing discourse, the images and overtones implanted in the public imagination, consolidating notions of woman – even (or especially) in the figure of the mother – as potential destroyer as well as preserver of morality and civilized society. The trope of the cowed, crouching, or drunken female recurs across media representations, the slumped position signalling debasement, subordination, despair and degradation. Such characters lack individual identity, being frequently assigned one of the negative epithets befitting their situation; significantly, Jessica’s mother has no name other than that of her maternal role. It is, nonetheless, this role and identity which constitutes the title of Stretton’s sequel, representing a potential reinstatement of the figure absent from Jessica’s First Prayer, who is now, in Jessica’s Mother, to be given a voice. However, the maternal figure, ostensibly central to the story, is fundamentally excluded from it – as she is excluded from society: Jessica’s protector, Standring, hastens to inform her that she does not ‘belong to this place’ and has ‘no business here’ (label 1925: 34). A necessary ‘other’ whom Stretton attempts, but ultimately fails, to recast as subject, the ‘wretched’ woman is destined to be renounced and ‘cast out’ from the narrative. This mother’s fate evokes the downward spiral associated with the evils of drink represented in images ranging from the inebriate, negligent mother of Hogarth’s much earlier Gin Lane (1751) to the dramatic sequences of Cruikshank’s The Black Bottle (1847) and The Drunkard’s Children (1848). The ‘fall’ and apparent drowning are reminiscent of Cruikshank’s caricature of a woman throwing herself from a bridge – one of many artistic and literary or journalistic evocations of the ‘river suicide’, among them Thomas Hood’s The Bridge of Sighs 

����������������������������� See Dickens (1854/1994: 65); Jessica’s Mother (34, Ch.3); Lost Gip (136, Ch.18). Walkowitz (1992) notes the representation of the unrespectable poor in the figure of the dissolute slum mother – often blamed for degenerate slum conditions by middle-class observers indifferent to the constraints on women who ‘appeared powerful but who suffered from male domination and the inequities of class’ (120).

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(1844) and the engravings of Gustave Doré, which respond to the actuality and bolster the myth of the fallen woman. In Stretton’s narratives, London bridges often figure as locations of despair, with the river as the ultimate solution: of the various undesirable, but inevitable, fates awaiting uncared for girls such as Cassy, ‘the river’s the best’ (1874/c.1888: 26, Ch.3). Like Gaskell’s Ruth, the ‘fallen’ Kitty (Little Meg’s Children) contemplates suicide; the ‘painted-faced’ woman of The King’s Servants, found near a riverside passage, is ‘drenched with rain, or perhaps with the troubled waters of the river’ (1873/label 1911:135, Part 3, Ch.7). Stretton imparts telling details concerning Jessica’s mother’s background: formerly associated with the theatre, and having once enjoyed a more luxurious, carriageriding lifestyle, she now exists on the streets. In her fate, the motif of the bad mother and the fallen woman converge in a typically melodramatic representation, as, with a ‘groan of despair’, she seeks cover in the dark, fog-bound streets leading to an old bridge which spans the ‘wide waters of the river’. Under construction alongside, with ‘massive beams of timber, and huge blocks of stone, and vast girders of iron’, a new bridge lies, like: some giant skeleton enveloped in the fog, yet showing dimly through it by the glare of red lights and blazing torches, which … cast flickering gleams upon the black waters beneath, into which Daniel looked down with a shiver … . ... he had lost sight of the woman … unless the strange dark figure on one of the great beams stretching over the river was the form of Jessica’s mother. (Jessica’s Mother, 100–101, Ch.9)

Yet, to conclude that Stretton’s portrayal merely underwrites such stereotypes is to underestimate the complex issues and contradictions at play in these stories. Whilst Daniel’s disapproving perspective initially invests the woman with all the associations of degradation, the effect is complicated not only by the exposure of his unloving attitude, but also by narrative ambivalence. In the first Jessica tale, indictment of maternal neglect is momentarily offset by the humorous, affirming description of the woman’s defiance. The straightforward confidence of the child’s declaration contributes a positive and admiring note which potentially subverts its naivety, endorsing the mother’s anarchic stance: “She’d not hearken to you, sir. There’s the missionary came, and she pushed him down the ladder, till he was nearly killed. They used to call mother the Vixen at the theatre, and nobody durst say a word to her”. (1867/n.d.: 68, Ch.8)

Here, Jessica’s mother is presented as an active threat to established institutions, which, the tone suggests, are being mocked. Such assertiveness and resilience is not uncommon in Stretton’s female characters; like Rachel in The Storm of Life, protagonists are often strong-willed, hindering the exercise of male tyranny – portrayals which challenge the desirability of passive femininity. Attention is also drawn to the painfully ambivalent position of the child, caught between society’s conflicting dictates. Despite the detachment which Jessica, like Sandy (Lost Gip), intermittently displays towards her patently ‘unsatisfactory’

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mother, the child acknowledges, with what Stretton, in Hester Morley’s Promise (405, Ch.57), describes as ‘steadfast childlike loyalty’ towards a parent, the dues relating – regardless of conduct – to the maternal figure. Under Jessica’s influence, Standring’s abhorrence turns to pity, reflecting not only the softening of his heart but the contradictions inherent in contemporary attitudes. Whilst drink, associated with sinfulness and moral contagion, was commonly regarded as a prime cause of poverty in society, material conditions were recognized as generating recourse to the bottle. Charles Booth, in his study of London poverty, acknowledged that drunkenness destroyed families, but also that ‘childbearing often leads to drink’ (Davin, 1996: 22). Stretton’s narratives balance a picture of moral degradation with one of social deprivation. Intermingled with allusions to sin and depravity, in which the narrator’s voice appears complicit, is an understanding of the effects of poverty on the situation of the woman as mother, and the strains which lead to the path of degradation. The acknowledgement that Jessica’s mother has been ‘driven to it’ (Jessica’s Mother, 60, Ch.5) implicates economic and environmental forces – just as Carola’s inclination to drink is attributed, in part, to the desire to forget material surroundings and lack of possessions (Carola, 1884/label 1898: 21). And, surely, for some readers, Jessica’s mother’s sense of the injustice of her separation from her child – whatever its causes – might underline the role which this loss (a denial of motherhood) plays in precipitating her despair and downfall. Underlying the resolution of Jessica’s First Prayer are the conflicts of interest and forfeiture of rights which arise from the need to protect the child. When enquiries regarding the whereabouts of the mother of his ‘adopted daughter’ are unproductive, Daniel’s satisfaction that ‘there was nobody to interfere with his charge of Jessica’ (91, Ch.10) reflects assumptions that not only the woman’s failure to provide, protect and nurture, but her unwillingness to permit the child access to school or church, justify his actions. A mother’s absence may be deemed preferable to her unhealthy influence, a perception echoed by Sandy in Lost Gip, who prays ‘let mother be lost always’ (1873/1878: 96) and whose heart bounds with relief at her death (139). In the denouement of that text, the increasing intervention of reformers and state, in locus parentis, is exposed: the expedition to Canada of apparently orphaned children is arranged with little enquiry into the existence or rights of family, reflecting trends which are only today being interrogated. Stretton’s concern for the welfare of the child – and anger towards the mother on behalf of that child – sometimes vies with understanding or sympathy for the lot of the woman. Yet society’s disregard for the mother is undeniably brought into focus, the maternal perspective accentuated because it is undermined. Conflicting responses to maternity throughout Stretton’s writings illustrate the mismatch between cultural expectations and material experience. The 1859 story ‘The Lucky Leg’ explores the ties of motherhood in a satirical exchange of views,  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Barnardo, in ‘“God’s Little Girl”’, acknowledges that starvation and misery, often following desertion, cause women to take to gin and vice.

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one participant suggesting that, before motherhood, ‘a woman’s nature is only half developed’ (375). Similarly, in The Clives of Burcot (1867/n.d.: 188, Ch.26), maternity is identified as ‘the perfection of a woman’s happiness’, an ideal, perhaps predominantly middle-class perception of motherhood as consummation – part of a normative myth of femininity. However, Stretton makes it clear in many stories that in different situations, and in other social or economic circumstances, this ideal is severely compromised; for many women, motherhood entails unlimited burdens. If, for Victorians, motherhood represented not only the most important, but also the most natural element of woman’s perceived mission, Stretton’s narratives increasingly confront and re-examine the implications of women’s role as mothers, even as they reaffirm traditional perceptions in the face of social anxieties. A case in point is her exploration of the possible reasons for the disappearance of the eponymous ‘Gip’, a theme which reflects contemporary concerns surrounding rates of infanticide. Lost Gip engages with mid/late nineteenth-century debates stimulated by the increasing medicalization of motherhood and the proliferation of scientific ideas regarding the existence of a ‘natural’ maternal instinct. Hesba Stretton’s work clearly participates in this public concern. Whilst apparently underwriting maternal love as instinctive, she highlights with growing urgency the role of social deprivation and moral decline in undermining this norm. Stretton evidently endorsed the view expounded by Arthur Leared in Infant Mortality and Its Causes (1862: 10) that ‘the voice of nature is strong enough to speak for the child to the mother’s heart until stifled by vicious habits, or crushed out by the absolute want of the necessaries of life’ (���������������������������� quoted in Matus, 1995: 158). In ������� the opening pages of Lost Gip, the narrator provides social comment on the loss of ‘natural love’ by mothers. After describing the atmosphere in the courts and alleys of London’s East End, Stretton writes of the near inevitability of infant death under these conditions – with funerals ‘so frequent they excite no notice’ – and seeks to explain the relief associated with hardship and the apparent erosion of feeling: As for the mothers, the greater portion of them seem to have lost their natural love for their little ones, and are glad to be rid of a care which would have made their lives a still heavier burden to them. (2–3, Ch.1)

This attitude towards loss, and the idea of the child as an encumbrance rather than a gift to be cherished – repeated, as we have seen, in her acknowledgement of its potential status as a liability to the poor (The Times, 8.1.1885) – echoes  This parallels contemporary discussions of women’s biological destiny, as in J.M. Allen’s 1869 assertion that a woman knows she is ‘an imperfect undeveloped being, until she has borne a child’ (quoted in Shuttleworth, 1992: 35).  Constructions����������������������������������������������������������� of deviance from approved mothering patterns designate as ‘unnatural’ mothers who transgress the norm (Matus, 157). One means of recuperating the ‘all-sacrificing, ministering mother in the face of apparently monstrous maternal acts was to argue that certain classes of women were losing their natural instincts through the effects of their physical and moral conditions’ (157–8).

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the sentiments of a Saturday Review article dealing with neglect (deliberate or unintentional) as a cause of infanticide: The care of providing for a large family, and the hard life which it entails, reconcile many a mother, who in other circumstances would be tender and affectionate, to a bereavement which at all events diminishes her expenses. (‘Seduction and infanticide’, 22.10.1866: 481, quoted in Matus, 1995: 166)

Jessica’s First Prayer exposes the mother’s desire to rid herself of her daughter along with the pawned furniture (28, Ch.3), a perception of the child as both currency and dispensable object. In Lost Gip, the possibility that the child’s mother has intentionally disposed of her is made explicit in neighbours’ insinuations that ‘maybe she had been made away with as a trouble’ (20, Ch.3). Notwithstanding his recognition of maternal neglect, Sandy hesitates to believe his mother capable of murdering her child; he is reassured by his substitute mother that ‘it’s not in a mother’s nature’ (49, Ch.6). The laboured temperance message, however, is that the most natural of instincts can be overruled by drink. Despite defending her as not ‘a partic’ler bad mother’, and blaming drink for her sometimes unloving behaviour (53, Ch.7), Sandy struggles to reconcile the image of the drunken woman with his (or society’s) expectations of what a mother should be. Similarly, the young adult Cor (Bede’s Charity), contemplating his mother’s failings, finds it ‘strange that such women should have children given to them’ (1872/c.1890: 82, Ch.11). Seemingly, Stretton likewise battles, even as she attempts to promote understanding, with internalized perceptions that certain women are inherently ‘unfit’ to be mothers. Whilst participating in contemporary polemics against the evils of alcohol, Stretton, unlike many commentators, provides other contexts for the inclusion of the working-class woman or mother. In contrast to the mothers of Jessica or Sandy, some female protagonists are represented as deprived but not depraved – widowed or deserted rather than completely ‘fallen’. As upright slum mothers, they – like other Stretton outcasts – are set apart, distanced from the ‘bad’ (unmarried or degenerate) mother as objects of concern and pity rather than figures of shame. Both this crucial difference, and the proximity of one figure to the other, are brought into sharp focus, and perhaps symbolized in In Prison and Out, where the pawning of a widowed mother’s wedding ring makes her feel like ‘one of those wretched creatures on whom she had always looked down with honest pride, and a little hardness’ (1880: 40, Ch.4). As the Morning Star earlier reported (5.1.1867), widowed or deserted women with no means of support were likely to be forced onto the streets in order to provide for their families. Indeed, Stretton understands that, irrespective of class, women who are ‘fallen’, excluded and unsupported, like 

������������� L.T. Meade’s Scamp and I (1877)��������������������������������������������� emphasizes the role of drink in������������� undermining instincts: the ‘love of strong drink had killed all other love in that woman’s breast’ (label 1916: 79); the physical condition of the child of a drunken mother testifies to the ‘miseries’ and ‘punishment’ of sin (196).

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the adulterous Rose of Hester Morley’s Promise, may be reduced, along with their children, to the same abject poverty as those born into such conditions. The extreme hardship experienced by women and mothers, particularly those without support, and who perhaps have responsibility for the care of several generations, is repeatedly reinforced in Stretton’s work. If all women are marginalized, those of the poorer classes are doubly so. There is recognition that the sacrificial contract between mother and society implies emotional and physical, if not moral, decline, to be offset against the benefits to society which accrue from the commitment implicit in the role.10 The mother of the central protagonists of In Prison and Out continues, despite terminal illness, to sacrifice her own needs and to support her family until her physical condition renders this impossible. Stretton makes it clear that the woman’s self-sacrifice, following accepted patterns of maternal altruism, precipitates her decline. Even in situations of less extreme poverty, such as that experienced by the more ‘respectable’ working-class surrogate mother in Lost Gip, it is the woman who, unnoticed, deprives herself of proper nourishment, confining herself to dry bread while her husband consumes – not without grumbling – a ‘comfortable and tasty breakfast’ (84, Ch.11). The sacrificial component of the maternal bond exposes a mother to threat and blackmail. Stretton demonstrates that a woman’s love for her child can be used as a lever by agents of power, and operates to constrain women’s choices. The separation of mother and child (In the Hollow of His Hand, 1897) is employed as a powerful tool of coercion by Church Authorities in pressuring dissidents to recant their ‘heretical’ beliefs: ‘Give me the children, ... and the mothers will follow’ (label 1903: 49, Ch.8). Representing a severance of the most fundamental kind – the rupture of primal ties – this parting has the potential to break a child’s heart and to drive a woman insane with grief. Rachel, protagonist of The Storm of Life, submits to her husband’s authority in order to safeguard her child from his exploitative designs; there is no option but to ‘buy her child’s safety by the sacrifice of herself’ (1876/label 1910: 125, Ch.15). In feminist rhetoric, religious belief is seen to promote women’s complicity in their own subjection; this mother’s faith represents a source of resistance to her husband’s intended strategy. Such resistance, however, entails suffering and self-enforced separation from her child, whose safety (and virtue) cannot, finally, be guaranteed without the ultimate sacrifice: only Rachel’s death affords freedom ‘from the chain of her past sins’ (155, Ch.19). Here, ‘good’ and ‘bad’ woman are conflated, the ultimate treatment largely sympathetic. Redeemed by her determination to be ‘good’ – the archetypal Magdalene sinner turned ‘angel’ – the once depraved woman becomes, like Gaskell’s Ruth, an icon of spirituality. The religious and moral message – the equation of social deviance with ‘sin’ – is, however, balanced by Stretton’s representation of the mother’s experiences; she examines the conditions which engender patterns of behaviour, and exposes the consequences for wives 10 ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� Anna Davin (1996: 24–5) identifies women’s health and vitality as the ‘first casualties’ of poverty, their energy and self-denial forming ‘the first lines of���������� defence’.

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and children of male oppression and aggression. Whereas in the earlier Alone in London, the biblical requirement for a woman to remain with her husband, whatever his habits, is reinforced, the treatment of Rachel leads Stretton to broach, through her characters, the possibility of divorce – an issue explored more fully in the novel The Doctor’s Dilemma, which posits legal separation on the grounds of emotional cruelty. Whilst abhorring the neglect of a child – as bad, she maintains, as violence – Stretton emphasizes that the fate of that child is entwined with the position of the woman: where women have their rights, children prosper (1893: 4). Her factual accounts confirm an acute understanding of the pressures facing poverty-stricken women bread-winners, who, like certain protagonists, are ‘compelled to lock [their babies] up all day, without food and fire’, whilst they earn their bread and shelter (1893: 7). One such woman (Left Alone, 1876) is confronted with this agonizing dilemma, the absence of family or community support forcing her to neglect the child in her charge in order to provide for it. The gulf between ideal and reality forms a persistent undercurrent. If some portrayals appear somewhat harsh, the transgressive or misguided mother figure – as in Gaskell’s novels – also meets with understanding; condemnation is tempered with insight and compassion, the background to events explored. A growing commitment to the sentiment of ‘there, but for the Grace of God ...’, already evident in ‘Alice Gilbert’s Confession’ (1862), is perhaps at the heart of Stretton’s ambivalence – a recognition of the ‘other’ in the self. In her sympathetic examination of the plight of the ‘fallen’ Rose (Hester Morley’s Promise), Stretton overtly challenges the double-standard which conventionally holds that moral sin is worse in a woman; the reckless young protagonist who entices Rose into adultery is exposed as equally culpable. Inviting the reader to reflect on the fact that it is the outcast Rose who dies in misery and penury, while Robert is accepted back into family and comfortable society, Stretton questions traditional judgements, exposing the greater material consequences for women. When despair is total, driving Hagar (A Thorny Path) to abandon her responsibilities, she is not spared the consequences, or the guilt inspired by her action. However, the mother’s dilemma is recognized, the contributory factors exposed: she has ‘toiled and slaved’, ‘gone hungry and famished herself’, sacrificing her own rations, before she arrives at the point of desperation (1879/ c.1882, Ch.1). On impulse, she flees with her baby, her family burden patently beyond endurance (Figure 5.3). Comprehension of Hagar’s motivation again highlights the social conditions which influence moral decisions, throwing into relief society’s failure to acknowledge the constraints of poverty, and evidencing the commonplace displacement of economic causality by a discourse of morality. Stretton’s representations undermine perceptions of sin and moral failure as clearcut. Unlike the mothers of Jessica and Sandy, or Rachel in The Storm of Life, Hagar (having, perhaps, ‘atoned’ through the tragic loss of her baby) is given a second chance – promised a better earthly life in her eventual marriage. In Cassy, which deals with a woman’s selfish abnegation of responsibility, competing currents again facilitate complex readings, rendering a definitive

148

Fig. 5.3

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

‘Shelterless.’ A Thorny Path, 1879/c.1882, Ch.3, Illustrator unknown

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perspective elusive. The fecklessness of the employer, Mrs Tilly, and the exploitation of the child are foregrounded, the foolishness of building castles-in-the-air exposed. Yet juxtaposed with the implied condemnation of Mrs Tilly’s consumption of romantic fiction – with its ‘high-flown romances’ and ‘several murders’ – is a hinted understanding of reading as an escape from reality – a reality where monotony, privation and violence loom large and aspirations are permanently thwarted. Such a recognition recalls Gaskell’s appreciation that romantic ‘castle-building’ of the kind encouraged by Minerva Press fiction represents a release from ‘the pressure of [a] prosaic life’ (Ruth, 1853/1997: 157).11 Cassy aligns fiction with basic sustenance: Mrs Tilly is content, provided that she can ‘get novels enough, and sufficient food to keep her from hunger’ (81, Ch.10). There is implicit acknowledgement of the power for action – however dangerous or morally questionable – generated by the ideas contained within Mrs Tilly’s reading; the narrative events reinforce the idea of such empowerment as more than merely imaginatively compensatory for women. Moreover, Stretton displays a playful self-reflexivity in her allusions to popular reading matter, with metafictional references to the situations and codes of romantic fiction suggesting an element of ironic self-parody, and, perhaps, mockery of contemporary censure, given her own novelistic aspirations and incorporation of romantic themes: the ingredients identified in Mrs Tilly’s fiction were among those highlighted, as we saw earlier, in reviews of Stretton’s work. The blending of serious concerns, including maternal neglect, with currents of playfulness and attention to women’s issues arguably works to undermine disapproval, creating ambiguity. Mr Tilly rationalizes his own departure (viewed as romantically mysterious by Mrs Tilly) in terms of the poverty which induces him to leave, and of his wife’s indolence and descent into the world of fiction. The unsentimental, down-to-earth manner in which Cassy deflates illusions of romance and mystery surrounding male desertion throws into relief the harsh realities of a woman’s life: ‘Maybe he’s run away a-purpose, … they was often doing that on the forest, the men was’ (74, Ch.9). A glimpse of the sinister aspects of domestic disharmony again flags up physical abuse: the man vents his ‘drunken fury’ on Cassy, Mrs Tilly often proving too strong for him (64, Ch.8). Despite the dire economic consequences of his departure, material deprivation is judged preferable to male domination and aggression; Cassy’s own dark experience confirms that when men are forced back to their families, ‘It wasn’t nice for the wives and children’ (74, Ch.9). Initially, the woman relishes the unaccustomed peace, reading without interruption and taking refuge in fantasies of a more pampered existence: ‘Why should she not be admired as much as the heroines she read of?’ (73, Ch.9). Ultimately, she no longer feels bound to struggle in her husband’s absence. Leaving Cassy to manage the household (and the grandfather’s funeral), she departs in a manner ‘almost romantic’, such as might befit one of her

11 ����������������������������� The protagonist of����������� Stretton’s Paul’s Courtship is dismissed as a ‘Minerva Press’ poetess (The Athenaeum, 15.6.1867).

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fictional heroines: ‘the secrecy, the assumed name …, the uncertainty …, the night – all seemed to make her flight a strange and novel-like event’ (93–4, Ch.10). Attention is drawn here to the fictionality of literature, potentially emphasizing doubts about the veracity of other ‘stories’ – including those of religious origin, which are simultaneously affirmed and interrogated as possible dreams or romantic tales. Once again, Stretton ostensibly sets out to convince the reader of the reliability and moral superiority of the spiritual ‘story’, but, perhaps inadvertently, subverts this aim, providing a contrary discourse and engaging with contemporary uncertainties. Despite Cassy’s ultimate assurance of faith, much is questioned and remains unresolved. The Place of a Woman Within Victorian discourses of the maternal, the interrelationship of issues of motherhood, gender and relations of power is apparent. Constructions of motherhood, and the transmission of accepted mothering practices, are part of the process through which divisions are perpetuated and sexual inequality reproduced.12 If matters of gender or morality sometimes obscure class concerns, the reverse also applies, with ostensibly class-specific situations masking wider inequalities of gender and power. Although Stretton’s themes encompass a variety of class settings, the material or economic situation of the mother is, of course, central to many texts. However, as with other themes, Stretton’s writing provides for the expression of issues which traverse class boundaries, and which in certain environments may remain unacknowledged. If domestic violence is openly regarded as inevitable – a prerogative of those in authority – in working-class communities, this does not preclude the presence of violence or abuse of position in middle-class homes. Suggestions of abuse (as, for example, the bruises on a woman’s body, noted in such a matter-of-fact way by the protagonist of Alone in London) may strike a chord beyond the context in which they are fictionalized, providing a source of identification for middle-class readers. Shared anxieties are expressed and recognized, with knowledge domesticated through displacement into another class.13 The process of projecting and constructing difference is brought into sharp focus in these narratives; at the same time, the articulation of women’s experiences and grievances draws on, and reaches out to, a collective

12 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������� See, for example, Chodorow (1978). As Davidoff (1995: 7) observes, g�������� endered ideas ‘became themselves instruments of control over resources, people and things, and legitimated, in principle, the drawing of boundaries between people’. 13 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� In������������������������������������������������������������������������������� female social workers’ accounts, poor women were arguably ‘speaking on behalf of their better-off sisters’, with stories of cruelty and abuse functioning as ‘concealed statements about middle-class marriage’ (Ross, 1993: 20). See also my discussion of the normalization of violence in the eyes of children (Chapter 3).

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female consciousness, with gender concerns, and the exploitation of women in general, constantly under scrutiny. In novels and shorter narratives alike, forthright criticism of male habits or characteristics accompanies resentment concerning the unfair or arbitrary nature of gender relations and boundaries in society. The eruption of underlying anger suggests the kind of ‘writing in a rage’ pinpointed by Virginia Woolf (1945: 70) in relation to Bronte’s Jane Eyre, and is readily identifiable throughout. The assertion by a character that ‘all men are foolish’ appears in the later Carola (109, Ch.11), but the implications of women’s social and domestic role (together with their superior abilities as managers and organizers) are foregrounded from the earliest texts. Whilst, as Davidoff (1995:12) observes, ‘the essence of Western femininity has been defined as dependence and service, the obliteration of the self, combined with the enabling of a higher, dominant, and masculine authority’, for the poor in particular, women’s mental, physical and spiritual strength and resilience has been crucial to survival. Both sides of the coin apply, at various levels, to the concerns embodied in Stretton’s work. The balance between an attitude of dependence on God and the pursuit of diligence and self-help is a theme of Enoch Roden’s Training (1865). However, despite the fact that an integration of these stances accompanies the gradual modification of characters’ viewpoints, the strident statements on gender issues invite wider identification and endorsement. Enjoined not to ‘worry about tomorrow’, wife and mother Susan retorts, ‘But what would become of me and my family if I didn’t toil and sow [later repeated as ‘sew’] … and take a deal of thought of the morrow …. Maybe it’s only the women who have to think about it, and it seems rather hard upon us’ (label 1902: 13–14, Ch.1). In order to pay the rent, the daughter puts practicality over sentiment in selling a treasured family possession. Recognizing that her father will thank Providence for the proceeds, she asserts, ‘Yes, I’m his providence’ (33, Ch.3). This idea of women having to take responsibility and exercise prudence when men fail to manage family or business affairs arises in Stretton’s journals and underlies textual themes: in Two Secrets (1882), the burden of planning again falls to the mother; protagonists such as the eponymous Hester Morley, on the borders of middle-/trade-class society, benefit from an education in the ‘practical school of poverty’ (296, Ch.42). Pervasive comments convey a sense that women’s real worth is not acknowledged, not matched by their standing in society or, indeed, family. Reflecting the social undervaluing of daughters, Stretton highlights the perception that, across classes, ‘gentlemen don’t set such store on little girls as little boys’; for a father ‘a girl is only half a child’ – loved ‘almost as if she had been a son’ or considered ‘not worth wasting love on’.14 Preferential treatment of male offspring by mothers incurs resentment: ‘she was one of those mothers who think nothing of their girls in comparison with their sons’ (In Prison and Out, 22, Ch.3). For 14 The Soul of Honour, 71, Ch.7; The Highway of Sorrow, 110, Ch.9; A Man of His Word, 61, Ch.1; Half Brothers, 136, Ch.20.

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such women, a girl may represent an ‘unnecessary supplement to the page of … maternal love’ (Cobwebs and Cables, 1881/n.d.: 55, Ch.7). The current of anger directed at men and male dominance is marked in texts such as Cassy, the viewpoint of characters permitting the outright expression of arguably proto-feminist attitudes. The adoption by the narrator of the child’s perspective serves, not to ridicule naivety, but to foreground the naturalization and internalization of gender prescriptions, and the consequent unquestioned acceptance of subjection: experience tells Cassy that males are ‘born to be the masters and tyrants of the race’ (75, Ch.9); self-evidently, women and girls exist ‘only to submit to their jokes and fury’ (64, Ch.8). The cultural interpretation of a patriarchal system, as opposed to the scriptural model, is sardonically identified and implicitly criticized, with religion presented as potentially emancipatory: ‘There was never anybody so good [as Jesus] to women and children! as if they were almost as good as men!’ (138, Ch.16). Female protagonists in Stretton’s In the Hollow of His Hand similarly value Christ’s treatment of women and children. In Cassy, however, these statements contain greater irony: Cassy’s assertions, despite overtones of naivety, reveal her own materially-derived feelings of oppression and convey an acute assessment of the wider implications. Far from exploiting the child’s voice, the text’s convincing engagement with the sense of vulnerability and marginalization expressed by the female child arguably promotes, for all ages of reader, an appreciation of the emotional and social situation which underlies the irony. The relationship between such textual attitudes and the journal declarations in which Stretton repeatedly describes men as generically unfathomable and dishonest is impossible to ignore. It is perhaps pertinent to recall here both the increasingly strident tones of some strands of feminism, and the focus in popular or sensation fiction on men’s villainy and women’s victimhood. Stretton might reasonably be accused of demonizing the male sex, were it not for her representation elsewhere of men’s positive and nurturing qualities, and her complex exploration of the moral dilemmas faced by male protagonists. Forthright condemnation of the male sex in Victorian discourse is not, of course, confined to ‘popular’ texts; Stretton engages with a general unrest and recognition of women’s unequal status, as highlighted not only by women but by champions of their cause such as John Stuart Mill, whose terminology in On The Subjection of Women (1869) often corresponds closely to Stretton’s own.15 Women’s fear of men, and of the secrets of matrimony, permeates Stretton’s writing; despite ambiguities and contradictions, certain patterns emerge across her work. In the The Clives of Burcot – which concerns itself with the taint of illegitimacy and the rights of inheritance – the protagonist finds herself both excluded 15

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Mill (1869/1998) cites the disposal of daughters in marriage at the will and pleasure of the fathers, the desire of men that wives should be ‘willing’ slaves and the emphasis in women’s upbringing on submission – just some among many issues highlighted by Stretton in similar terms.

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and confined by men (just as Stretton’s child protagonists experience exclusion and confinement by society). Marriage, acknowledged as a solution to women’s economic situation, and a ‘lesser evil’, is dreaded as the unknown – a mysterious fate awaiting the woman behind closed doors, threatening both oppressive physical enclosure and psychological torture. The Bluebeard motif is specifically invoked here, as in ‘The Lucky Leg’ and other Stretton texts; Gothic imagery is harnessed to accentuate the female predicament. The young protagonist of The Doctor’s Dilemma (1872), confined to her room by her husband and colluding female tormentor – in ‘authority over [her]’ and ‘bent on making [her] submit to their will’– is as much a prisoner as the howling dog which rattles its chain (Part 1, Ch.1); she flees, as from ‘bitter slavery’ (Part 1, 60, Ch.6). Matrimony – destined to make one either very happy or very wretched – can, for the mature and like-minded, be fulfilling. For lively Rose Morley, it heralds an end to happiness; the youthful bride resembles a butterfly which, having flown unwarily into ‘a damp and chilly cave’, pines, wings folded, for summer’s ‘brilliant hours’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 41, Ch.5). (It is the mournful atmosphere of the marital home which both precipitates the woman’s fall and softens her culpability). Yet something also appears lacking in the sensible, companionate marriage, where no mystery – no Bluebeard’s Chamber – awaits (The Doctor’s Dilemma, Part 2, 165, Ch.10), once again intimating the allure of that which is secret and feared. The state of being in subjection to, or ‘moulded’ by, men provokes constant anxiety; resistance to the idea of being a slave, or, in an abusive marriage, doomed to bondage even more cruel and humiliating, is frequently expressed. The perception of woman’s fate in such terms chimes with the common use of the master-slave analogy by Mill, Frances Power-Cobbe and others, in relation to women’s position. The notion of women as property (carrying suggestions of the right to inflict physical ‘chastisement’), or as validation of male identity, is a recurring motif: ‘She bore his name, and belonged to him’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 77, Ch.12). Here, a man’s unconscious egotism in his union with an attractive woman is highlighted; he bathes in reflected glory, but his ‘possession’ proves less rewarding when it entails association with the shame of his wife’s adulterous conduct. Male ownership is already an insistent theme in The Clives of Burcot, the protagonist passed from stepfather to husband and then to dependency on the husband’s brother. The heroine of The Doctor’s Dilemma, pursued like a hunted creature by her tyrannical husband, is subjected to vengeful and gloating declarations that ‘she is my wife’, ‘Mine’ (Part 3, 199, Ch.18). She finds it beyond belief that the law of a Christian country can underwrite an emotionally abusive man’s claim to his wife as a ‘chattel’, denying her [her] right ‘to [her]self’ (Part 3, 106, Ch.10). Woman’s passive role as plaything or article of luxury – available to be admired, caressed and worshipped – is suggested in The Clives of Burcot, which explores the susceptibility to, and illusory nature of, immature romantic love; in����������������������������������������������������������������������� her diary, ����������������������������������������������������������� Stretton mockingly quotes an acquaintance’s description of a ‘marriageable young lady’ as one who would ‘lay her head on a young man’s lap, look up in his face, say “dearest”, and quote a text of Scripture’ (19.3.1861).

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Indeed, the despotism of man’s nature, a characteristic identified in Stretton’s ‘The Withered Daisy’ (1861: 211) and emphasized by campaigners such as Harriet Taylor16 in connection with the exploitation of women’s dependence, will always ‘bend a woman’s [nature] into some degree of conformity, or drive it into desperate revolt’ (The Clives, 378, Ch.47). The need – and the desire – to be practically and emotionally dependent on men competes here with resentment of such dependence, highlighting gender conventions as a site of internal struggle. The psychological effects of an unsatisfactory father/surrogate father-child relationship and lack of a female role model on the formation of female identity are intimated. Juxtaposed with the clichéd situations of melodrama, including villainy, attempted bigamy and shipwreck, are social, moral and political complexities which Stretton overtly raises. The links between economic dependence and subjection are often explicit, lying beneath the surface even when a satisfactory outcome is suggested. Whilst protagonists like Hester Morley have licence to be the ‘arbitress of [their own] actions’ (177, Ch.25), and to ‘mark out’ their own path, in many instances autonomy is constrained by poverty or financial dependence. The eponymous Carola is only able to escape from her background and to live autonomously because of the possibility of education and comparative economic independence generated by her unexpected endowment. For Jessica, the future depends on the continued provision of economic security by men – such security willingly repaid by domestic service. Cassy’s relationship with the disabled Simon is devoid of the mistrust engendered by past abuse; Simon’s situation, like that of the old blind man taken in by Mrs Clack (A Thorny Path), and like Philip’s fall in status (Carola), suggests an equality only possible through symbolic castration of the male. Ironically, although the improved status of Cassy’s protector lifts him above poverty and in turn enables him to ‘buy’ Cassy from her father, she is freed from abuse and exploitation only to become a willing domestic servant in return for economic security. Alongside exposure of the exploitation of working-class children in service, there is implicit acceptance of the female as servant of the male when this is accompanied by the pleasure of grateful sacrifice. Whilst such notions again appear to underwrite assumptions about the domestic role as the ultimate (and desirable) destiny of women, conflicting currents compete for primacy in Stretton’s texts, as in her life. Domesticity may constitute a desirable preparation for motherhood, but exploitation within the domestic sphere is repeatedly suggested in the representation of female attitudes, pointing up unequal power relations, divisions of labour, and the delineation of male and female space. The assumed centrality of the adult male in the hierarchy of the household is scrutinized, the space occupied by the male body and implied limitation of space permitted to the female body highlighted in references to male posture: 16 ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� ‘The Enfranchisement of Women’ (��������������������������������������������� 1850/1995:����������������������������������� 30). Taylor influenced Mill, whom she married in 1851.

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Even in her own house she seemed to make herself as small as possible, and to take up as little room as she could. To have a man there, who spoke in a loud and deep voice, and who stretched his legs right across her narrow hearth … was the heaviest trial that could have befallen her. (A Thorny Path, 45, Ch.6); [his] thin long legs were stretched quite across the hearth, as though no one else needed to sit by the fire. (Lost Gip, 59, Ch.8)17

Here, the man is portrayed as indolent and demanding, scathing (and jealous) of his wife’s philanthropic commitments. There is, however, an intimation that gender divisions are not immutable; Stretton shows an awareness of the misunderstandings between the sexes, and the possibility of conventional patterns being overturned. Rather than naturalizing assumptions about women’s role, religious conviction is shown to be effective in addressing aspects of inequality and exploitation within domestic relations. It again emerges as progressive – liberating rather than restrictive or regulatory, a view advanced by many female reformers, who hailed Christianity as a force for equality and emancipation.18 Mr Shafto’s awakened conscience (Lost Gip) promotes a reshaping of attitudes and gender relations; recognition of his own idleness, and an increased compassion for others, extends to the inequalities of the marital relationship. He relinquishes his assumed right to the lion’s share – symbolic of status as much as nutritional needs – and, to her incredulity, spares his wife the task of cleaning his boots, a chore she has dutifully performed each day since their marriage, however pressing her own work commitments (85, Ch.11). The reader is invited to endorse the unfairness of this situation; Stretton’s personal aversion to the trials of domesticity doubtless fuels her arguments of injustice, which echo diary comments and chime with perceptions of domestic servitude as ‘a species of slavery’ (Gaskell, 1848/1987: 26). Here again, Stretton harnesses the child character not only as instrument of spiritual and moral awakening, but as a vehicle for exposing social and gender-related grievances, just as writers such as E. Nesbit were later to do. The seemingly impermeable barrier between the sexes, with men as impenetrably ‘other’, is explored in A Thorny Path, along with factors contributing to this gulf. Old Mrs Clack (unmarried, but adopting the title ‘Mrs’) cannot ‘abide to have aught to do with men’, who are costly and wasteful (21, Ch.2). The narrator, adopting her perspective, presents men as coarse and domineering. Mrs Clack is embarrassed by the presence of a man, albeit one who is old and blind (and 17 Davidoff (1995: 6) identifies the division of physical space as part of a ‘complicated tapestry of gendered meanings’, maintained lower down the social scale, albeit ‘reduced to the husband and father’s special chair by the fireplace’ (6). Sandra Lee Bartky (1988), applying Foucauldian ideas, discusses the ‘inferiorization of women’s bodies’ evidenced by postural differences – part of a ‘[body] language of subordination’ (73) involving restriction in women’s ‘spatiality’ (66), with men ‘expand[ing] into the available space’ (67). 18 Prochaska (1980: 12).

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implicitly less threatening). He is as strange, and as dreaded a creature as ‘one of the savage wild beasts from the Zoological Gardens’ (44, Ch.6): ‘The more I dwell on it, the more difference I see betwixt men and women’ (59, Ch.7). Such impressions are not, however, definitive. It emerges that, having been raised and trained in strict seclusion within an orphanage, and later working among women, Mrs Clack’s experience of life has been ‘strictly confined to the woman’s side of it’ (45, Ch.6). Society must therefore share the blame for accentuating divisions through its practice of social segregation. The ageing Simister (Bede’s Charity) finds himself similarly uncomfortable with women, judging their habits and fashions disagreeably alien and unsettling; he takes exception to their ‘chattering and gadding about’, their tendency to erupt into hysterics, and to ‘make a dust wherever they go’ with their ‘draggle-tailed petticoats’ (55, Ch.7). Analysing his life-long lack of association with women (‘there hasn’t been a woman up my stairs these twenty years’), he explains: “A woman’s like a watch, and needs a man to carry her, and wind her up, and regulate her speed, and see to her main-spring. I’ve had so much to do with watches that I didn’t want anything to do with women.” (67, Ch.9)

Across classes, there are men who perceive women as creatures to be kept in their place and out of mischief (Cassy; Half Brothers). Yet Stretton points up such attitudes and differences in order not merely to critique them, but often to explore and break them down, suggesting that misunderstandings can be overcome; both sexes have human hearts (A Thorny Path, 59, Ch.7) and potentially share a common consciousness. In Under the Old Roof (1882), traditional labour divisions are reversed. Responsibility for childcare is assumed by the father – more advanced in years – while the mother, as full-time wage-earner (which the neighbours term ‘slaving like a man’), supports the family and saves to recover the cottages once owned by her father. The househusband practises the thrift and self-denial ‘ordinarily the woman’s part’ (n.d.: 25, Ch.2); Abigail is less dependent upon her husband ‘than most women are’ (38, Ch.4). In a text concerned with over-reliance on possessions and with issues of reconciliation, other agendas compete. Assumptions regarding gender are voiced, presented for critique; resentment of the woman’s leading role, and of her position as property owner, is expressed by the stepson, who vows never to set foot again in a house where a woman is master (28, Ch.2). The narrative again provides a framework for acknowledged polemic. A prefatory note advises that the story was intended to illustrate the injustice suffered by women prior to the Married Women’s Property Acts, and to highlight subsequent improvements. Its publication coinciding with the 1882 Amendment (which followed more than twenty years of campaigning, eventual legislation, and agitation for further reform, Under the Old Roof explores the inequalities of women’s position under law; it reiterates men’s economic, social and legal oppression of women, notwithstanding women’s economic contribution. In an era of diffuse, conflicting currents of feminism, the text engages with the strand which,

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from mid-century, sought to promote women’s rights within marriage. Reform of the married women’s property law, supported and influenced by figures including John Stuart Mill and Barbara Leigh-Smith Bodichon, was debated in the press and journals, provoking opposition on the grounds that it threatened the sacramental nature of marriage.19 Stretton’s story revolves around the injustices of earlier law; it serves to raise awareness and to interrogate persisting attitudes. Indignation surfaces through the voice of narrator and characters. A chapter entitled ‘Is it Just?’ details the prior legal position: ‘a married woman’s goods go to her husband … if there’s not any settlin’ of ‘em on herself afore she’s married (48, Ch.4). Wives had no identity apart from their husbands, as Stretton’s dialogue confirms: ‘by the law a married woman is nobody’ (49, Ch.4). Yet again, the author pleads the cause of those to whom society denies an identity. It is inviting to consider the likelihood of Stretton’s engagement with the debates over women’s rights as charted by Annie Besant, also in 1882. Chronicling women’s historical oppression, Besant (1882/1987: 394) cites an 1876 Westminster Review article which invokes Aristotle’s comparison of women and slaves; drawing on������������������������������������������������������������� the ideas of Mary Wollstonecraft and Harriet (Taylor) Mill, she confirms married women’s subjection to the power of others.���������������� In her account of����������������������������������������������������������������������������� the gradual, but inadequate, changes secured through the Acts of the 1870s, Besant�������������������������������������������������������������������������� identifies many of the inequities highlighted by Stretton, and similarly stresses men’s despotism; she rebuts the arguments of ‘those who like “a man to be master of his own house”’ (417). The article quotes parliamentary proceedings (14.4.1869) concerning the Married Women’s Property Bill which highlight the denial of ‘that which one might suppose to be [a woman’s] inalienable right, the fruit of her mental or bodily toil’ (406) – the premise underpinning Under the Old Roof. Mothers, Sisters, Mentors and ‘Old Maids’ If attitudes towards men – at times oppositional, at times conciliatory or unconventional – embody tensions, there is also ambiguity in Stretton’s representation of women. Although, as Cutt (1979: 120) acknowledges, Hesba Stretton may sometimes represent the alter ego of Sarah Smith, the division is far from clear-cut. These possible identities fuse and diverge, frustrating easy allocation of characteristics or attitudes and allowing Stretton to play with distinctions between public and private persona. Her diaries indicate impatience with women in general; occasionally, however, sisterhood receives more favourable treatment. Stretton both criticizes and endorses female networks, mocking them in ways which complicate interpretation: the journal reveals an exclusively female picnic which ‘reminded us of Martin’s “Plains of Heaven”, where there are no men’ (Log Book: 17.7.1863).20 She also exploits women’s gatherings for her own ends. 19

See Holcombe, 1980. ��������������������������������������� Ellen���������������������������������� Wood alludes to this painting in East Lynne (1861).

20

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Although the regular ‘Dorcas’ meetings figure in her journals as unbearably dreary occasions, Stretton could not fail to recognize their place as a forum for women’s exchange of gossip (an occupation not totally eschewed by her), and was quick to use the setting as the starting point for her story ‘The Lucky Leg’. It is not consistently the case that Stretton, as author/narrator, holds women in higher esteem than she does in life. Despite her concern for women’s suffering and for aspects of their social and material position, her female characters are not unfailingly the embodiment of goodness, nor is she averse to satirizing certain kinds of women. The self-aware, independent and public-spirited woman who provides, and enjoys, equality and companionship in marriage – with a degree of romance – emerges, perhaps as Stretton’s ideal; she regularly figures in the middle-class settings of longer novels. Nonetheless, if frail, insipid or frivolous women, such as those decried by Yonge and others, incur criticism as well as sympathy in both diaries and narratives, so do possessive and overbearing females. In Under the Old Roof, despite endorsement of the capable protagonist, there are suggestions that a woman can be too masterful. Numerous domineering female characters appear in her work, as noted in connection with the ‘mother-influence’ exercised by Ellen Wood. Women also act as patriarchal agents – complicit in, and sometimes exceeding, male tyranny and oppression, as in The Doctor’s Dilemma. Marina Warner (1996: 282–3) discusses the figure of the wicked stepmother, in all her guises. She notes the antagonism of stepmothers towards stepchildren, and women’s feelings of rivalry towards daughters-in-law – patterns which characterize tales world-wide, reflecting mythologies and lived experience. In Hesba Stretton’s work, such archetypal figures appear in the role of the scheming stepmother – the ‘ruin’ of a stepdaughter’s life, as in The Doctor’s Dilemma and The Soul of Honour – or the jealous mother-in-law, protective of her ‘adored’ son and resentful of the younger woman’s usurpation of her position. In Carola, Mrs Arnold’s over-involvement with her son’s future and choice of wife is judged an undesirable trait, and the interfering presence of Mrs Ashworth in The Clives of Burcot is often felt as stifling and malign. Sons are torn between the influence of mother and wife; even an accepting mother may experience an instinctive jealousy of the girl ‘destined to steal away her son’ (The Highway of Sorrow, 49, Ch.4). Such anxieties are linked to fears of displacement – to a conviction that a son has never encountered a woman ‘more beautiful and fascinating than the mother he had always admired’ (Cobwebs and Cables, 196, Ch.28). Stretton’s Mrs Ashworth – an elusive character, apparently set, as Bratton (1981: 185–6 ) recognizes, in opposition to the protagonist, Rhoda – in fact embodies contradictory facets of the mother-figure. Throughout the text she is alternately feared, pitied and admired by Rhoda, who submits to the older woman’s authority despite her own superior standing. She is described in markedly masculine terms (just as the protagonist’s first husband is feminized), indicating an unsettling of gender characteristics; her height and strength are shown to oppress. The woman is at once presumed surrogate mother and unacknowledged, compromised natural mother; archetypal evil witch-mother or mother-in-law of myth and melodrama; and strong would-be mentor, champion of social reform. Sacrificial defender of

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her son’s interests and honour, she is also the possessive manipulator of his life and the lives of others around him. The woman/mother as victim and the woman/ mother as malign influence intermingle in a manner which reflects the conflicting implications of the role and society’s ambivalence towards it. The feared or fearful woman as spinster features in portraits such as the jealous and controlling Miss Waldron (Hester Morley’s Promise). Resembling a ‘domestic pope – infallible and autocratic’ (112, Ch.17), Miss Waldron is a frustrated theologian, the pulpit her natural ‘sphere’. Born a woman, she has ‘missed her avocation’ (186, Ch.27). The satirization of such figures perhaps betrays a fear of prolonged singleness – of the ‘empty, vacant lot of an unmarried woman’ (The Doctor’s Dilemma (Part 2, 279, Ch.20) – as well as resentment of the restrictions facing women within the public domain. Stretton’s disparaging journal comments about ‘old maids’ indicate a half-humorous acknowledgement and, perhaps, an underlying discomfort regarding her progress towards this state – one denigrated or vilified by society and commonly dreaded. The fictional Miss Waldron, racked with envy and insecurity, and ‘shiver[ing] at the thought of being old’ – ‘a thing laid aside’ (Hester Morley, 310, Ch.44), schemes desperately, and without success, to secure a match for herself. In these portrayals of womanhood, Stretton both draws from the polarized representations of popular fiction and unsettles the moral absolutism often associated with such images. Her representations are ultimately complex, reflecting the diverse facets and consequences of women’s positioning within society; the attitudes and arguments conveyed in her writing rehearse the debates and conflicts pervading public and private discourse. The Maternal and the Unconscious In examining the complexities of womanhood and identity, it is illuminating to focus more intensely on the maternal relation from the point of view of the deepseated connections which emerge between Stretton’s life and psyche, emotional and material deprivation in society, collective fears or longings, and textual motifs and patterns. Dominating Stretton’s narratives from the earliest stories and novels such as The Clives of Burcot, through texts including Lost Gip and The Storm of Life, to The Lord’s Pursebearers and others, both the terror of being lost and the fear of losing a child tap into archetypal fears of separation or abandonment – expressed in early myths such as that of Oedipus, and resurfacing in various guises in oral stories and fairy tales. Such fears may reflect the ambivalence of the mother-child relationship, or embody unfulfilled yearnings. The pivotal importance – both practical and psychological – of the mother to the child, and the pain of deprivation, are encapsulated in Cassy’s cry of desolation: ‘Oh! if mother hadn’t died! (14, Ch.1). From a maternal perspective, the intense suffering experienced on separation – even though mothers in Stretton’s texts sometimes initiate this parting – is a recurring and palpable feature. These experiences invite exploration at a psychic level, engaging with desires, fears and currents within the

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unconscious of writer and reader. Stretton clearly shared the devastating loss of the maternal figure experienced by many of her characters. Like her protagonist, Hester Morley, she could comprehend and reach out to the loneliness, desertion and ‘dumb sufferings’ which are the lot of the desolate child abandoned by its mother (381, Ch.54). As a single woman with decidedly ambivalent feelings towards men and marriage, Stretton rejoiced in the company of young nieces and nephews; she clearly cared deeply about the welfare of children in general, and, as we know from the journal, babies featured in her dreams. Did she, like Rose, in Hester Morley’s Promise, crave to feel the ‘warmth and closeness’ of a child of her own? And to what extent might this be associated with a desire for reunion with the maternal, exacerbated by loss and perhaps displaced into her enduring, symbiotic, relationship with her sister? In the absence of directly acknowledged thoughts, we can only speculate. Despite her awareness of the disadvantages of maternity, and the benefits of an unencumbered state, the idea of a completeness afforded by motherhood forms a persistent thread: ‘if any human influence would make me great or good as a woman, it would be the guardianship of a child of my own’; the dependence of children makes a woman ‘precious’ to herself (‘The Lucky Leg’, 375). Stretton’s preoccupation with motherhood conceivably stems from such a perception, whether consciously or unconsciously held. The early The Clives of Burcot incorporates multiple representations of womanhood and mothering. Both the all-consuming nature and the ambivalence characteristic of the mother-child relationship are exemplified through two dyads: that of Bruin and his surrogate/actual mother, and that of the protagonist Rhoda and her child, both of which are characterized by intensity and possessiveness. Rhoda’s direction of her emotional and physical energies constitutes a total immersion in the mother-child relationship. The novel is concerned with a yearning for, and readjustment of, the maternal relation. Rhoda has never known her natural mother, and seemingly reconstructs the missing relationship, seeking to be re-mothered and absorbed in oneness with her child. The movements of a carriage are compared with the rocking of a cradle, evoking maternal contact and affection. Rhoda’s desire for reunion with nature, and the rhythmic fluidity of language contained in descriptions of water can be related to unconscious, womb-related drives and the longing for renewed connection in both author, and, potentially, reader.21 If it is true that ‘nobody can love a child as its own mother does’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 444, Ch.63), a love which is exclusive may, nonetheless, have negative implications. The question of a father’s jealousy surfaces at a practical level in The Storm of Life, where the mother’s life is bound up in her child; as in Cobwebs and Cables, there are some women who love more as mothers than 21

Feminist critics have highlighted the fluid, ‘oceanic’ imagery of the female body and the unconscious rhythms connected with the pre-oedipal mother-child relationship. See Toril Moi (ed.) 1985 and Kristeva (1986). Gooderham (1994), discussing juvenile texts, also explores the power of deep pre-linguistic structures, patterns and rhythms to promote engagement beyond the level of rational understanding.

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as wives. In The Clives of Burcot, the intensity of the bond between mother and daughter precludes other relationships (including wholehearted attachment to her suitor), perhaps signifying the displacement of physical passion into an intensification of the mother-child relationship. Bruin frequently addresses Rhoda through her child, reinforcing the impression of the dissolution of the identity of one into the other. A similar yearning to be bound up in, and even dependent on, the child or children is also a strong element in Gaskell’s Ruth and in East Lynne (1861) by Ellen Wood, reflecting the need to turn to children to fulfil emotional desires unmet by others. Such mother-child fusion is reinforced in the account of birth contained in Half Brothers (97, Ch.15). The mother feels her identity flowing out into her child – ‘her own personality was gone; it had entered into her child’, again inviting both positive and negative readings of the maternal. This merging dissolves into memories of maternal loss, and an expression of the fusion experienced in religious conversion, accentuating not only the parental and in-dwelling nature of God, but the association of the maternal with the sacred (an association which of course also masks the physical implications of birth, which Stretton, like most contemporary writers, avoids). When the protagonist of David Lloyd’s Last Will (Vol.1, 118, Ch.10) meditates in Edenic surroundings, her awakening from a ‘dream of her lost mother’ underlines the deep-seated nature of maternal longings and their existence in a realm partially beyond signification. The need to be mothered and to mother surfaces as a central motif in Hester Morley’s Promise, where Hester’s relationship with her own mother, curtailed by maternal death, is replaced by a new bond between child and stepmother, based on mutual need and lack. Here, the traditional paradigm of the hateful – and hated – stepmother, set up through Hester’s early fears and potentially divided loyalties, and echoed in the motif of the stepchild as ‘drudge’, is subverted. Hester is both child and mother, just as Rose is both mother and child. In a complex reconfiguration of the maternal relation, Hester maintains the role of loving stepdaughter and assumes that of soothing mother-figure to this childlike second wife – despite having been again deserted by the latter. She ‘rescues’ the older woman, and in turn reaches out, as substitute mother, to the abandoned child of the stepmother’s illicit union. Metaphors of ‘Mothering’: Social and Literary Mothers The complex power of the maternal, both from a psychoanalytic and a material perspective, is key to responses to Stretton’s work; within this sphere, the wider category of ‘social’ motherhood is significant. If girls must not be misled into thinking of ‘marriage with a good settlement’ as the ultimate goal of female development (The Soul of Honour, 1898/label 1905: 84, Ch.8), there might nevertheless remain the need, on the part of successful single women, for maternal energies to be redirected into alternative forms. The notion of Stretton as ‘mother’ operates in several overlapping areas in which the practical, psychological and the metaphorical converge. The nineteenth century saw mounting pressure for various

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kinds of social reform, and the prominence of philanthropy at individual, group and, increasingly state level (the latter, indeed, often perceived as ‘mothering’ by the state). Women were able to harness the opportunities offered by such socially legitimate activities; their perceived natural qualities of compassion and sensitivity, combined with their domestic experience and their ‘sense of the law of love … comprehension of the wants of childhood’ (Frances Power Cobbe, 1863, quoted in Prochaska, 1980: 8) were seen to equip them to be ideal agents of social amelioration; missionary endeavour was the inevitable outpouring of maternal love. The evangelicals placed particular stress on charitable activity, with women prominent in church and chapel endeavours. Accounts of women’s work among women underline their involvement in substitute maternity; the recognition of servant girls’ need of ‘mothering’, as expressed by the philanthropist Mrs Nassau Senior, is highlighted by Miss Sellers (‘Women’s Work for the Welfare of Girls’, 1893: 36); such girls – whose souls apparently ‘hanker[ed] sorely after feathers and flowers’ – needed direction to counteract, among other tendencies, their ‘quite Oriental’ tastes – a view which underlines race/class associations in terms of excess. Similarly, in Stretton’s The King’s Servants, the ‘miserable, lost girls’ rescued from the streets are in want of someone to call ‘mother’ (Part 3, 144, Ch.8). Stretton’s perception of substitute mothering as a natural and inevitable course for women is reinforced in Hester Morley’s Promise; Hester finds it natural to act as mother to the abandoned child of her stepmother despite a previous lack of contact with children (Ch.54, entitled, significantly, ‘Alone in London’). In The Soul of Honour, working with crippled children serves to satisfy and develop a protagonist’s motherly instinct. Importantly, engagement in philanthropic work offered opportunities for independent women to transcend the limits of conventional female roles, to partake in what might be seen as an adventure into a world conceived of as ‘other’. A������������������������������������������������������������� �������������������������������������������������������������� s Charlotte Yonge (1876: 102) acknowledges, it was no longer considered unfeminine for women to ‘penetrate the back slums of London’.22 It provided a medium for self-expression, a means of extending influence beyond the home, an arena for political activity and participation in the transformation and regeneration or ‘rebirth’ of society. Clearly, Stretton’s involvement with philanthropy and reform, as well as providing an intellectual forum for her social and political ideas, brings her into this category of ‘motherhood,’ part of women’s alternative maternal mission. The causes which are at the heart of Stretton’s practical and literary activity revolve around the social ‘mothering’ of children and young people – whether this concerns the protection of the waif, the rehabilitation of the delinquent or 22

See also Walkowitz (1992) and Epstein Nord (1995) on women’s transgressive and border-crossing activities within the liminal territory of urban investigation. It is, perhaps, ironic that, as women were being liberated from the home and were moving more freely into the streets to engage in such work, children were being increasingly withdrawn, albeit for the best motives, from the streets into a more protected domestic environment.

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the rescue and care of the exploited young woman. Such preoccupations, in themselves representing substitute progeny which demand, and provide a focus for, committed emotional and physical energies, afford opportunities to ‘mother’, both literally and in a wider sense. If the ‘act of writing’ potentially functions as an ‘act of mothering’ (Myers, 1999: 69), this applies in various respects to Stretton’s project. As creator of her narratives – which are often, as noted, personified – she effectively parents substitute offspring, without male intervention. The fruits of her (pro)creation provide a medium through which other kinds of mothering are enacted, and within which patriarchal systems are interrogated, alternative parental and familial processes generated. Through the voice of Felicita (Cobwebs and Cables), Stretton expresses the idea of a writer’s thoughts being like children to her; she underlines – just as she underlines the undesirability of such a fate for the ‘real’ (actual and fictional) children of her project – the importance of not dispatching them into the world ‘ragged and uncouth’ (133, Ch.19). In so doing, she establishes textual ideas as both subject to, and agents of, diverse forms of nurturance, socialization and cultural mediation.

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Chapter 6

Outcast Society and Society’s Outcasts People, Places and Perceptions The figures and categories of outcast scrutinized in preceding chapters are inextricably bound up with broader perceptions and representations of ‘outcast society’ – a term which embodies an abstract concept as well as ideas of place, people and specific groups and sub-cultures. Within this context, it is instructive to direct a spotlight onto Stretton’s representations of particular sections of outcast society (and within the outcast city), devoting specific attention to the role of overlapping imagery and metaphor. Building on issues already highlighted and encompassing new, interrelated themes, such exploration provides further insights into Stretton’s treatment of class relations, her ongoing critique of authority and social structures, and the complexities of her mission to provide a voice to those on the margins. As we have seen, many of the figures which are central to Hesba Stretton’s themes became, in the Victorian imagination, emblematic of the grime, disorder and deviance associated with the residuum and the so-called ‘nether regions’. The poorly-clad, dirty street-urchin is a marker of his or her environment; readily conflated with images of criminality and urban degeneracy, the child beggar or young delinquent and their adult counterparts, including the slum mother and the prostitute, symbolize, and are held responsible for, moral, physical and social disintegration. There are associations between the topography of the urban neighbourhood and the topography of the female body, typified in the multilayered gothic imagery of the East End in Little Meg’s Children, with its labyrinth of blind alleys, low-arched passages and dark gullies. Such literal and metaphorical expression reflects assumptions of a link between the spread of physical disease and moral corruption within confined spaces, and �������������������������������� is entangled with anxieties about the permeability of class borders, issues which are never far from the surface in����������������� Stretton’s������ work. The perceived threat to nineteenth-century social stability posed by the ‘dangerous classes’ underlies attitudes to, and methods of dealing with, those elements considered potentially disruptive and anarchic. Responses ���������������������� to poverty, crime and moral or social conditions reflect such perceptions; approaches to charity and philanthropy, although subject to shifting economic, political and religious imperatives, are conditioned by similar fears. The proliferation of literary and wider representations of the lower classes during the Victorian period betrays the deep-rooted nature of these concerns, and evidences society’s obsession ���������������������� See Mason, 1994: 234.



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with the ‘outcast’. Diverse categories of text contain similar fabrications of outcast identity which operate within a self-perpetuating network, reflecting and sustaining social, political and psychological anxieties or guilt. Urban Images A central focus of social concern is the overpopulated Victorian city, with its slums and rookeries, and its underground activities; widespread public alarm concerning the effects of poverty and overcrowding, the erosion of class divisions and the actions of the mob gives rise to a fear of the urban ‘other’ (and, at the same time, of becoming the ‘other’). This paranoia feeds into, and is fuelled by, the construction of particular urban images and discourses. Sir Charles������������������������������� Trevelyan��������������������� , in 1870, described the metropolis as a ‘common sink of everything that is worst in the United Kingdom’ (quoted in Stedman Jones, 1985: 244). Fictional and non-fictional portrayals alike confirm a preoccupation with depicting, examining and regulating the city’s poor. Although Stretton’s texts embrace various social and geographical situations, with poverty and inequality a concern in diverse contexts, many of her stories have urban themes and settings; sometimes the city is Manchester; often it is London. These narratives revolve around the poor districts and their inhabitants, frequently contrasting such locations with more affluent areas and highlighting the barriers between them. The sense of dislocation, alienation and invisibility often associated with the metropolis suffuses her work; multiply-charged language underlines the moral and spiritual as well as the literal or psychological implications. The protagonist of Bede’s Charity (1872/c.1890) feels, like other Stretton characters, ‘a stranger and alone in the streets of London’ (46, Ch.6), which represent a ‘great network’ of physical and mental confusion (196, Ch.25) where individuals may be ‘lost’, both actually and figuratively (see Figure 6.1). Similarly, in Cobwebs and Cables (1881), Stretton uses the image of the labyrinthine city to emphasize the moral and emotional turmoil which her outcast protagonist must negotiate. Elsewhere, she identifies a ‘depressing sense of forlornness in the midst of crowds’, an impression of being engulfed in a ‘tideless sea of humanity’ as ‘one of the masses …utterly insignificant … an atom as absolutely unimportant as a grain of sand on a limitless shore’ (The Soul of������� Honour, 1898/label 1905: 79; 115–16). The attraction of the outcast city and its inhabitants to the writer, artist, reader or viewer overlaps with its call to the social investigator, politician, urban reformer, evangelical missionary and educationalist, all of whom tap into a range of similar metaphors. Stretton’s representations resonate with the plethora of images found in ‘factual’ reports, and in the fiction of writers including Dickens and Gaskell. 

For analyses of this obsession, see Stedman Jones (1984); Davidoff (1995); Walkowitz (1992); Nord (1995).  The word ‘rookeries’, associated with ‘rook’ (thief or swindler) has criminal connotations; the term ‘slum’, to describe bad, overcrowded housing, later became more common (Himmelfarb, 1991: 207). Stretton uses both terms.

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Fig. 6.1

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‘Lost Margery.’ Bede’s Charity, 1872/c.1890, Frontispiece, Illustrator unknown

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In such portrayals, varying configurations of material fact, fiction and myth intermingle; language and rhetoric converge across the genres, so that particular associations become firmly established as reality in the public consciousness. One problem which arises from the ubiquity of these representations of citydwellers is the stereotypical nature of depictions. The clichéd images reinforce general perceptions, but may become ineffective in drawing attention to individual experience,���������������������������������������������������������������������� desensitizing�������������������������������������������������������� responses rather than raising awareness; the reader or viewer observes, but fails properly to see or take account – a process succinctly described by critic Susan Casteras as society’s ‘looking at yet overlooking’ of human beings (1995: 265). Stock descriptions contribute to a depersonalized image of this society; the individual is effectively rendered invisible among what Matthew Arnold (1869) terms ‘those vast, miserable, unmanageable masses of sunken people’ (quoted in Stedman Jones, 1984: 241). As reformer Benjamin Waugh (1873/1984: 169–70) points out, the impression that ‘to the genus poor there are no species’ obscures characteristics and differences, cementing conceptions of a common ‘lump’ and obliterating any sense of individual identity. Contemporary social explorer George Sims, in ‘How the Poor Live’, observes of the Victorian city that ‘scene after scene is the same. Rags, dirt, filth, wretchedness, the same figures, the same faces’ (1889/1976: 77); the bare attics occupied by Little Meg and her fellow-protagonists resemble the garret accommodation which Sims describes. This repetition of material, the attention paid to physical features and conditions of dress, potentially results in caricature and fails to represent subjects. Fascination with city squalor is not confined to written texts, but is evident in the abundance of artistic and visual representations. Yet, even photography, a medium promoted (certainly during that period) as capturing existential reality, is selective and manipulative, controlled by those with the power to observe. All such representations, presented by the outsider, must be problematic. Viewed through the lens of middle-class anxiety or interest, the poor are implicitly depicted, and sometimes explicitly described or perceived, as objects. The sense of detachment associated with the idea of the disadvantaged as ‘project’ or ‘hobby’ is reflected in the observation by one of Stretton’s characters that the way the poor live presents ‘an interesting problem, to which the usual gatherings of ordinary society were flat and dull’ (Half Brothers, 1892/n.d.: 58, Ch.8). Such scrutiny by observers and writers constitutes an inherently voyeuristic enterprise, even in its philanthropic aspects; those who take the marginalized as their project may appropriate the misfortunes of the oppressed for purposes which are, at least in part, self-interested and commercial. We cannot entirely exempt Stretton, as a writer with inevitably 

������������������������������������������������������������������������� Judith Walkowitz (1992: 55) notes the repetition of the ‘same monotonous and sensational slum scene’ in memoirs and writings by socialist feminists and charity organization visitors�.  �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Pamela ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Gilbert (1997: 41) suggests that the outcast’s misery is exploited; the object of concern becomes the ‘subject and substance of the text’, with reproductions of society’s ‘refuse’ ‘packaged and sold’ to readers.

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mixed motives, from participation in the voyeurism and commodification inherent in the genre, but the issues and imperatives propelling her writings are in reality far more complex. Stretton’s narratives plainly contain descriptions which echo those found in fiction, journalism and social accounts. The ‘pent-up’ alleys, with their ‘sickening smells’ of refuse and decay (Alone in London, Ch.1, among many instances) are, of course, part of the same actual and mythological topography as Dickens’s miserable streets and stagnant gutters and Sims’s and Mearns’s later sensational portrayals of London. The detail of Stretton’s description – drawn, as we know, from firsthand experience of slums, lodging-houses and the homes of the poor – works, for the most part, to����������������������������������������������������������������� personalize����������������������������������������������������� and convince; compelling portrayals such as that of the skeletal���������� Fidge���� of Pursebearers are avowedly based on particular individuals encountered (Preface to 1900 edition). Nonetheless, problems of representation lead her to replicate negative images; her use of names such as ‘Tatters’ exposes, but potentially reinforces, objectification, reducing individuals to the physical or sartorial markers of their condition, and recalling, in this instance, Dickens’s image of a human ‘bundle of tatters’ (Dickens, ‘The Haunted Man’, 1848/1995: 295). The author evidently feels the need to drive home, sometimes through repetition of such clichés, the severity of the conditions she records, for fear of the reader’s disbelief. In this, she echoes a tendency among those who report on the poor to comment that the wretchedness which they attempt to portray must be seen to be believed. Evoking Dickens’s contention in the much earlier Sketches by Boz, that the appearance of certain areas of London can ‘hardly be imagined by those … who have not witnessed it’ (Dickens, 1839/1995: 217), Stretton emphasizes in The Lord’s Pursebearers that visitors to the East End encounter undreamed of degradation (181, Ch.9). Lord Ashley had asserted in relation to mid-century slum life that ‘language is powerless to exhibit the truth’ (quoted in Cunningham, 1991: 106), while journalists such as Andrew Mearns felt, like Stretton, the need to stress that their accounts were no exaggeration: many of the ‘horrors’ could never be reproduced by ‘pen or artist’s pencil’ (Mearns, 1883/1976: 98). This recognition of the inadequacy of language, the impossibility of representation, is borne out by a correspondent for the Pall Mall Gazette in 1867. Reporting on the East End, he tells of ‘feeble women’ with ‘woebegone children’, moving slowly along, ‘the bleak easterly wind rustling through the few garments left to them’, and adds: ‘of the hard gaze of want … I will attempt no description’ (26.1.1867: 4). In similar vein, Stretton confirms the problem of the spectator’s response: the narratorprotagonist of Bede’s Charity, traversing the poor districts of London, regards the dwarfed, famished children with ‘an aching there are no words for’ (163, Ch.21). Admitting a reluctance to confront the reader with extremes, Stretton declines to portray – even if it were possible – the extent of such wretchedness: ‘words fail, and my heart fails, to describe’ (Pursebearers, 227, Ch.11). She also acknowledges the failure of the commonplace to shock: passers-by take no heed of the miserable, crouched figure of young Cassy (Cassy, 34, Ch.4); the narrator of A Thorny Path observes that a verdict of death by starvation ‘is growing common enough to lose its power of giving a shock’ to the countless

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hearths where ‘comfort and ease abound’ (157, Ch.19). Hesba Stretton furnishes us with statistics – in this case, the figure of seventy-seven deaths from starvation in London the previous year – in order to underline authenticity. In her later writings, increasingly uncontained anger and indignation combine with repeated – and now much more detailed – descriptions of environmental and bodily states, to exert a force which does shock the reader, undermining empty stereotypes. It is through the gradual and poignant realization by the ‘clemmed’ Lucky (whose name ironically reflects her success in attracting charity) that we apprehend the death of her companion Fidge – even in life, ‘not so much a human being as a living mass of misery’ (Pursebearers, 227). We are not spared the stark materiality of his sunken, fleshless cheek, his muscle-exposing parchment skin, the sinister chill of his lifeless face (228) – a chill from which young Lucky, brushing his corpse, recoils (229). The author confronts us with the callously arranged disposal of his body, like refuse, over a ‘garding’ wall, his ‘owner’ anxious only to escape discovery by the police (238, Ch.15). If the anonymity of generalized descriptions in urban iconography sometimes serves to distance and render the poor less threatening, with victims portrayed as humiliated, passive and silent – lacking in ‘revolutionary protest or action’, as Casteras (1995: 278) observes – this must raise questions in relation to Stretton’s work. The cowed postures and evident powerlessness of the poor are highlighted, and reinforced by the repetitive depictions. However, as these characters become familiar to us, the effects of ‘typical’ images are arguably offset by the force of individual, and sometimes potentially subversive, voices, which constantly draw attention to fundamental inequalities at personal, institutional and structural levels; the recognition of impotence sits alongside a fierce questioning of exploitation, and a certain empowerment is achieved through currents of protest or resistance to authority, as we shall continue to discover. Metaphors of Otherness Many of the strands of imagery circulating within contemporary discourses converge in Stretton’s thematic and generic concerns. The language of disease and decay is common to descriptions of the outcast city, and of the outcast within it, from religious and moral contexts to discussions of health and housing; metaphors of the body, waste and pollution permeate the overlapping spheres of reference. Hesba Stretton alludes to the ‘quagmire of foulness’ (Cobwebs and Cables, 202, Ch.29), and the ‘slime of the pit’ (Women’s Work for Children’, 11). Significantly, ways of thinking and talking about the body function to influence society’s perceptions; concepts of dirt and cleanliness or respectability are brought into play in the shaping of class and gender identities, and underpin strategies of separation

 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Davidoff (1995: 105) confirms the ‘disturbing equations’ made by commentators, including Mayhew, between ‘the sanitary and the human condition’.

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and control. As Stretton demonstrates in In Prison and Out, David’s social and moral decline is manifested in, and symbolized by, his bodily grease, which evokes disgust and renders him untouchable, causing his sister initially to recoil from him. His physical state reinforces his social exclusion and threatens to deny him even family identity (Ch.17). The encounter between these protagonists takes place, as do other such meetings, on a London bridge – a literal and metaphorical site of interclass transmission. Stretton’s slum-dwellers are often characterized by their appearance – identified by, and reduced to, body images which reflect the grotesque. On more than one occasion, human beings are initially mistaken for, their image elided with, heaps of rags (Jessica’s Mother; Bede’s Charity). Self-image is shown to be constructed through body image: contrasting herself with the ‘grand’ children, ‘dressed up like little angels’, the ‘ragged’ Joan of The Lord’s Pursebearers, feels ‘all grime with dirt’ (81, Ch.3). Bodily appearance defines status, determines social acceptability and constrains freedom and choice. Cassy’s ‘unwashed face’, ‘uncombed hair’ and ‘dirty and ragged frock’ (34, Ch.4) will render her unsuitable for a position in service; Jessica’s unkempt, heathen appearance is likely, in Daniel’s view, to offend the sensibilities of the middle-class congregation (Jessica’s First Prayer, 35, Ch.3); Mrs Clack’s poor clothes preclude her association with the other dressmakers; and, for Hagar, rags are a ‘badge’ of poverty (A Thorny Path, 80; 73, Chs.10 and 9). The oppositional identities of good and bad mother in Lost Gip reside partly in their dress and states of cleanliness or decency, reflecting moral and social coding as well as fears of literal contamination, although, ironically, in A Thorny Path, it is the need for a respectable appearance which leads to a character’s demise, through the purchase of an infected second-hand suit. Close proximity to what might be termed the ‘slum body’ is generally seen to be discouraged. Country villagers shrink from Carola because she is perceived to be contaminated by her association with street-life – and consequently unfit to teach their children (Carola, 146, Ch.15; 167, Ch.17); Philip’s existence will be tainted by his connection with her, his homestead defiled by the memory of her (182, Ch.19). The Victorians saw physical dirt as literally immoral, and potentially the cause of degeneration; in a different setting, but with similar connotations, the moral distinctions between Stretton’s exiled Stundists and their criminal companions (In the Hollow of His Hand) are underscored by bodily distinctions: the former, so accustomed to cleanliness, are degraded by ‘enforced defilement’ through their proximity to the ‘matted hair’ and ‘begrimed faces’ of the latter (107, Ch.18).

Such equations suggest the qualities of the ‘abject’, as discussed by Kristeva (1982), involving the unstable boundaries between inner and outer, self and other – the expulsion of that which defiles but sustains the ‘clean and proper body’ and disturbs identity, system and order. Michel Foucault discusses the body as a locus of political control – as ‘object and target of power’ (1979: 136).  See Gilbert (1997: 39). 

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Interfused with these metaphors of bodily and spiritual cleanliness are the evaluative Manichaean polarities of black and white, dark and light, good and evil, savage and civilized, which���������������������������������������������� characterize��������������������������������� the ‘underworld’ of poverty and degradation, reinforcing many kinds of difference and underpinning barriers between classes, between self and other. These biblically-rooted oppositions overlap with the language of other discourses; they are applicable to both the physical appearance and the moral or spiritual implications of the urban slum, and, importantly, intersect at the same time with colonialist terminology. It is not surprising therefore that they permeate Stretton’s work, preoccupied as it is with religious themes, social conditions and������������������������������������������� civilizing�������������������������������� missions. The pervasive use of this imagery in The Storm of Life (1876) reinforces the relationship between ideas of depravity and social deprivation, juxtaposing the language of personal sin with the portrayal of material circumstances. The darkness of the ‘close’ courts is a moral and emotional, as well as a physical, darkness – a blackness of despair and wickedness (just as in Cassy the black outlines of walls against an almost black sky signal utter desolation). Allusions to sin and misery jostle with references to darkness, dirt and cleanliness, such instances appearing unconnected until their frequency attracts attention. Rachel, recently released from prison, contemplates suicide as she stares into the dark, mist-shrouded waters of the river; forced, this time by craving hunger, to steal, she is rescued by the chimney-sweep Sylvanus, whose home is lit by a bright fire, and who, after washing off the grime of his employment, dons a clean linen jacket. The white-furnished interior is as pristine as the smoke of London allows, throwing into relief the degraded appearance of Rachel and her dirty, castaway child (Storm, 72–3, Ch.8). Stretton suggests an accommodation of polarities: Sylvanus protects the fabric of the house from becoming dingy, for a wife who is ‘spruce and clean’, and ‘yet she married me, a master sweep’ (70, Ch.8). The language again reflects the Victorian obsession with cleanliness, and its association with moral and spiritual regeneration; the recurring imagery reinforces the dark thread ‘woven into the web of her life’ – a life darkened by crime and marital abuse – and foregrounds the redemptive purity of the after-storm snow. A white covering shrouds the baby spared from the moral contamination of a city whose rookeries represent a spiritual abyss, and where environmental contamination has proved physically fatal. Such oppositions of black and white, clean and dirty, pure and impure recall the imagery which characterizes texts such as Kingsley’s The Water-Babies (1863); the conventional evangelical symbolism (with its class-inflected, colonial connotations) is harnessed by Stretton to multiple effect, and, significantly, overlaid with social comment which complicates black and white certainties and moral judgements. Interrogating causes and exhibiting compassion for individual, morally-complex situations, these narratives negotiate a path between ideas of the environment as hell because of the nature and lifestyle of its inhabitants, and recognition of urban living conditions as hell for them. In lighter vein, Stretton’s short text, Mrs. Burton’s Best Bedroom [1878] – which narrates an incident footnoted as ‘strange’, but ‘strictly true’, having ostensibly occurred within the writer’s knowledge – exploits, with������������ humour����� and serious intent, the interplay between ideas of cleanliness, decency, purity and

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holiness, and notions of squalor, deprivation, crime, and immorality or spiritual impurity. Alongside a lesson concerning the unclean and uncivilized in the eyes of God and society, Stretton provides a message regarding social deprivation, whilst simultaneously satirizing Mrs Burton’s pretentiousness and preoccupation with domestic perfection, and her distance from real charity or acceptance. The drunken vagabond who crosses her respectable threshold, making himself comfortable in the private sphere of her bedroom, literally taints the immaculate whiteness of her best bed with his physical filth – the symbol of a materially disadvantaged and morally depraved ‘heathen’ environment. Both, however, must����������� recognize� their failings; both emerge as chastened and reformed characters in terms of their respective ‘cleanliness’. In Victorian discourse, the street-walker, drunkard or criminal is often represented as part of the semiotics of an alluring and forbidden ‘underworld’ in need of rescue and redemption, which serves as a projection of the darker side of society. The East End of Carola and other Stretton texts matches the vision of the ‘residuum’ as ‘herded into slums where religion, propriety, and civilization were impossible, interspersed with criminals, prostitutes … craving for drink and “cheap excitement” … large enough to engulf civilized London (Stedman Jones, 1984: 283). Pubs were at the heart of this underworld; part of the collective life of the community, they represented a cultural and political threat, evoking fear and fascination in the observer (Harrison, 1973: 172). The flaring gin-palaces which are such an attraction to Carola constitute a heaven-on-earth to the inhabitants – an escape from harsh reality for adults, and virtual ‘homes’ to their offspring: infants like Stretton’s Gip can readily make their own way to the spirit-vault (Lost Gip, 14, Ch.2). To a child, getting drunk represents a ‘curious and mysterious pleasure’ enjoyed by older people, rather than any kind of sin (Pursebearers, 226, Ch.10). Significantly, didactic literature designed to promote virtuous habits and deter immorality may actually serve to encourage forbidden pleasures, bound as it is to the context which inspires its production. It is clear that the overriding message of narratives such as Carola is the need to resist, and escape from, the temptations and dangers of this world; with the gradual taming of her passions, she tingles with shame at the recollection of the hell-like ‘pit’, with its ��������������������� ‘demoralised��������� men and women’ and its pollution, darkness and degradation (Ch.15). On the other hand, the city as ‘excess’, the pull of an ‘active outdoor life’, full of ‘change and stir’, ‘in and out of the gin-palaces’(11, Ch.1) – part of the ‘wild energy’ of the streets identified by Stretton’s associate Benjamin Waugh (1873/1984: 95) – is painted with such a sense of acknowledgement by Stretton concerning the allure of a restraint-free existence that the reader is potentially drawn to such currents, which compete with the didactic intent. As I have argued, these tensions derive, in part, from Stretton’s personal frustrations and resistance to constraint; the repetition of terms such as ‘shackles’ and ‘trammels’ is telling. Such identification embodies an  The practice of ‘forcing the fiery liquid down the throats of crying infants’ (Himmelfarb, 1991: 61) is represented in several Stretton narratives.

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understanding that, as Charles Booth’s Life and������������������������������� Labour������������������������ of the People in London (1891/1976: 116–17) confirms, those who cannot tolerate the ‘regularity and��������� dulness� of civilized existence’ find in street-life the excitement they crave. Novels such as Stretton’s The Soul of������� Honour (1898) also engage with the late nineteenth-century celebration of the urban, identifying the ‘spell’ cast by the City – the ‘humour’����� ������������� and ‘passion’ inherent in scenes which, mingled with a dark mysteriousness, appeal to the imagination and inspire a ‘fascinated disquietude’ (117, Ch.11). It is appropriate here to reintroduce the question of the ‘dramatization’ of City life – the notion of the City and its inhabitants as theatre or spectacle, and its presentation in diverse spheres as melodrama. Stretton points to the validity – and paradoxical nature – of such identification when, as narrator-protagonist, she writes of the ‘tragedies and comedies being acted everywhere [in the City], in the presence of spectators who paid little heed to them’ (The Soul of������� Honour, 116, Ch.11). The connection with melodrama or sensation, and its relationship to the blending of factual and fictional concerns in Stretton’s work, stands out from a number of perspectives; it has been possible gradually to demonstrate ways in which these elements contribute to the impact of her work. As attention to the figures of the child and the woman has shown, aspects of melodrama were applied to texts of investigative journalism and temperance tracts; at the same time, the City, its inhabitants and their morals became a prominent theme in actual stage melodrama, contributing to a convergence of motifs, representations and perceptions.10 The transferability of images across geographical locations in journalism is again underlined by the case of����������������������������������� Dion������������������������������ Boucicault’s ‘The Streets of London’ which played at the Princess’s Theatre in London in 1864 (Booth, 1973, plate 62), and was staged originally as ‘The Poor of New York’, and then as ‘The Poor of Liverpool’, with the scenes adapted (or, in Boucicault’s words, ������������� ‘localised��� ’) to the setting of the play (Booth, 1965: 168). It is perhaps salient that Stretton records her attendance at a performance of this play – one of the few theatre visits she made. Lance Salway (1971: 24) observes that Stretton’s plots suggest her potential ability to produce ‘stirring’ stage melodramas, and certainly a modern reader has an impression that the stories invite adaptation for a visual medium. In addition, we have noted the proximity of strands within her work to mainstream contemporary popular fiction. The literary and extra-literary harnessing of melodramatic images converges in her texts; religious, moral and social visions coalesce, the undesirable and the alluring offer engagement from opposing perspectives. In line with a pervasive���������������������������������������������������������������������������� demonization��������������������������������������������������������������� of the urban, the city not only provides the hellish setting, but also serves as the villain, with all the nuances invested in that image; the protagonists enact the role of ‘beguiled’ and ‘ensnared’ victim. The London streets resemble the ‘meshes of a great net which had caught her in its web’ (The Storm of Life, 147, Ch.18); the city draws all the family into its ‘grasp’ (Pursebearers, 35, Ch.1). See Booth (1973: 212).

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If melodrama represents ‘a true social reflector of its time’ (Booth, 1965: 136), it is useful also to consider the progressive potential of the genre. Despite the association of its traditional moral message with conservatism, the integration of melodrama with a political message can conceivably generate a more radical text.11 Whilst Stretton sometimes presents stereotypical descriptions, conventional types and surface moral stances, the fact that her texts blend the popular and emotional appeal of melodrama with an insistent social concern means that her work is potentially politically engaged; its juxtaposition of conservative and progressive elements not only mirrors contemporary tensions, but serves to question prevailing orthodoxies. Whereas M.N. Cutt deprecates Hesba Stretton’s inclusion of melodramatic material, I would argue that these diverse and roundabout associations with drama and spectacle – in terms of both ‘lived’ and artistic or literary performance – serve to open the way for comment and for engagement with a wide public. Images of Eden Metaphors of Hell and Heaven intersect, in turn, with discourses of town and country.12 Rural order and tranquility represent the antithesis of urban chaos and disorder, and Stretton engages with these oppositional frames of thought, both between and within texts. Some narratives are set entirely in the country; others specifically encode physical and symbolic dualities. As we have glimpsed in relation to childhood, the country embodies, and is sometimes explicitly referred to as, an ‘Eden’ of innocence and perfection, set in conventional opposition to the Hell (or evil knowledge) of the city. In its ‘sunshine and bracing air’, one is as far from sin as a child is (Hester Morley’s Promise, 152, Ch.22). The image of the rural idyll recurs frequently. Sometimes more general pastoral images of idealistic cottage settings suggest simplicity and domesticity, harmony and regeneration; on other occasions the prevailing belief in the restorative (and����������������������������� remoralizing���������������� ) powers of the country for the urban disadvantaged, is reflected. The sight of women and children gasping for air in the suffocating city streets makes one ‘pant for green fields and fresh air …’ (The Soul of Honour, 194, Ch.20). The regenerative possibilities of the landscape, of the farms and open spaces offered by emigration destinations such as Canada (promising economic improvement and self-determination) serve the same function.13 At times, biblical associations, which assume wider cultural symbolism, are spelled out, and operate in direct relationship to urban squalor and immorality. �������������������������������������������������������������������������������� E.A. Kaplan��������������������������������������������������������������������� (1992) discusses the radical potential of texts which mobilize mass emotion and also impart a political message. See her account generally, and specific comments (126). 12 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� For a comprehensive discussion of the cultural intersection of these images, see Raymond Williams (1985). 13 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Williams (1985: 281) points to the ‘larger context’ reflected in novels, again highlighting emigration as a solution to city poverty and overcrowding. 11

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The tranquil meadows appear like heaven itself to children fleeing a vice- and death-ridden London lodging house: ‘the sweet, fresh air and the gentle rippling of the river were washing away the evil influences’ (Pursebearers, 232, Ch.13). Carola’s country village is an Eden from which she will be driven out once her past is revealed (146, Ch.15), and in Bede’s Charity, narrator Margery finds the sounds and sights of the woodland from which she is exiled as dear as ‘ever the garden of Eden was to Eve’ (44, Ch.6). Descriptions of the country are often sensual, reflecting Stretton’s experience of the countryside and open spaces, and her abhorrence of confined indoor locations, which are liable to drive one to murder (Hester Morley’s Promise, 214, Ch.31). Margery ‘thinks with longing of the woods’, the ‘country air that used to fan me’, and of the ‘deep lulling stillness of the night-time’ (Bede’s Charity, 117, Ch.15). Reflecting nineteenth-century perceptions of the countryside as a place of cohesion where the acceptance of the ‘“natural order” of things’ sustained norms of deference and paternalism (Davidoff, 1995: 46), the rural community with its stable hierarchies, its ‘masters and labourers’, is presented in Carola as the traditional ‘oak and branches’ structure. Yet this notion is undermined by exposure of the susceptibility of this order to disruption and change; the co-operative functioning of the community is threatened, and loyalty on the part of the ‘masters’ found to be subject to external forces. Furthermore, the sense of spirit offered by town life may be absent in the unendurable solitude of a ‘stagnant’ countryside (Pursebearers, Ch.5; In the Hollow of His Hand, Ch.7). Thus, whilst the expansiveness of the country is sometimes set against the containment of urban life, the freedom of the streets, in particular, has, paradoxically, affinities with rural ‘wildness’ and absence of restraint. Such multiple, sometimes contradictory, associations figure elsewhere, with wild places carrying undercurrents of evil and superstitious practices, whilst the same locations represent places of assignation, adventure or initiation, as in the enchanted chasm in The Highway of Sorrow or the wild tangles and passages of the pit areas in No Place Like Home. The moors of Half Brothers, with their brooding atmosphere and proximity to nature, reminiscent of the moorland landscapes of Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, suggest a life-supporting and alluring freedom, and at the same time a state of primitive, heathen savagery antithetical to ‘civilization’. The remote cave which is common to several of the texts represents a wild but womb-like hiding-place. The idea of the outcast regions as a foreign country, or Dark Continent, serves to heighten dramatic impact; it contributes to the sense of fantasy identifiable in ostensibly factual accounts, inviting a concomitant suspension of disbelief. The journalist Sims’s description of a dark continent within walking distance of the General Post Office (1889/1976: 65) is well known, as is William Booth’s later comparison between ‘Darkest Africa’ and ‘Darkest England’ (1890/1976: 148). Together with the designation of social investigators as ‘explorers’, such imagery resonates with the language and precepts of both missionary and imperialist� endeavours, which are themselves inextricably �������������������������������������������� linked. The well��������������� -travelled����� and somewhat self-righteous businessman of Half Brothers, engaged in philanthropic and missionary���������������������������������������������������������������� endeavours����������������������������������������������������� among the city’s poor, enjoys the strange sights of

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unexplored London ‘as much as he had enjoyed the strange scenes in foreign lands’ (58, Ch.8). This viewpoint accords with the opinion of Sims that the English ‘dark continent’, with its ‘wild races’ (likened to distant ‘savage tribes’), would prove ‘as interesting as any of those newly-explored lands which engage the attention of the Royal Geographical Society’, attracting comparable public sympathy (1889/1976: 66). Such analogies were not new – Mayhew had regarded the outcast regions as akin to unknown or foreign territory – but they assumed heightened relevance, serving to reinforce the imperialist link between the poor and the natives of empire.14 The poorest classes are regarded as primitives and savages, barely human and often unnaturally sexual, a view demonstrated by the terms in which outcast identity is framed. As part of an imagery which constructs them as monstrous, they are not only presented as ‘wild’ and ‘brutish’, but, as Stretton often shows, their allotted status is both internalized and resented. Her narratives underline society’s treatment of the disadvantaged as no better than animals, and their own allusions to this state; the poor must live like swine, and are left to die or be buried ‘like a dog’ (A Thorny Path, Half Brothers and others).15 (It is significant that campaigns for protective legislation for children reveal that a society for the protection of animals in fact existed before any such body was formed on behalf of children.) Stretton draws attention not only to the assumed bestial nature of the denizens of the underworld – for example, The Storm of Life (Ch.19), or the convicts in Siberia (In the Hollow of His Hand) – but also the bestial ‘otherness’ of the opposite sex as perceived by her characters, with men similarly labelled as ‘wild beasts’, as noted in connection with gender relations. Recurring throughout her work, such terms reflect common contemporary assumptions and generalizations about the uncivilized or untamed nature of the foreigner, the unbeliever or unregenerate, or the uneducated. This reproduction of terminology which dehumanizes and debases, and in which the narratorial or authorial voice at times appears complicit, is again in tension with, but undermined by, the overall humanity of her treatment of the outcast. Whilst certain discourses construct the poor or outcast as alien, primitive, evil (or all of these), different emphases present types such as the flower-seller or ragamuffin as decorative – part of the sentimentalization of poverty and the portrayal of the urban scene as picturesque or exotic, and as curiosities of a less threatening kind. The directing of sympathy towards groups perceived as a threat arguably serves to diffuse the power of those groups (����������������������������� Nead, 1988: 138)������������� ; similarly, 14 Richard Stein (1995) relates this association to our ‘capacity to subject and colonize others, to treat them as Others’ (245). 15 �������������������������������������������������������������������������������� See Davidoff (1995: 105) regarding discourses which construct certain groups as ‘closer to nature than the rational adult middle-class man who dominated educated opinion’, with animal analogies applied. Commentators including Mayhew discussed the street-folk in terms of a more pronounced development of the animal than of the intellectual or moral nature. See also Cunningham (1991) generally and 122 on savage or animal analogies and street-children.

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romanticized images of the urban or rural poor may serve to capture the viewer or reader’s imagination and to domesticate that which is alien and potentially alarming.16 The harnessing of the picturesque, with its complex intonations, obscures wider social implications. The sentimentality of representations of the poor by children’s writers has been much derided, although it is increasingly� recognized���������������������������������������������������������������������������� that sentiment and pathos have a part to play in motivating social action. In considering Stretton’s work, it is perhaps appropriate to invoke the notion of compassion allied to reason and practicality, rather than in its sentimental mode, in which it is ‘an exercise in moral indignation, in feeling good rather than doing good’ (Himmelfarb, 1991: 5). Stretton’s texts interact with the changing and intermingling perceptions, spanning and blending the spectrum of attitudes and approaches which permeate the discourse of poverty from the early- to late-Victorian period. They encompass the dramatic, the romantic and the picturesque, but move towards practical social concern; it is perhaps the juxtaposition of romanticism and realism, sentiment and reason which is significant. Indeed, a somewhat deflationary fusion of images is embodied in Stretton’s picturesque flower-seller, with her ‘basket of violets and primroses’, the scent of which ‘mingled with the fumes of the spirit-vaults’ (Pursebearers, 227, Ch.10). The author articulates a privileging of practicality over sentiment in The Doctor’s Dilemma, in which the protagonist, in gratitude for the hospitality extended to her by the needy inhabitants of a village, finances the installation of a fountain and drains – projects which, it is stressed, reflect neither sentiment nor romance (Part 3, Ch.21). She demonstrates the complexities and paradoxes of the practical outworking of compassion. As in The Lord’s Pursebearers, where pathetic descriptions are not sentimental, but directed angrily at society, pity may be seen as a ‘curse’, and indiscriminate charity misguided and evil – an evasion of the problem, and a failure to acknowledge fundamental structural flaws. Both social and individual responsibility is invoked in her work, and compassion for individuals tempered with an impatience in cases of idleness or lack of thrift. Inevitably, despite her practical involvement and first-hand knowledge of deprived areas, Hesba Stretton must be regarded as a middle-class observer. Her achievement in giving identity, dignity and voice to her protagonists is sometimes in tension with���������������������������������������������������������������������������� internalized��������������������������������������������������������������� class attitudes, insecurities and perceptions, with resulting ambivalence. Certainly, she reflects stereotypes, but she also������������������������ individualizes��������� through the stories she incarnates, exposing inequities and forms of exploitation, whilst at the same time exploring the complexities of situations and human interaction – factors which give depth to her work and ensure its ongoing significance. Whether protagonists are victims of oppression and deprivation, changed circumstances, or their own folly, Stretton gives us an insight into the viewpoint not only of the privileged onlooker, but of the outcast, and extends our understanding of the forces at work in the individual and his circumstances. 16 Messinger (1985: 110) discusses the function of literature to transform the unknown or feared into myth, rendering these elements manageable.

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Classes of Outcast In choosing poor, working-class and outcast protagonists and contexts, Stretton, like Dickens and Gaskell, can be seen as playing a part in counteracting a general bias towards middle-class characters and settings in literature. Whilst Stretton’s texts frequently centre on conditions of extreme poverty and the stigma of pauperism, they also examine the wider struggles of the working classes, exposing the precariousness of their situation and the fine line which separates the various categories, both in public perception and in practical terms. The preoccupations of Stretton’s texts, as we have discovered, are both class-specific and potentially offer cross-class engagement, in part through the displacement of issues such as gender relations, puberty and female restraint, violence and child abuse; poorer-class settings function to give expression to middle-class anxieties. These narratives also foreground class divisions (and fears regarding their instability); they emphasize the uncertainty of economic status and the associated threat to social position. Categories of the poor and working classes have tended, at this and other periods, to be blurred or conflated in the public consciousness; Benjamin Waugh, writing in 1873, confirms society’s disregard of differences: the ‘distance-haze which hides away the personalities of the unhappy governed from the happy governor’ masked the many distinctions which marked poor from poor (1984: 170).��������������������������������������������������� Yet����������������������������������������������� dominant distinctions between different kinds of poor (often with moral overtones) have existed over time, and were operating during most of the nineteenth century.17 Gradations of poverty, intra-class hierarchies involving demarcations between rough and respectable – and the ease with which one can become the other – are illustrated in numerous Stretton texts; the prejudices which generate, and interact with, the linguistic categorization or separation of those who are different become apparent. Reflecting the author’s personal insecurities, and her own drawing of boundaries, the situation of protagonists is sometimes described, as it is in Gaskell’s writing, as ‘decent’ poverty. 17 ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Shifts occurred in the framework in which poverty was conceived over the Victorian period. Himmelfarb (1991) discusses the contrast between Mayhew’s������������������� popularization���� of the discourse, with its personal,����������������������������������������������������������� colourful������������������������������������������������� portrayals, and Charles Booth’s more analytical categorization. Mayhew’s tendency to represent the street-folk – who were the main focus in his portrayal of poverty – as a ‘distinctive “race” with a distinctive moral physiognomy’ (Himmelfarb, 11) generated a perception that this more extreme poverty represented the condition of the working classes in general, and obscured the more mundane struggles of the majority. Himmelfarb ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� (122) also cites distinctions between, for example, the ‘undeserving’ and ‘deserving’ or ‘respectable poor’, between paupers and the labouring poor. She �������������� notes the focus on the dependent or potentially dependent poor – the Malthusian poor, in conditions of ‘misery and vice’, the Mayhewian ‘nomadic’ poor and the ‘ragged’ and ‘dangerous’ element – and the shift in concern towards the ‘deserving’ or ‘labouring’ poor towards the century’s end. See also Ross (1993: 12) on ‘rough/respectable’ distinctions as ‘meaningful sources of pride and shame’, and the instability of these categories.

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Internalized�������������������������������������������������������������������� distinctions between types of poverty are exemplified in attitudes and occurrences highlighted in texts such as Lost���� Gip, where the young street-child Sandy is befriended by the ‘respectable’ working-class philanthropist mother, and brought home to the (initially) bigoted father of the family. To the ‘ragged and barefoot boy’, the son of the family appears ‘almost a gentleman’ (32, Ch.4), and the perceived superiority of the ‘scholar’ over the unlearned street-child is exposed. Sandy’s status as ‘other’ and his allotted ‘space’ within the working-class community is signalled by his initial exclusion from the bright, homely kitchen, and his enclosure among the coffins in the dark shop (reminiscent of Oliver Twist’s experiences at Sowerberry’s), while the father is consulted regarding his fitness as company for the family (61, Ch.8). Sandy’s internalization of such assumptions, his perception of his own inequality and difference, and his acceptance of his lot are pinpointed by Stretton. Despite his disappointment that, as a boy of the streets, he is not considered a suitable companion, he is not in the least surprised, and has ‘no idea of rebelling against Mr. Shafto’s orders’, knowing himself ‘quite unfit for such a place, and such friends’ (77, Ch.10). In the process of integration, he graduates to a place on the kitchen hearth, ‘with an old mattress and a brown motheaten velvet pall out of the shop’ (64, Ch.8), and finally literally steps into the clothes which symbolize respectability and place, upon the death of the crippled son of the family. This integration and ‘replacement’ is made possible through a combination of Sandy’s spiritual and moral progress and the recognition of unjust and hypocritical attitudes by members of the family. We should perhaps question how readily the reader will identify the implied critique behind the negative perceptions, which are rendered as part of the narration and merge with the thoughts of protagonists – a strategy which potentially makes the authorial opinion unclear. As we have seen, however, it is Sandy who confronts and influences the father of the household, reinforcing the cumulative message that assumptions and prejudices – and their��������������������������������������������������������������� internalization����������������������������������������������� by those who suffer them – can be effectively challenged and modified. The complexity and ambivalence of attitudes within and between classes is illustrated in Stretton’s early Enoch Roden’s Training, in which aspirations towards a socialist utopia are voiced, and notions of equality and the integration of classes idealized, and to some extent, enacted.18 At the same time, Victorian perceptions of the stabilizing influence of the more affluent classes on the ‘natural’ baseness of the poor are reflected. The cottages of the long and narrow court of Hill’s Close are ‘only fitted to be the dwellings of quite poor people’, but their proximity to the homes of the well-to-do tradesmen ensures that the inhabitants ‘maintain among themselves a certain courtesy and soberness of manner’, superior to the ‘rough savageness of the ignorant and beggarly population of the low parts’ (8, Ch.1). The strictures imposed by class difference in terms of���������������������������������������� behaviour������������������������������ , and the importance invested in ‘respectability’, are suggested in the preferential treatment deemed necessary and the concern or self-doubt expressed following the integration of the orphaned 18

��������������������������������������������������� See my discussion of socialist ideals in Chapter 7.

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daughter of one of the once better-off masters by the poorer family (such concerns also reflecting gender assumptions). ‘[Y]ou must be very careful of your manners. Miss Lucy could not bear any rudeness or roughness … there’s such lots of little things to remember, that I’m half afraid of forgetting myself … but it won’t do us any harm to learn to behave ourselves like gentlefolk’ (60–61, Ch.6). Questions of pride and the importance of appearances (‘none of them liked the neighbours to see their extreme poverty’ (75, Ch.8) are entangled in this text, as in other Stretton narratives, with an awareness of the precariousness of economic survival. These issues are, in turn, entangled with the fear of pauperism and the��������� spectre� (and reality) of the workhouse, which figure so prominently in Victorian texts – a fate to be avoided at all costs. Interestingly, class insecurities, although different in material implications, are not confined to the poorer classes: in David Lloyd’s Last Will (1869), being reduced to living in a smaller house because of straitened circumstances would ‘never do’, because ‘everyone would think we were poor’ (Vol.1, 279–80, Ch.23). The presence of such sentiments in middle-class settings – echoed, for example, in E. Nesbit’s later portrayal of the family who draw the blinds in the pretence that they are away from home, to conceal the fact that they cannot afford a holiday (The Story of the Treasure Seekers, 1889) – betrays the pervasive fear of ‘falling out of caste’. Beneath Stretton’s implied condemnation of the snobbery displayed by characters including Aunt Charlotte (Alone in London), who are fearful of ‘low’ manners, lies a shared anxiety – personally and culturally influenced – regarding issues of poverty and social status. Within the city, concepts of difference are expressed through the polarities of East and West, the former��������������������������������������������������� symbolizing��������������������������������������� the predominant image of darkness and poverty which became central in literature and social thought.19 The ‘dark den’ of East London, with its fog and gloom, in The Lord’s Pursebearers and other texts, recalls the London of Dickens: Stretton’s portrayals accord with Beatrice Potter’s (i.e. Webb’s) description of a ‘vortex’ which sucks people in and down (cited in Samuel, 1998: 307). Encoding the affluent classes’ deepest fears, this area represents the embodiment of racial and class otherness. In Bede’s Charity, anxieties regarding the increasing fluidity of class boundaries are played out through the juxtaposition of these locational extremes. Stretton examines different kinds of poverty, and explores issues of social mobility, barriers and prejudices. She considers the effects of social advancement – presented as both desirable and to be treated with caution because of the emotional and moral pitfalls, including social blindness, inherent in elevated lifestyles. The possibilities and complexities of escaping from a background of extreme poverty are explored through the progress, setbacks and responses of the young urchin, Cor; also pivotal are the consequences of sudden decline in status, from modest living to penury – with its concomitant loss of respectability as well as material struggle for existence. As a literary device, this ‘fall’ in situation invites cross-class engagement and also

19

������������������������� See Williams ��������������������� (1985: 221).

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permits ‘respectable’ protagonists to experience and mingle with outcast society.20 The text highlights the chasm – and sometimes the fine line – which divides the ‘two countries’ or two sides of London, a gulf of oceanic depth separating one from the other (141, Ch.18). After living among the ‘unknown’ poor, Margery’s visit to the grand and fashionable areas – where the extravagant cost of attire would provide years of sustenance for a poor child, and where the horses are tended and groomed in a manner that ‘would have saved the lives of hundreds’ (141) – is like entering a foreign land, with alien customs.21 Here, as in other texts, Stretton draws attention to the growing disparity between rich and poor, sometimes invoking, as does Elizabeth Gaskell, the Dives and Lazarus motif. Like Gaskell, who, in Mary Barton, had exposed the masters’ cutting short in ‘things for show’, while the poor must ‘stint’ in ‘things for life’ (1848/1987: 453), Stretton������������������������ satirizes�������������� , and overtly critiques, the attitudes of the well-off, for whom unendurable ‘privation’ (David Lloyd, Vol.1, 33, Ch.3) means relinquishing extra comforts rather than being ‘in want of the commonest necessaries of life’, like those ‘but a step from our door’ (Stretton, 1875, xiii). She angrily condemns a society which allows the poor to be ‘stinted’ in these ‘absolute necessaries’, whilst ‘luxury and waste run riot on every hand’ (A Thorny Path, 158, Ch.19). In Bede’s Charity, differences of perspective are acknowledged (and experienced by the protagonist): the idea of London as a great city with streets of gold is the prevailing image for the inhabitant of one district – an image unsustainable for the visitor to the crowded alleys within a stone’s throw of it. Using biblical parallels, Stretton examines the attitudes which reflect social snobbery and fears of contamination, and which seek to protect the one side from being exposed even to the sight of the other, a situation which echoes Engels’s observations regarding the barring of the working classes from the ‘tender susceptibilities of the eyes and nerves of the middle classes’ (quoted in Nord, 1997: 147). Awareness of poverty and want is selective; if the lives of the poor are viewed, often from a safe distance, as disturbing or intriguing, suffering and squalor are, for some, sights which they are ‘too refined and sensitive’ to witness, and which excite ‘unutterable’ loathing and horror (David Lloyd, Vol.1, 54, Ch.5). The infant Fidge, starved to the bone for begging purposes, is ‘a object, too harrowin’ for West End eyes (Pursebearers, 38, Ch.2). One world remains stubbornly blind and indifferent to the plight of the other, a situation which Stretton, through her writing, seeks to confront. She also examines in Bede’s Charity concepts of breeding or gentility (and their relationship to money), as well as the possible consequences of stepping out of one’s station. The changes in attitude and perspective – and in perceptions of identity – which attend shifts in economic position are examined through the protagonist’s 20

������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Characters have often experienced better times, as with the former musician in A Thorny Path. 21 ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� An illustration to Stretton’s text (edition c.1890) shows the fashionable folk sharply defined in the foreground, with the poor relations, as outsiders, in greyer focus at the periphery (see Figure 6.2).

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Fig. 6.2

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‘Under the Trees in the Park.’ Bede’s Charity, 1872/c.1890, Ch.18 Illustrator unknown.

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changing circumstances; the role of outward presentation in defining status and worth is made plain. The impoverished Margery is excluded from her successful brother’s world; he conceals from her his whereabouts, and subsequently hides her from his acquaintances when she appears on his doorstep. In seeking him out, she has transgressed that boundary – social and physical – which he, as male professional, has successfully crossed by means of emigration, business success and, ironically, an education which Margery – prompted by her aspirations for him – has encouraged. As a bodily reminder of the less prosperous (though respectable) background they share, and the additional fall in caste she now represents, she is denied by him and treated with scorn by his servants. When, unrecognized, she encounters her own niece, the child is deterred from touching her; the nurse ‘[draws] her back sharply’ when she raises her face to be kissed (117, Ch.15). However, Stretton uses the frankness of the child figure to expose the hypocrisy of Margery’s brother, who, in educating his daughter, has urged the importance of reaching out to the needy; the directness of youth is further harnessed to interrogate the qualities which constitute a ‘lady’ (155, Ch.20), a question which, along with ideas of what constitutes a gentleman, consistently troubles the text.22 The effects on individual subjectivity of an existence of poverty, and the failure of society to acknowledge basic needs and rights, are creatively underlined by Stretton’s narrative strategy. The disintegration of self inherent in Margery’s exclusion and impotence is accentuated by the fact that at her lowest point – she is starving, homeless, lost and suffering from loss of memory – the text moves from her first-person account to temporary narration by another party, a device which���������������������������������������������������� emphasizes����������������������������������������� the central character’s effacement from society and status as object. Her disorientation also invites engagement with a wider sense of confusion and chaos associated with urban life. At the same time, Stretton endows Margery with a comprehension of the reasons why she is not accepted in her brother’s world – just as in Carola, the protagonist understands why Philip could not take a wife ‘out of such a place’ (300, Ch.30). In these texts it is made clear, although not fully condoned, that associations with vice and degradation infect class position (even when the individual is morally beyond reproach), as in the���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� judgement������������������������������������������������������������������������ , from the perspective of����������������������������������������������� Carola’s�������������������������������������� potential parents-in-law, that class and a good (unstained) name go hand in hand (167, Ch.17). A lighter, but nonetheless incisive strand of social comment in Bede’s Charity is the portrayal of Margery’s once affluent acquaintance, Mrs Moss, who, refusing to live in the present and adapt to reduced circumstances, constantly bemoans the loss of her genteel position. Her conversation reflects her disdain for the ‘common people’; she deplores the idea of her daughter entering service (‘nobody belonging to me has ever been a servant’ – 171, Ch.22) or marrying beneath her – a situation again considered in Carola, where Philip must look higher (109, Ch.11). Marrying out of one’s station, and the problem of ‘unequal yoking’ in terms of class as well as religious belief, recur in Stretton’s diary and texts, as does an awareness of 22 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������� The ragged Cor ‘would have been a handsome boy if he had been a gentleman’s son’ (52).

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the difference which even modest economic security or independence makes to life. Juxtaposing various stances towards social superiority or inferiority and class progression, Bede’s Charity ultimately seeks to mediate differences and effect reconciliation. Whilst exposing discourses of the outcast body (individual and collective), it also pinpoints deficiencies in the wider social body, foregrounding society’s lack of compassion, the absurdities of official systems, and the failure of authorities to address social problems and make provision. Stretton’s familiarity with actual or statistical inadequacies is again brought into play, and pressing situations authoritatively woven into the narrative; we learn, for example, that a street-refuge with a capacity of seven hundred is full by seven o’clock in winter (206, Ch.26). Similarly, the narrator of David Lloyd’s Last Will advises us that in the winter of 1862, fourteen thousand pounds a week is needed to supply bare necessities to Manchester’s starving population (Vol.1, 284, Ch.24). The City as a Criminal World The widespread equation – perceived and actual – of poverty with criminality means that the context and location of many Stretton narratives guarantees proximity to a criminal environment; in his ‘Bitter Cry’, Andrew Mearns describes the ‘low parts’ of London, where ‘entire courts are filled with thieves, prostitutes and liberated convicts’ (1883/1976: 98). Despite an increasing openness, as the century progressed, to voicing the undesirable, women generally still faced problems in alluding to topics such as crime. However, from the earliest texts, Stretton determinedly (although at times somewhat obliquely) confronts issues generally deemed beyond the acceptable remit of a woman writer; we know from the diaries that she took an interest in court proceedings and regularly visited the Assizes. Like Dickens, she was able to see society’s ‘dregs’ as a valuable source of material, and to draw her characters from what he described as ‘the most criminal and degraded in London’s population’ (Preface to Oliver Twist, 1838/1966: 33). A number of her texts deal directly with a criminal environment, although again protagonists are often slightly removed, suggesting a reluctance to cast her lot in wholly with the criminal perspective. Such distancing entails in some instances a distinction based on innate goodness or badness, although Stretton is undeniably concerned with the association between material circumstances and crime. The young (blue-eyed and blond-haired) waif of Pilgrim Street appears ‘sweet and innocent’ compared with the ‘aged and vicious aspect’ of most of his street companions. David (In Prison and Out) is not ‘born’ to a career of crime; there has ‘always been a vital difference between him and them’ (192, Ch.22). Some protagonists are on the edge of the criminal world; others, like Tom and David, or Rachel (The Storm of Life), are drawn into it (like Dickens’s Oliver), or perceived as part of it, their guilt often inferred. The protagonist Carola has communed with criminals (‘of the lowest and most degraded type’) and, unknowingly, witnesses a criminal act: ‘springing’ from such a class, she takes on the taint of that world. Certain representations are clearly intended to be more negative than others – the thoroughly bad, who exploit

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and lead others, especially children, astray, as opposed to the inherently good – but there are ways in which even these distinctions are troubled. On occasions, the villain of the piece serves as a mouthpiece for social critique and exposure of society’s mechanisms of control. Stretton’s representation of the criminal husband who so callously exploits his wife and daughter in The Storm of Life is patently condemnatory; as evangelical and moral messenger, she never condones criminal behaviour. This character’s assertions, however, carry the weight of the author’s criticism of structural divisions, drawing attention to the social factors which lead to crime. Raising concerns which are historically specific, and yet continue to have relevance today, they pinpoint the bitterness and resentment which arise from inequality and perceived injustice: as Benjamin Waugh observes, the criminal class is a ‘revengeful class’ (1873/1984: 24). Stretton’s felon declares his refusal to starve, while others ‘roll in money’ (120, Ch.14); the rich ‘idle’ while folks are ‘clemming’ to death, and tread on the poor ‘like their slaves’. What harm, therefore, he reasons, can there be in robbing them? (107; 110, Ch.12).23 His complaints give expression to the idea of religion as social control: the gospel is an ‘old woman’s tale’, perpetuated to keep the masses in their place by those who would ‘have us poor folks believe, to keep us down’ (107) – a contention which echoes John Barton’s proto-Marxist conclusion, in Gaskell’s Mary Barton, that the Bible must be a ‘sham’ designed to deceive the poor and ignorant (1848/1987: 437). The frequent message of contemporary sermons was that the social structure was natural, inevitable and ordained. Distinctions of rich and poor were, despite supposed equality in the sight of God, ‘insuperable peculiarities of the human race’ (Hart, 1977: 109), with poverty a ‘necessary element’ in a nation’s social life (113). Although the idea of social elevation met with increasing acceptance, the doctrine of resignation and heavenly rewards continued to be stressed. It is difficult to know whether the������������������������������������������������������������ scepticism������������������������������������������������� shown by Stretton’s criminal is a reflection of attitudes which she encountered in the dispossessed (who were, in fact, less likely to attend sermons). Such representations perhaps stem from an acknowledgement, fed by Stretton’s liberal and often critical sermon-tasting, of the use of religious platitudes to justify material inequalities. She was aware that those whose families are dying of starvation are liable to demand: ‘what good has [being religious] done for me? (David Lloyd, Vol.1, 51, Ch.5). Set against Stretton’s vision of the deviant as, in certain circumstances, deserving of a voice, or susceptible to rehabilitation, is the image of a ‘criminal type’, evoking contemporary theories of an innate, contagious or irremediable, tendency towards criminality – an inbred capacity for vice. Stretton insists that environment������������������������������������������������������������������������ brutalizes������������������������������������������������������������� , yet individual and social causation are sometimes blurred. These narratives illustrate the role of language in shaping attitudes towards deviance. 23

��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Such justifications are, of course, heard today. Stretton also shows that middle-class perpetrators of fraud – merely ‘common thieves’ – can be brought equally low; following a financial scandal, the outcast protagonist of Cobwebs and Cables, finds himself, like the street-child or vagrant, ‘moved on’ authoritatively by the street-police (270, Ch.39).

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Female criminals, in particular, are seen to violate not only the laws of society, but also those of nature, to the extent that their degradation and corruption means they can no longer be regarded as women, and are unworthy of the name (In the Hollow of His Hand, 107, Ch.18), a perception which evokes Dickens’s much earlier description (Oliver Twist, 237) of women ‘with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten out’. In the ‘low dens’ men are regarded as ‘a disgrace to manhood’, but women have ‘lost all womanhood’ (Pursebearers, 238, Ch.14). The Future Criminal A particular figure of concern – one which has been broached in relation to the child – is that of the juvenile delinquent. This is an area which crosses the boundaries of child and adult preoccupations; it might fittingly have been explored in connection with childhood, but also has a natural place in discussions of the criminal world and the discourses surrounding it. During the period in which Stretton was writing, increasing anxiety about juvenile crime accompanied wider fears of unrest; juvenile lawlessness was seen as arising from the lowest classes, and as foreshadowing the possibility of insurrection among those classes.24 In turn, responses were influenced by shifting ideas regarding the nature of childhood, with an increased sense of the dependence and vulnerability of the child now applied to the lower as well as the upper and middle classes. Historian Hugh Cunningham (1991: 107) refers to the burgeoning literature on juvenile delinquency from the 1840s onwards, and discusses the overlapping discourses which surround, in particular, the representation of street-children from the mid-Victorian period.25 In its preoccupation with the street-child, Stretton’s writing reflects, and exposes, prevailing attitudes regarding their idleness and propensity to crime, as well as the material circumstances of their involvement in the underworld. Mayhew, who sometimes elided discussion of street-sellers and young criminals, speaks of the ‘hardening’ consequences of a street career, and a selfishness born of hard struggle; at the same time, this class ‘… keep[s] up a constant current of scheming and excitement (1861–2/1985: 161; 177). Stretton, as narrator, observes that the children of the poor are ‘free to stay away from their miserable homes as long as they will’ (Bede’s Charity, 108, Ch.14). As her associate, Benjamin Waugh, makes clear, the child of the streets – subject to the wild energy of his environment – is the antithesis of the domesticated child; the importance of home and the motherfigure (the two often conflated) are central to his arguments, as they are to those of Stretton herself. It is the fidelity of his mother which enables Ishmael (No Place Like Home) to survive prison; in In Prison and Out, David’s love for his mother is the quality which sets him apart from other criminals. Stretton’s contemporary, 24

See, for example, Pearson (1983: 159). Cunningham examines the intersection of increasingly professionalized discourses of juvenile delinquency with the rhetoric of evangelical child-centred endeavours, and with the sentimentalized street-child images by artists and writers. 25

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Mrs Sumner, writing about maternal responsibility, suggests that the boy’s first ideal woman is his mother (1893: 67); only she can exert a ‘softening’ influence on boys who are struggling with terrible odds against them (68). The ‘wild’ – and often motherless – street-child, will, it is assumed, inevitably display criminal tendencies. Like Tony in Alone in London (68, Ch.10), the ‘common boy off the streets’ is, in the eyes of the world, ‘no doubt’ a ‘thief and pickpocket’, or like Lost Gip’s Sandy (65, Ch.9), a ‘rogue and a thief, no doubt’ (my italics); the development of one into the other and the elision of the two in public perception is significant. As Dickens had earlier noted, through the voice of his Alderman (‘The Chimes’, 1844/1995: 83), it was axiomatic that boys who ran wild in the street, without shoes and stockings, had ‘grow[n] up bad’, and must be summarily convicted. Similarly, when the freedom-loving Ben of Stretton’s The Children of Cloverley is caught trespassing, the mistress of the house refuses to believe that the ‘bare-footed and bare-headed’ boy comes from a reputable family. His physical appearance marks him out as a ‘rascal’, a jail-bound ‘vagabond and a thief’ (92, Ch.11) – an assumption of inherent waywardness sardonically reflected in ‘highly respectable’ Aunt Charlotte’s horror, in Alone in London, at the sight of a common street-boy, capless and shoeless, associating with a child of her own family: ‘if [her] mother saw her … with a boy in bare feet and a bare head, it ’ud break her heart’ (70, Ch.10). Juvenile delinquency was chiefly associated with young males; according to Elizabeth Rossiter, writing in 1881, the police reported ‘with genuine fervour’, that boys were ‘our greatest trouble’ (569). With a few exceptions, Stretton’s youthful protagonists who brush with the law or the judicial system, or who become deeply enmeshed in the world of crime and prison, are adolescent boys. Although a number of her narratives revolve around the criminal activities of street-dwellers or the very poor, certain texts express a concern which arguably extends beyond the poorest classes; for example, in No Place Like Home, a country mother voices her anxiety regarding a son about to start work – about to step into the ‘perils’ of boyhood (34, Ch.3). Reflecting notions of criminality as a disease, the adolescent is deemed susceptible to diverse contaminating influences. In an 1879 Report, the Religious Tract Society Committee expressed concern that juvenile crime was being largely stimulated by the ‘pernicious literature circulated among our lads’ (Green, 1899: 127). Moreover, to boys from less impoverished backgrounds, the street-ruffian, with his adult freedoms and lack of restraint, could represent a romantically transgressive, even heroic, figure. However, Stretton takes pains to highlight the very different responses of society and the legal system to the misdemeanours of middle-class offspring. Prejudices which apply to the criminal or outcast world in general apply also to the young ‘delinquent’, influencing relationships with authority and processes of control and surveillance. The street-children, Mayhew asserts, were ‘haters of the police and of most constituted authorities’ (1861–62/1985: 177). Just as, in Gaskell’s Mary Barton, policemen are the ‘ogres of our streets to all unlucky urchins’ (1987: 434), they are ‘natural enemies’ in the eyes of many Stretton waifs

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(Lost Gip, 47, Ch.6; Jessica’s First Prayer, 36, Ch.3). Waugh, writing in 1873 on juvenile justice, speaks of the official ‘dominat[ing] the poor-boy world (29), and the police – whose arbitrary heavy-handedness understandably provokes defiance – as the ‘autocrat[s] of the street’ (37); to ‘keep alive, and keep clear of the police is the chief aim of [the street-urchin’s] day-to-day life’ (141). Stretton confirms the deeply entrenched ‘instinct of the City Arab to escape from a policeman’ (Pilgrim Street, 76, Ch.9); constantly hounded by authority, her protagonists develop from an early age a sense – which becomes a fatalistic acceptance – that jail is their inescapable destiny. Authority figures make judgements and generalizations based on preconceptions about these street-children, who are labelled ‘born and bred liars and thieves’ (Pilgrim Street, 16, Ch.2); ‘this sort’ (my italics) are ‘slippery as eels’ (Lost Gip, 50, Ch.7). The inhabitants of poor districts find themselves constantly under the searchlight of authority; waifs such as Cassy must conceal themselves in dark recesses, away from the beat of the over-zealous policeman (32, Ch.4), a situation which echoes Mayhew’s finding (485) that the police have ‘control over the low people and places in the East-end’. Ubiquitous surveillance is emphasized by the recurring illustrations which support Stretton’s exposure of unequal power relations, with cowering figures again subject to the piercing beam of torchlight, as in Pilgrim Street (Ch.12 – see Figure 6.3), and with ‘no disobedience to a policeman’s order’ contemplated (Pilgrim Street, 31, Ch.4); such depictions share similarities with Gustave Doré’s illustrations of street scenes, in particular ‘The Bull’s Eye’, 1872, in which the searchlight of the law picks out the huddling vagrants. The vulnerability of the juvenile accused, who is rarely given a voice or the opportunity to justify himself, is brought into sharp focus; no-one doubts the statement of the police, and no time is allowed to look into the juvenile’s case (Pilgrim Street, In Prison and Out). Whilst limited resistance to authority may be offered, as we have seen, by the actions or dialogue of the protagonist, some characters remain passive, with protest undertaken on their behalf through Stretton’s accompanying critique of the system and those who exercise arbitrary power. From the mid-nineteenth century, the focus of delinquency debates and philanthropic efforts shifted towards a more humanitarian and reformative emphasis, as evidenced by the concerns of ‘child-savers’ such as Shaftesbury, Davenport Hill and Carpenter. Particularly relevant is the increasingly high profile accorded to the idea of juvenile justice as a separate area within the judicial system, and the creation of distinct practices. Alternative methods were necessary in punishing or dealing with the needs of the young offender, and by mid-century this was reflected in legislation such as the Youthful Offenders’ Act of 1854. Changes were bound up with religious and liberal influences, developments in education and sociological studies, and the burgeoning of progressive ideas.26 26 ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� See Pearson (1983). Shore (2000) provides a re-evaluation of traditional accounts of the rise of delinquency and the evolution of policy, focusing on the influence of ‘constructions’ of the deviant child.

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Fig. 6.3

The Writings of Hesba Stretton

Pilgrim Street, 1867/inscr.1890, Ch.12 [W.L. Jones]/Whymper

As Pearson (1983: 182) observes, the ‘reformation of the rising generation’ had been seen as fundamental to maintaining control over ‘a fractious people’; educating the young would deter the working class from ‘reproducing itself in its present condition’. Social and legal change, in Stretton’s tales, go hand in

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hand with the need, identified by earlier reformers such as Mary Carpenter, to ‘touch the heart’, and with a recognition of the potential of love to soften and reform: ‘we cannot take these lads out of the streets, but we can try to make them very different’ (Pilgrim Street, 28, Ch.3) – a conviction later reflected in her acknowledgement (‘Women’s Work’, 1893) that the nation’s longer-term future rests upon ‘what the children of the present decade are’; the world advances on the ‘feet of childhood’ (12). In Stretton’s themes, the need to experience the softening power of love extends to authority figures such as policemen and magistrates: it was unheard of to speak of feeling any affection for ‘thievish lads who were the daily plague of his life’ (Pilgrim Street, 29, Ch.3) – a sentiment overturned during the course of the narrative, with the awakening of policeman Banner’s social conscience, and his spiritual and emotional softening. At the conclusion of In Prison and Out, Stretton alludes to, and advocates the reading of, Waugh’s The Gaol Cradle: Who Rocks It?, an analysis of the causes and problems of juvenile crime, which caused uproar when it was published in 1873. Examination of this text reveals the extent of their overlapping concerns and attitudes. Waugh’s study makes explicit numerous issues which were the subject of contemporary debate in relation to delinquency; it deals with definitions and causes of juvenile crime, and its relationship to poverty, centring on preventative strategies and necessary reform in the treatment and punishment of offenders – questions, ideas and arguments which are depressingly familiar today. Stretton acknowledges that a number of the incidents central to In Prison and Out (additionally titled ‘Facts on a Thread of Fiction’) are based on factual instances, and the foundation for individual themes is easily recognizable from Waugh’s examples. Whereas Waugh, like Barnardo, includes anecdotes to illustrate his polemic, Stretton weaves facts into her ‘thread of fiction’ to achieve a narrative which draws the reader into the circumstances of the individual and betrays her own sense of urgency regarding social change. Although this is the text most directly linked to Waugh’s ideas, her earlier work testifies to her longstanding belief in the arguments he advances, and allied themes recur throughout her writing. In Prison and Out rehearses many of the key debates surrounding juvenile justice, highlighting the issues of����������������������������������������������� labelling������������������������������������� , branding and internalization which trouble Waugh and other reformers: having ‘nam[ed] him black’, the system ‘makes him black’; having ‘call[ed] him a dog’, it ‘makes him a dog’ (Waugh, 9). The downward spiral of a life grounded in criminal activity is foregrounded, as are the problems of contamination and recidivism, with society’s negative responses vigorously condemned. David is driven by circumstances to mix with professional criminals like Blackett, and inevitably develops a taste for crime (152, Ch.17). The attraction of this world may be the sense of inclusion offered by the apparent care and interest provided by the criminal fraternity, and often lacking in society in general – a theme which recalls the plight of Dickens’s Oliver. Blackett is ‘kind’ to David, providing food and shelter, but teaching him the lessons of the underworld. Like Dickens, Stretton points to the effects of deprivation on moral choices, and demonstrates that those who are hungry and motherless are more likely to be drawn into the criminal environment. Set against the solidarity of the subculture is

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criminal self-interest: there is little ‘honour among thieves’ (Alone in London, 77, Ch.11). The stigma which adheres to the ex-prisoner or ‘gaol-bird’ (‘lads never got over the shameful fact … it clung to them for life’ – A Man of His Word, 118, Ch.6), together with society’s unwillingness to give him a chance, are spelled out, with Stretton’s narrative echoing Waugh’s anecdotes and arguments. There is resounding indignation at society’s lack of provision in the form of education or employment training for working-class boys: no-one ‘[takes] the trouble’ to find work for David (Prison, 14, Ch.2), a criticism which reflects the Victorian belief in idleness as the source of all ills, but also pinpoints social inadequacies. The training denied David as a free adolescent is given to him in prison, but serves no purpose outside when the stigma of his record deprives him of a position. Prison is confirmed as a training ground for crime: ‘if you send him to gaol, he’ll grow up a thief’ (112, Ch.12). Five years later David has ‘developed skill enough to transgress the laws and yet evade the penalty’ (172, Ch.20), and has joined the ‘brotherhood of thieves’, no longer to be classed among the juvenile criminals. Stretton��������������������������������������������������������������� emphasizes���������������������������������������������������� the effectiveness of the prison training ship; she allows the criminal’s son to be trained and reformed, and ultimately to marry the protagonist’s sister. Deprived of such rehabilitative treatment, David, however, dies in prison. Stretton – like Waugh and Mayhew – acknowledges that a different morality operates in an environment of poverty. The circumstances which lead to crime are again explored, as they are in Waugh’s analysis, and a degree of justification is permitted. Unlike those who make and enforce the laws, the poor are ‘pinned down to suffering and crime’ (Prison, 195, Ch.22); stealing, as Stretton frequently recognizes, becomes necessary in order to supplement meagre incomes. The pragmatism of the street-wise is often highlighted, and sentimentalized moral aspirations set in the context of material need; Tony (Alone in London) acknowledges God’s ‘provision’ of his crossing broom, but admits that, should his efforts to stay out of prison fail, he ‘had better make a business’ of thieving and pickpocketing (74, Ch.11). The injustice of a law which disregards the circumstances of the crime is underlined. David begs in order to keep his mother from starving;27 in an echo of a Waugh anecdote, he fights to uphold her rights and her good name when she is���������� unjustly labelled a thief, drunkard and ‘something worse’ – behaviour on David’s part which, ������� as Waugh concurs, might be viewed as heroic in a different class context. Both Stretton and Waugh highlight, and condemn, the differing responses of society and the justice system according to the class background of the accused. The misdeeds for which the street-boy is punished, and cast into ‘a gulf from which there was no clear escape in this life’ (Prison, 125, Ch.14) are compared to the 27

During 1851–55, 848 boys were committed to Tothill Fields prison for ‘Begging, or sleeping in the open air’ (Shore, 2000: 23). Stretton suggests that police and justices in country towns also treated beggars harshly: a young protagonist is warned, ‘if they catch you begging they’ll lock you up for five years in a reformatory’ (Pursebearers, 233, Ch.13).

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pranks of middle or upper-class boys, or, indeed, the trespasses committed daily by every schoolboy. The theft of eggs for which Ishmael in No Place Like Home is imprisoned is ‘naught but a lad’s trick, … such as anyone ’ud do’ (37, Ch.3). In the text In Prison and Out, in which the polemic is overtly entwined with the narrative, Stretton explicitly invokes Tom Brown’s Schooldays, a ‘favourite with all the upper and middle classes of Great Britain’: the ‘scrapes those boys got into, and got out of! The crimes against English Law they committed!’ (124, Ch.14). Had the same justice been meted to these offenders, she suggests, many a presentday ‘worthy’ gentleman – and magistrate – would instead be a ‘greyhaired convict in penal servitude’ (125), an assertion which replicates Waugh’s sentiments. In a similar analysis of class distinctions, the magistrate in A Man of His Word is forced to re-examine his prejudices when confronted with the necessity of imposing upon his trespasser grandson the harsh punishment he has habitually handed out to other young offenders, and begins to question the morality of incarcerating terrified street-urchins or poverty-stricken poachers in a ‘crib’ designed for the vilest criminals. Stretton demonstrates that definitions of childhood, and the location of adult-child boundaries, are, unjustly, class-dependent: ‘[David] was but a boy still’; in many households he would be ‘reckoned among the children’, his ‘faults of temper’ overlooked or treated with leniency (Prison, 140, Ch.16) – a comparison repeated in No Place Like Home (63, Ch.5), where Ishmael, who ‘in happier homes’ would still be considered a child, faces eviction by his drunken father and a precarious life on the streets after release from prison. In line with contemporary debates, Stretton exposes the inadequacies of social and legal systems and forms of punishment, exploring questions of provision and the attribution of blame. Writing soon after Waugh had estimated that 3,000 children annually were being swept from the streets of the metropolis into gaols, she stresses that severity does not work, and that prison sentences are ineffective and counterproductive: ‘we sent him once and again to gaol as the fitting penalty for childish faults’ (Prison, 190, Ch.21). Communal responsibility is not evaded: in answer to the question, ‘Who Rocks the [Gaol] Cradle?’, Stretton suggests, in her postscript to the reader, that it is ‘You and I’. Sadly, her indictment of society’s failure to understand or adequately address the problem and causes of juvenile crime has all too clear a resonance for the modern reader. Other Kinds of Alterity: Earth’s Eternal Outcasts Another outsider-figure who surfaces in Stretton’s writings is the East End Jew – part of a rapidly expanding community by the latter part of the nineteenth century.28 In his situation as a foreigner, of an alien religion, and often a member of the struggling poor, such a figure suffers multiple marginalization. Contemporary cultural perceptions of the Jew embody the contradictions inherent in a designation 28 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������ London’s end-of-century Jewish population������������������������������������� was estimated at 140,000 to 150,000 (���������������������� Englander, 1989: 551)�.

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of alterity; the character is variously exoticized and despised, respected for particular qualities or viewed with caution and suspicion. Walkowitz (1992: 35) discusses the biological racism which informed Charles Booth’s depictions of both the indigenous labouring poor and also the Jews; as she observes in respect of his accounts, ‘like other “urban primitives”, Jews bore the physical stigmata of racial Otherness’. Yet they failed to fit the pattern of degradation associated with such otherness, emerging as ‘a private, home�������������������������������������������� -centred������������������������������������ people not given to street brawls, wife-beating, or child neglect’ (Walkowitz, 36).29 Consequently, Stretton’s representation of the Jew as surrogate parent and moral guardian in Carola assumes particular significance. Resonating with a contemporary recognition of Jewish virtues of sobriety and adherence to family values, her portrait of an individual Jew (despite the stereotypical name of Matthias Levi) contrasts sharply with the image handed down in the figure of the corrupt – and corrupting – Fagin (labelled generically as ‘the Jew’) of Dickens’s Oliver Twist. Henry Mayhew (1861–62/1985: 196) had observed that marriage tended to be the rule for Jews; later, social investigator Beatrice Potter recorded in her somewhat idealized account the Jewish prescription of obedience to parents, devotion to children and respect for women, as well as their regard for chastity – priorities consistently valued by Stretton. Potter found the Jewish community to be law-abiding and industrious, with a desire for self-betterment; she was impressed by their intellectual superiority, self-discipline and ‘highly developed personal and communal morality’ which embraced structures of communal charity as well as self-reliance (Himmelfarb, 1991: 140–42). These are the characteristics which Hesba Stretton – crossing barriers of religion, culture, gender and generation, and subverting negative perceptions of a Jewish ‘type’ – foregrounds in her portrayal of the old man who undertakes the eponymous young Carola’s physical, financial and moral upbringing amidst the drunken depravity of the East End. Despite its material particularities, their relationship embodies all the complexities of parent-adolescent attachment and separation, thereby engaging with cross-class issues. Matthias finds the fast-maturing, strong-willed Carola difficult to control,� agonizes����������������������������������������������������������������������� over her waywardness, and reluctantly allows her the freedom to make, and learn by, her own mistakes. At the same time, this cameo incorporates the pathetic effects characteristic of melodrama, namely an elderly parent grieving for the troubles of an erring daughter.30 Stretton charts the development of the bond between the protagonists, exploring the strengths, challenges and conflicts which characterize the relationship. Confounding perceptions of ‘the Jew’ as self-seeking – as, in the eyes of ‘most people’, ‘cunning and avaricious’ (Carola, 63, Ch.5) – Matthias, an honest and hardworking shoemaker who often provides poor children with sound footwear 29 Brian Cheyette (1993), discussing cultural and literary constructions of an ‘eternal mythic Jew’, posits the instability of ‘the Jew’ as signifier (8), the figure being harnessed to symbolize ‘the “best” and “worst” of selves’ (12). 30 See Booth (1965: 30).

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at his own expense, is protective of Carola’s financial interests for the sake of her well-being rather than his own gain. Stretton demonstrates the value of his religious tradition and the moral superiority of the old man over his fellow residents, with whom he is unpopular mainly because he is a Jew (191, Ch.20); she uses the positive qualities of this self-appointed guardian to emphasize the moral shortcomings of the population of the East End at large. Although perceived as so-called Christians from the Jewish perspective, these inhabitants are clearly not regarded as such by the author. However, the effect of this narrative is not merely to condemn. Stretton examines the perspectives of both Jew and non-Jew, highlighting the misunderstandings which develop between different communities – as she does elsewhere in relation to Catholics and Protestants or to other branches of Christianity – the label ‘heretic’ often applied by both sides. Investigators such as Beatrice Potter noted, and appreciated, the tenacity with which Jews clung to their religion, and their resistance to missionary attempts (Himmelfarb, 1991: 140). There was concern among East End clergy regarding the negative influence of the Jews in an already difficult spiritual environment (Englander, 1989: 561). Admittedly, Stretton ultimately perceives the conversion of Matthias as part of a mission to convert non-Christians of all backgrounds. After using his faith as a stepping-stone to Carola’s own spiritual maturation – perhaps echoing J.R. Seeley’s suggestion in Ecce Homo (1865), which Stretton records purchasing, of the Jew as midway between the heathen and the Christian – the narrative resolution provides for his assimilation into the Christian community. Nonetheless, her portrayal of Matthias forms part of an approach which intervenes in the contemporary presentation of alterity, revealing processes of misrepresentation and the shaping of mythologies and prejudices.31 Later textual representations reflect perceptions of both difference and commonality between different religious and social groups; in her preface to The Highway of Sorrow, Stretton compares the persecution of the Stundists to that of the Jews, but suggests that, whereas the Jews have ‘powerful friends’, the Stundists lack representation. The portrayal of a Russian Jew in this text positions him as secretly sympathetic towards the persecuted Stundists, but outwardly unsupportive for fear of being implicated in resistance to established authority. At the conclusion, however, a young Jew is exiled alongside the Stundists because revolutionary papers are found in his possession, and as a political prisoner and Jew by birth, he is banished without trial to the farthest settlements. Sharing with the Jew the status of ‘eternal’ or ‘mythic’ outcast, and featuring in several Stretton texts, is another liminal figure and prominent Victorian literary trope: the gypsy. Standing out as a ‘constant, ubiquitous marker of otherness’, the gypsy signified ‘social marginality, nomadism, alienation and lawlessness’, 31

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Commenting in her diaries about Jewish acquaintances, Stretton cites encounters with ‘high-caste’ Jews and with a converted Jew. On one occasion she includes ‘Jews, milliners, tailors, etc.’ in a casual reference to ‘essentially vulgar people’ attending a picnic (25.6.1863).

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and, unlike the partially assimilated Jew, ‘hovered on the outskirts of the English world’ (Nord, 1998: 189). Like that of other marginalized figures around which Stretton’s narratives revolve, the image of the gypsy as wild, dangerous and of a separate, dark race represents a romanticized vision in which the picturesque, the exotic and the undesirable coalesce, engendering both fascination and anxiety. Just as the urban outcast is perceived as part of the ‘dregs’, the gypsy is often debased and dehumanized, elided discursively with the detritus of society. The superstition and mistrust which infuse the gypsy trope are already evidenced in Stretton’s story, ‘A Provincial Post-Office’ (28.2.1863). Looking back to childhood, the narrator recalls the ‘talismanic’ measures undertaken to safeguard her from ‘gipsies and other baby-stealers, who were the terror of our infancy’ (12). Later, just as in Juliana Ewing’s Lob Lie-by-the-Fire (reviewed with Stretton’s The King’s Servants in 1873), doubt is cast as to whether a child assumed to be of gypsy blood should be sheltered in the house, in Stretton’s Two Secrets (1882/inscr. 1901) the ‘strange’ child, ‘belonging to nobody but gipsies’ – although injured and in need of assistance – is not willingly accepted in the homes of cottagers (18). Yet for the Victorians, the romanticized image of a free open-air lifestyle – associated with fast-disappearing rural simplicity – could engender a sense of nostalgia and envy in city-bound readers and writers, representing a form of escape and independence, physical, moral and social. As well as constituting a source of contagion and disorder – indeed, an affront to the norms of civilization – the gypsy could also be conceived as a preserver of simple values in the face of an obsession with material progress.32 Cultural engagement with the mysteries of gypsy life had been fuelled by contemporary artists and by writers such as George Borrow, who recorded his travels and experiences with the gypsy community in Lavengro (1851) and The Romany Rye (1857). Underlining the ambiguous appeal of the figure, Borrow observes that ‘it was much more agreeable to play the gypsy or the tinker than to become either in reality’ (1857/1948: 89).���� In� The Doctor’s Dilemma, Stretton highlights the gypsy as signifier of autonomy and resistance to over������������������������������������������������������������������������� -civilization������������������������������������������������������������ . Her protagonist’s reaction to the renewed constraints and markers (such as kid gloves) of a luxurious, ‘genteel’ lifestyle is telling: ‘my mode of life had been almost as wandering and free as that of a gipsy’; ‘I felt as if we were gipsies, suddenly caught, and caged in a splendid captivity (Part 3, 230; 231, Ch.22 – ‘Too Highly Civilised’). As we have seen, Stretton’s narratives often centre on the city poor. These urban masses were augmented by a seasonal influx of what Mayhew had termed ‘wandering tribes’ – tramps, beggars and diverse itinerant labourers, many of whom worked on the land during summer months and entered the city in winter. The consequences of this intermingling are apparent in Lost Gip: of uncertain paternity, the infant, with her black eyes and a tangled mass of black hair, is deemed a ‘thorough’ or ‘reg’lar’ little ‘gipsy’ (Ch.1). Stretton’s description echoes images such as that contained in Bronte’s Wuthering Heights (1847/1992: 51), in which 32

See Behlmer (1985: 238).

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the dirty, ragged Heathcliff, a black-haired, devil-identified ‘gipsy brat’ from the streets, is an unmistakable signifier of otherness and the dark, hidden self. The gypsy motif, which of course recurs in the work of nineteenth-century novelists including Charlotte Bronte and George Eliot, invites ambivalent responses involving identification and rejection. In practical terms, gypsies attracted attention as a social ‘problem’; regularly featuring in newspapers and periodicals, they were, like other social outsiders, subjected to the gaze of the observer, inviting curiosity as well as social or philanthropic concern. On Christmas Eve, 1868, Stretton herself visited an encampment, and after meeting a party of gypsies early in 1869, comments in her journal, ‘21 of them there: a very droll and interesting scene’. She does not record the precise purpose of the visits, but notes: ‘Miss Rye, the emigration woman there’ (3.1.1869). Later that year, she wrote an article entitled ‘Gipsy Glimpses’, which appeared in All The Year Round. Confirming gypsy life as a form of theatre from the perspective of both participant and spectator, this piece – an illuminating cameo of society’s ambivalence towards the exotic or undesirable other – chronicles a visit to the encampment and the gypsy community’s subsequent attendance at a special reception at the Old Hall. Framed as both creative subjects and objects of the outsider’s gaze, the gypsies appear as vibrant, yet mysterious and uncanny performers in an intriguing spectacle, in which superstition and perceptions of shared humanity intermingle; after the gypsies declare the official part of the visit over, the visitors cannot resist prolonging their voyeurism by looking through the peepholes in the tent. The account evidences a mixture of fascination, mistrust and condescension by both writer and resident community; there is a desire to reach out and to embrace difference, yet a need to distance and maintain boundaries, to preserve facets of otherness. The community is described as a ‘vagrant tribe’, with subsequent references to ‘strange’ guests and ‘native wildness’. At the campsite, the image of the snarling guard-dog intensifies the air of foreboding; the visitors are urged not to be afraid. Such images vie with depictions of cosy tent interiors, where sturdy, resourceful women with a gift for poetic storytelling create a homely, welcoming environment. The deep crimsons, purples and ambers, the brilliantly-patterned rugs and blankets, the vast cooking-pots and richly-painted china all contribute to an aura of luxury, comfort and ‘romance’ (537); the picturesque apparel and peculiar gypsy grace and freedom meet with visitors’ approval. Descriptions of the black-haired child, the baby with shrewd ‘fortune-telling face’ and ‘bead-like eyes’ uncharacteristic of babyhood (539), resonate with pervasive mythologies. The reaction of the resident community reflects perceptions of the gypsy’s inferiority in terms of���������������������������������������������������������� behaviour������������������������������������������������ and gentility. There emerges an almost comical expression of surprise at, and respect for, the degree of dignity, composure and civilized conduct displayed at the reception. The gypsies behave like ‘any other gentlemen’, with little to indicate they are not ‘to the manner born’ (539). The narrator notes – apparently without irony – their failure significantly to breach etiquette, and the ease, self-possession, honesty and courtesy of the guests, their ‘intelligent foreheads’ and superiority to other lower-class groups are admiringly documented. Such a response betrays, yet simultaneously reshapes, assumptions regarding those whose difference

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both intrigues and inspires suspicion, and whose image is alternately�������������� romanticized� and denigrated. Interestingly, the reported tendency for those of the ‘true gipsy race’ to distance themselves from the Epping Forest gypsies – ‘a mongrel lot’ with ‘low and dirty habits’ – underlines the urge to maintain distinctions within the category of gypsy. Reflecting������������������������������������������������������ Stretton’s������������������������������������������� interest in the gypsy child, the story of Cassy, written a few years after the recorded gypsy encounter, centres on a young girl from the� travelling�������������������������������������������������������������������� population.�������������������������������������������������������� Cassy’s������������������������������������������������ wayfaring community, although wintering in the city, spends the greater part of the year encamped in Epping Forest. Embodying the conflicting patterns which inflect the gypsy image, the text once again reflects not only the cultural preoccupation with the rural or pastoral, but Stretton’s particular love of open, natural locations and her accompanying fear of enclosure. In setting the narrative scene, the author stresses the appeal of the as yet unenclosed forest areas to Londoners escaping for a summer picnic outing, and juxtaposes her account of their ‘pleasure-parties’ with her protagonist’s material situation as one of the ‘strange wandering population’ (8–9, Ch.1). The author strains to convey the deprivation of encampment life: Poor and miserable dwelling-places they are, even when the sun shines … but as the autumn creeps on, with its damp and chill, and the soil grows oozy with moisture, and the old worn-out canvas of the tents … soaked through with rain and fog, then the misery and wretchedness of these summer quarters is worse than the worst alley or most crowded court in the City. (9)

A sense of menace is again evoked – the growling of a dog ‘warns you not to trespass’ (9) – not least because violent relationships are implicit in such conditions. Yet the yearning for the freedom of the forest experienced by such wanderers when confined to the city is also insistent. Lost and hungry in the ‘squalid alleys’ of London, which lay about her ‘like the cobwebs in the forest’, Cassy compares the narrow court where she falls asleep to a ‘deep, close grave’ (33, Ch.4). Later, with the advent of better weather, comes ‘an impatient stir and longing’ for the change which had always accompanied spring, when, in the workhouse, her mother would whisper that ‘they would soon quit their winter-quarters for their free life on the forest’ (82, Ch.10). Another, contrasting, juxtaposition is effected through the image encapsulated in the homely caravan of the dwarf Simon, where Cassy finds physical and emotional security, and from which symbolic vantage point the forest can be appreciated in all its beauty and fertility. Simon’s van, with its cooking stove and china plates and cups, evokes the picturesque, colourful caravans associated with the more sentimentalized romantic construction of gypsy domesticity – an image often associated with travelling showmen from fairs or circuses (a lifestyle scrutinized in O.F. Walton’s A Peep Behind the Scenes, 1877). The stability which Simon’s van – his own property – offers is in marked contrast to the rough encampment conditions, and without its more sinister overtones; a pastoral idyll, it represents the antithesis of the multiple deprivation which Cassy experiences within her family,

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where the kettle with a piece out of the rim, the few cracked and broken pieces of crockery and the rotting straw are emblematic of fractured lives and decayed relationships (10, Ch.1). Once again the place of safety is not provided by means of conventional family structures, but through acceptance by another social outcast. In tension with suggestions of darker gypsy powers, this������������������� idealized��������� setting combines with biblical allusions to facilitate the enactment of a spiritual battle. At the same time, it parallels Cassy’s transference from one patriarchal situation to another (albeit less threatening and more reciprocal): the ‘helpless’ dwarf who buys Cassy from her father, and whose ‘coarse and withered cheek’ she kisses, is nothing like the ‘rough, drunken men, such as her father’ known during her ‘wild life’ (29, Ch.3). Civilizing the savage A wilder gypsy-like image re-emerges in Stretton’s much later novel Half Brothers (1892), in the shape of an abandoned son of a secret, ill-judged marriage. Young Martino grows up among peasants in a remote mountain region of Italy, where he leads a ‘savage and uncivilized’ existence, receiving less care and attention than the animals, who are more economically viable (29, Ch.3). In this Heathcliff or Caliban figure, and in the attitudes which surround him, diverse discourses and metaphors of otherness converge. Ideologically and psychologically charged, the oppositions of civilized/savage, converted/heathen, educated/ignorant, English/ foreigner, self/other intermingle to dominate a narrative which reveals much about contemporary colonialist-inflected notions of class and national superiority. As a central theme in a multi-stranded text which is at times provocative and profoundly unsettling, the reclamation and attempted integration of this feral child enacts deeply embedded confusions and prejudices about the nature of ‘civilization’ and the mission to civilize. In his bestiality and monstrousness, Martino represents an alter ego; he is the personification of paternal folly, and a symbol of the divided self at an individual and societal level. From a modern stance, the language and views of characters are often disturbingly racist; the merging of the narrative voice with prevailing social assumptions tends once again to imply authorial endorsement. Nonetheless, this impression is complicated by shifting perspectives and responses. The examination, critique and modification of moral standpoints combine with authorial sympathies and specific observations to undercut and interrogate attitudes. When the child Martino is discovered in his mountain hovel by a family friend, his ‘nearly naked but vigorous form’ and springing movement appear monkeylike; his skin is ‘grimy with thick dirt’, he has ‘tufts of matted hair’ and displays a ‘savage uncouth grin’ (76–7, Ch.11). Such descriptions relate not only to notions of the savage, but, as we have seen, were applied to the East End street-Arabs (among whom the father in this text works and whose environment he compares to foreign lands) – associations which generate perceptions of the ‘barbarian’ freedom of the street-urchin. The archetypal ‘wild-man’, existing outside of society, in caves and

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hidden places, Martino represents a threat to civilized values. When, some years later, his half-brother seeks him out, he discovers an unsocialized being – a ‘wild beast’, maltreated and an outsider even in this environment. Martino is ‘barely human’, clinging to his den ‘like an animal’; nonetheless, his ‘educated and civilized parentage’ endows him with a ‘susceptibility’ which renders him ‘less callous under tyranny’ than – and thus separates him from – foundlings of an alien race (266, Ch.38). He is brought back to England amidst disagreement over the possibility of educating and ‘civilizing’ him; some consider that this ‘ignorant’, ‘wild peasant’, ‘untrained and probably untamable’, cannot be ‘reclaimed[ed] … from his savagery’ to become an ‘English gentleman’, and must ‘remain a monster’ (Chs 39–40). Although it is conceded that he can never be an educated man, a partial reclamation is attempted. Now adult, Martino is consistently likened to a child, further underlining child/savage analogies and shared processes of infantilization. The common literary pattern of an outcast of higher origins restored to his rightful place and inheritance is unsettled by the fact that Martino (now, significantly, renamed Martin) resists rehabilitation. Attempts to integrate him on the family’s terms fail; he continues to ‘prowl’ and ‘scavenge’. The person most successful in communicating with him is an orphaned girl (adopted into the family), who has grown up in an enclosed ‘gothic’ environment, with little schooling, but with the freedom to wander the moors among wild creatures. Dorothy, who arguably embodies a desirable synthesis of romantic wildness and civilized values, responds enthusiastically to learning opportunities, but retains a ‘fresh, simple, unfettered nature’ (144, Ch.21) reminiscent of Dickens’s Sissy Jupe (Hard Times), the mentor–pupil dynamic evoking the bond between Catherine and Hareton (Bronte’s Wuthering Heights). Painfully, the newcomer envisages a romantic relationship with this ‘Madonna’-identified ‘white angel’ – an eventuality precluded by his failure to be reconstructed according to the norms of educated gentility. This narrative demonstrates the equation of ‘civilization’ with dominant Victorian orthodoxies; it ostensibly endorses the intrinsic superiority of English values, with English-speaking the unquestioned standard. Certain characters refuse to see valid identity as residing in anything other than ‘Englishness’; an English education is self-evidently synonymous with civilization, and Martin(o)’s intractability must emanate from a lack of intellect or intelligence – indeed a lack of soul – which is somehow tied up with the absence of such an upbringing. Stretton, however, exposes the family’s blindness to the factors which impede his integration, and challenges aspects of this ‘humanizing’ project. In signalling Dorothy’s recognition of the importance of communicating with Martin, and teaching him to read, in his own language, the author not only invites identification with his sense of exclusion and accentuates the need to engage with the perspective of others rather than impose cultural norms, but also underlines the fundamental link between language and identity.

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Whilst reflecting imperialist notions of ‘civilization’ as available to foreigners and ‘barbarians’ (with the English called to facilitate progression to the level enjoyed by themselves), the text effectively suggests the irreversible nature of cultural conditioning; it calls into question the extent of civilization’s power successfully to reclaim and transform the ‘other’. At the same time, Stretton identifies with the frustration of a human being kept under surveillance and moulded by others, and she contests the legitimacy of enforced enculturation. The chapter-title ‘Captured’ (Ch.42) both underlines the triumph of oppressor over victim, and acknowledges the situation of the oppressed. Martin, more at home wandering the surrounding moorlands, feels ‘like a wolf shut up in a stable and fastened by a chain’ (355, Ch.51); he has ‘a man’s right to freedom … not even his father was justified in keeping him under restraint, as if he was a madman’ (369, Ch.53). The captive responds in part to certain family members, showing dog-like obedience, but ultimately refuses the ‘shackles’ of a civilized life, retreating to the moors and the womblike security of the cave which evokes his childhood home. Such aspects of the narrative tone again betray a sense of affirmation, suggesting ambivalence towards the character’s continued wildness and rejection of constraint – born of a similar contempt for an existence ‘cramped by custom and conventionality’ (370, Ch.53). Martin is both unenlightened and dangerous social outsider and Rousseauesque ‘noble savage’. Interestingly, one family member – asserting that Martin is ‘not a civilized man, according to our notions’ and identifying civilization as ‘more a fashion than a reality’ (282, Ch.40) – evinces a strikingly modern recognition of cultural difference which confirms civilization as, in part, an arbitrary construct. There is also a sense that, in removing others from their environment, the wellintentioned may be misguided: Martin’s sufferings, though different, are not less in this new, strange country – a world in which he feels alienated and out of step (368, Ch.53). Despite the fact that Stretton did not apparently cast major doubt on the desirability of, for example, child rescue, this suggestion anticipates more recent perspectives, from which colonialist missions and domestic philanthropic rescue projects are more readily associated with strategies of interference and control. Throughout Half Brothers, the failings, as well as the merits, of apparently upright English characters are explored. This text, like others discussed, poses many questions about moral and social attitudes; it also seeks to explore the complexities of the father-son connection. The narrative once more evades simplistic resolution; it suggests the consequences and limitations of choices and experiences, whilst offering hope for future relationships. Stretton emphasizes that difference is, to a great extent, contingent upon circumstances, education, money or opportunities. Martin’s intractability and, indeed, inability fully to respond can perhaps be related to an observation made in her article ‘Ragged School Union Conferences’ (1883), in which she asks, in respect of the thousands of ‘bare-footed little urchins, and the shivering little girls in their thin rags’, whom the hours are ‘ripening … into thieves and prostitutes’:

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These are questions which bring us full circle in relation to the complex and intersecting discourses surrounding the outcast or outsider – discourses which, in all their contradictory aspects, are strikingly illuminated and enmeshed in Stretton’s representations of outcast society.

Chapter 7

Religion, Romance, Reform and Revolution: The Russian Connection Hesba Stretton’s mission reaches out beyond the concerns of her homeland. Towards the end of her career, her interest in the outcast was channelled into an absorbing project which centres on the trials of a community suffering oppression in a region far beyond her native shore; the association which underlies this project might be termed the ‘Russian Connection’. During the 1890s, she published texts which revolve around the persecution, imprisonment and exile, by the Orthodox Authorities, of the dissident Stundists – an evangelical sect with western Baptist connections (Senese, 1987: 55), who rejected iconolatry and ritual. Stretton weaves fictional narratives around actual events and persons, interfusing religious themes, romance and social critique. Although these texts have escaped serious critical scrutiny, they are, in common with her other writings, morally complex and politically engaged. In her preface to one of these novels, Stretton writes: I have written “The Highway of Sorrow” [1894] in collaboration with a wellknown Russian author, now an exile in England, who has supplied me with the outlines of the story; especially with the prison and Siberian incidents, which he assures me are founded on fact. It would have been impossible for me to have done this work without help as complete as that which he has rendered.

The author concerned was Sergei Kravchinsky (known in the West as Stepniak), a revolutionist implicated in the assassination of the Russian official, General Mezentev (Johnson (ed.), 1993: 10–11). Stepniak had spent time in Europe, and later settled in London, mixing with radical and liberal intellectuals. Profiles of Stretton allude to a Russian connection, citing the order by Tsar Alexander II that copies of Jessica’s First Prayer should be placed in all Russian schools, an order revoked by his successor; the continued banning was probably related to Stretton’s perceived support for the anarchist cause (Cutt, 1979: 130– 31). Bibliographical entries refer to the fund established by Stretton for the relief of Russian peasants during the 1891–92 famine, but existing studies do not explore the diverse factors underlying this phase of her writing. The association 

Stretton acknowledges the proceeds of a Sale of Work in support of the cause, and underlines the need for private charity because of the restricted and conditional help from officialdom (letter to Mr Taylor, 1.3.[1892], Osborne Collection, Toronto). Cutt notes that, although the Stretton legend emphasizes her support for the Stundists, it fails to connect her reliance for information on the émigrés with implicit support for nihilism.

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is intriguing, particularly in the light of the official portrait of Hesba Stretton, which acknowledged her influence as a writer and philanthropist, but also constructed her as a very ‘proper’ and conservative figure. Scrutiny of the Russian association confirms the inadequacy of this assessment, and further demonstrates her complexity, independence and subversiveness. Anarchic Associations; Unlikely Alliances In focusing on Stretton’s interest in Russian affairs, we can identify areas of mutual concern. Nonetheless, questions arise, namely: What other factors underlie this collaboration, and how far was she aware of the political implications of her involvement? Why was a well-known evangelical writer working closely with atheists and nihilists? Was advantage taken of her position and sympathies, or did various agendas converge to mutual benefit? Unfortunately, sources which might shed direct light on such questions are limited. It has been useful to draw on notes compiled by Stretton’s great-nephew, Captain Webb, which provide selected summarized entries and brief extracts from Stretton’s later diaries, supplemented by Webb’s personal commentary. In July 1890, Stretton attended a committee of the Friends of Russian Freedom and met Stepniak, author of The Career of a Nihilist. She also attended a lecture by (Prince) Peter Kropotkin, a leading anarchist, in London since the 1880s, and co-founder of the anarchist-communist monthly Freedom (Kropotkin, 1899/1978: 334). Webb records that in October his great-aunt visited Stepniak and Volkhovsky (an exile, and sub-editor of Free Russia), and quotes Stretton’s words: ‘A curious episode in our life’. This period coincides with the formation in London, in association with the émigrés, of the Society of Friends of Russian Freedom, and first publication of their paper, Free Russia (Senese, 48). This followed a decade during which the socialist movement in England had gained momentum (Kropotkin, 332), and which saw the founding, in 1884, of the Fabian Society. Intent on mobilizing Western opinion against the Tsarist Government, the émigrés had penetrated the growing circle of English socialists, and were on generally ‘intimate terms’ with almost all leading figures (Senese, 39). The committee of the Friends comprised mainly Englishmen, among them politicians, editors and clergymen (Johnson (ed.), 1993: 3; Senese, 48). Stepniak had published articles and books, and during the 1890s 

Although the Free Russia editors were atheists, Stepniak favoured religious tolerance (Senese, 1987: 55). See also “Introduction to Kropotkin” (1899/Ward (ed.), 1978) Memoirs of a Revolutionist, 13.  The actual diaries are seemingly untraceable.  Kropotkin spent 1881 in London, and took up residence in 1886. See Kropotkin/ Ward (ed.) (1978).  The anarchist journal The Torch was founded in this period (1891) by William Rossetti’s children.

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regularly lectured on conditions in Russia. Felix Volkhovsky and the American explorer and writer George Kennan were also speaking on the sufferings in Russian prisons and exile; audiences included ‘socialists and clergymen, religious ladies and agnostics, anarchists and vegetarians, professors [and] doctors …’ (Senese, 37). The circumstances of Stretton’s introduction and involvement are uncertain; she was acquainted with prominent figures and often attended public meetings, but there is virtually no mention of her in accounts of the émigré circle. Her connection with the Society, and with George Kennan, was probably established through publishing contacts such as T. Fisher Unwin, a key member of the SFRF. Stretton was impressed by the power of Kennan’s writings, and anxious to promote them; in her preface to In the Hollow of His Hand (1897), she acknowledges Siberia and the Exile System (1891) as source material. Stretton’s family were, during part of this period, in Bedford Park (where the Stepniaks were living and holding ‘at homes’), and she must have associated with them there. Following the death of Stepniak, Stretton seemingly lost contact with the group. However, what Stretton had termed an ‘episode’ was to be more than a transitory association. Unfortunately, Webb provides little information, apart from recording for early 1891: ‘HS helping the Free Russians. Vera Volkhovsky, a charming child, with a very sad experience’. However, we learn from Kennan’s writings that, following her mother’s suicide,������������������������������������������� Volkhovsky’s daughter was smuggled out of Siberia to rejoin her father, and subsequently stayed with Stretton’s sister (Kennan, 1891: Vol.1, 343). Ten-year-old Vera’s tragic story and motherless state naturally aroused Stretton’s compassion. During the child’s stay, the family sought to ‘wean her thoughts’ from the horrors which had beset her existence, and to afford her ‘something of the ordinary joys of girlhood’ (letter from Stretton to Kennan, quoted in Kennan, Vol.1, 344). Stretton feared for the young girl’s destiny, judging that she would certainly (‘and quite rightly’, Kennan adds) throw her lot in with the revolutionists, and if the revolution was delayed, would inevitably endure years of prison and exile. Moved by Vera’s simple, non-ritualistic faith, and expressing outrage at the wrongs inflicted by the Tsarist regime, Stretton relays the child’s terror-filled dreams, in which she envisioned men ‘hung up’, and her father’s dismembered head lying beside his shrouded body (Kennan, 344). For August 1891, Webb notes: ‘HS started a Russian Fund: it went to £890’. No further mention of the connection is made until the beginning of 1894, when Webb comments that HS wrote Paul [Rodenko?] for Stepniak, and took it to the Syndicate of Authors. It has not been possible to trace an English edition/translation of this text, which appears in catalogues as a Russian title by Stepniak. Senese (19, n22) refers to the ‘short novel Stundist Pavel Rudenko’ in connection with Stepniak’s writings on the dissidents, and cites textual material which corresponds to that contained in Stretton’s The Highway of Sorrow, published that year), in

 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Webb’s notes indicate a friendship between his Aunt Elsie and William Morris’s daughter. Morris was, as noted below, within Stepniak’s circle.

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which Rudenko is the protagonist. Webb records that Stretton lunched with Kennan, and this tallies with an entry in Olive Garnett’s Bloomsbury Diary which confirms that Kennan was lecturing and socializing in London during late 1893 and early 1894 (Garnett, in Johnson (ed.), 1993: 19; 24). Publication apparently presented problems, as Webb, noting in June that Appleton’s of New York agreed to take the Russian story, adds ‘read of the difficulties over Paul Rodenko: Cassell’s took it, signed [asterisks]’. Webb (and presumably the diary) is silent on the subject from this point, save for a single quotation on 23 December 1895: ‘Stepniak was killed, whilst crossing the railway’. (Despite a verdict of ‘Accidental Death’, the circumstances have been the subject of speculation by contemporaries and historians.) The perceived sensitivity may have led Webb to withhold information. However, the note of pride in his aside, for July 1890: ‘I have [Stepniak’s] flageolet here – won’t I be clapped in prison for that [exclamation marks]’ – suggests a vicarious excitement. Arguably, had other references existed, he would readily have included them, despite apparently savouring the intrigue. Stretton’s available notebooks reveal that, whilst some important matters are recorded, other significant areas are neglected by the author. Whatever the reason, we have little direct information about a period of several years during which Stretton was undoubtedly closely involved with aspects of Russian politics and fictionalizing related experiences and ideas. Absence of sources prompts a more oblique approach. It has been possible to gain insights into this collaboration by consulting accounts by, or relating to, the exiles (in particular, Kropotkin’s 1899 Memoirs, and Senese’s study of the London years). These illuminate the prevailing cultural and political climate, and chart the activities and opinions of the émigrés. In conjunction with close examination of Stretton’s texts – and an understanding of her preoccupations – such accounts point to possible motives, agendas and areas of convergence. Shared Sympathies and Textual Opportunities We can see the attraction of particular issues as subject matter for Stretton’s narratives. The Stundists would have commanded her sympathies; their simple faith accorded with the belief in a personal God which underpins her writing, and which she contrasts with the perceived superstitions and hypocrisy of the established Church. The context perhaps shelters displaced grievances against the official Church at home, and possibly suited the agenda of the Tract Society, who, in 1897, published In the Hollow of His Hand. For a writer interested in power relations and the abuse of authority, and whose principal thematic concerns  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� The name appears variously as Rodenko and Rudenko. Rodenko [sic] also appears in In the Hollow of His Hand.  ������������������ Cassell published The Highway of Sorrow. Publishing records are unavailable, probably destroyed.

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were the maltreatment and exclusion of society’s outcasts, the persecution of this conscience-driven minority by powerful state authorities presented a new area of injustice to be exposed in narrative form. As one protagonist makes plain, both Government and Church are too strong for ‘feeble folks’ to resist them (Hollow, 169, Ch.29). The Stundists have ‘no one to plead their cause before the world’ (The Highway of Sorrow, Preface, vi); through these texts, Stretton participates in that task. She was shocked by accounts of conditions, and by the brutality inflicted on those persecuted; her fiction offers graphic detail of their experiences of prison and exile. In The Highway of Sorrow, Stretton describes the dark and ‘fetid’ conditions in which the elderly Loukyan is confined: every inch of the cell walls bears the ‘slime of innumerable swarms of creeping things’, which infest his body and his rations; the floor is ‘slippery with all sorts of filth’. Loukyan is kicked and trampled upon, his foot callously crushed by the slamming of an iron door (Chs 16 and 17). The powerlessness of the downtrodden, and the commonality of methods of coercion, are illustrated by the order to ‘drag [the dissenters] to church by force, ‘drive them in with sticks, like … troublesome beasts’ or ‘flog [them] like naughty children’ (315–16, Ch.25). In particular, Stretton would have been drawn to a theme which dominates her writing: the situation of women and children. The shared marginalization – indeed the negation of identity – experienced by them is epitomized in their omission from the sign numbering the inhabitants of a Siberian village: ‘thirty-four houses, sixty-five males’. As Stretton emphasizes, they literally do not count (Hollow, 152, Ch.26). An insistent motif in her work is patriarchal oppression of women across classes, and in the ‘Russian’ narratives, Stretton exploits thematic opportunities to air wider gender issues; her anger regarding the acceptance of women as property finds renewed expression in The Highway of Sorrow, where family pressures and the tensions between romantic fulfilment and religious and moral commitment are central. The situation of an arranged marriage – decided arbitrarily by fathers, influenced by ‘sordid considerations of property and prospects’ (32, Ch.3) and negotiated to suit the family’s economic interests – parallels her exposure of patriarchal manipulation closer to home. The notion of a woman as the object of bargaining – no longer possessing freedom or rights of her own after marriage and becoming a man’s ‘servant and drudge’ (32) – although presented as part of the particular culture, echoes sentiments identified in numerous contexts. Masculine demonstrations of power and aggression are again challenged; despite the strengths of male leadership, the critical judgement of women often emerges as superior. In the earlier Max Kromer, attitudes which result in the glorification of war are exposed and transformed through the agency of a child. Stretton, in her preface, writes of the ‘misery produced by the crimes and mistakes of men’ (6). In the narrative In the Hollow of His Hand, it is the women who are the first to question the treatment of the Stundists. More obliquely, Stretton – whilst reproducing biblical endorsements – appears to be interrogating male perceptions of martyrdom. There is, perhaps, a note of bitter irony in her identification of women’s ‘placid resignation’ in the face of men’s exultation at the prospect of

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future ‘glory’, and an implicit questioning of the suffering, hunger and death forced upon families through blind acceptance of these concepts. The consequences, for the children, of parents acting by their conscience are laid bare; moral complexities are brought into focus, and the triumph of sacrifice weighed against its material effects. Textual ambivalence opens up possible responses, unsettling the surface articulation of spiritual reward as compensatory; the religious zeal of both sides is called into question. Garnett’s diary reveals that Volkhovsky’s lectures c�������������������������� o������������������������� ntained emotive accounts of the Russian Government stealing children from their families (Garnett, in Johnson (ed.), 1993: 26). Resonating with Stretton’s deeply-rooted preoccupation with the intensities of the mother-child bond, the separation of children from their parents – the strategy employed by the Authorities as a means of enforcing compliance, and emphasized as the ‘sharpest weapon’ in the ‘Orthodox armoury’ (49, Ch.8) – is central to In the Hollow of His Hand (see Figure 7.1). In considering the motivations of the émigrés, we can see that it was just such sympathies they aimed to harness. They found within English circles an increasing receptivity to their ideas. Recent scholarship suggests that Stepniak’s choice of London as a place of exile reflected its situation as ‘the most effective forum and the most appreciative audience for the sort of propaganda campaign he had already resolved to undertake’ (Senese, 27). The group also recognized the need to ‘shape the agitation to suit the English character’ (Senese, 24). Senese confirms their tendency to exploit every major issue. He cites Free Russia’s presentation of the famine, and its success in establishing itself near the centre of a substantial humanitarian crusade. Readers could easily mistake it for an ‘ad hoc organ set up to organize relief for the famine-stricken in Russia’ (Senese, 54). This blurring of political and humanitarian agendas is perhaps pertinent to Stretton’s campaign on behalf of the peasants, and to other aspects of the association, although this is arguably an oversimplification. The question of the exploitation and adaptation of material and medium is particularly significant. In exploring representations of outcast society, it has been possible to identify links between the use of melodrama and the expression of social and political concerns. Accounts of the émigrés highlight the sensationalism injected into written narratives, and the dramatic renderings of experiences of persecution given in lectures. Significantly, for much of his writing, Stepniak favoured the genre of popular fiction over more serious (but less saleable) intellectual discussion, and frequently romanticized in an attempt to tailor material to audience expectations (Senese, 9). Censorship in Russia had prompted him to use alternative genres to convey ideas; in one instance, he presented an exposition of socialism in the form of a fairy tale (Kropotkin, 226). This approach furthered access to the general reading public, and reflected the conviction that theorists must ‘bring their ideas to the people in “popular form, under popular guise …”’ (Senese, 6). Arguably, this was what Stretton had long been achieving with her blend of popular fiction, historical fact, melodrama, evangelical message and social polemic, which, as we have seen, interacted with other similarly constituted,

Religion, Romance, Reform and Revolution

Fig. 7.1

In the Hollow of His Hand, 1897/label 1903, Ch.8 W.J. Morgan

209

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but differently configured, forms of expression.����� For The Highway of Sorrow, she claims ‘no exaggeration’; ‘the worst’ remains untold (Preface, vii). With regard to practical aspects of collaboration, Stepniak had produced a number of books in association with other writers. Although an able linguist – Kropotkin was impressed by his facility for fast translation (Kropotkin, 223) – he never fully mastered English, and feared this deficiency might hamper his influence (Senese, 29). The novelist William Westall assisted him by giving ‘idiomatic expression’ to texts; Eleanor Marx and her husband helped with the writing of The Career of a Nihilist (1889) (Senese, 28; 39). Collaboration with Stretton afforded opportunities for technical assistance, and for the dissemination of information and ideas to a pre-existing market, in a popular and familiar form. Stepniak undoubtedly recognized the usefulness of a connection with a widely-read and respected writer on religious and social themes, whose texts produced by publishers such as the Tract Society were translated for world-wide distribution. In turn, the association provided Stretton with material suited to her own literary, religious and political agenda. Community and Brotherhood: A ‘Social Gospel’ and a ‘Gospel of Socialism’ The interplay between religion and socialism – and, indeed, revolution – is significant. Historian Raphael Samuel connects the rekindling of the social question here with progressive forces in Protestant Nonconformity, and identifies the waif novels as a contributory factor in the development of what Beatrice Webb termed ‘social compunction’ (Samuel, 1998: 306–7). Stretton’s concern for reform permeates her writing; from the earliest narratives, she foregrounds the exploitation and oppression of workers by those in authority, and in Enoch Roden’s Training, she envisions a biblically-inspired socialist utopia, in which: ... every child in England would be cared for and fed and taught, till there should be no ragged or begging children to be seen; and workhouses would become pleasant almshouses for the old people, and schools and homes for orphan children; and everybody would be happier together, rich and poor. (1865/label 1902: 127, Ch.14)

Later texts engage with increasing pressure for social and political change, and with the re-emergence of strands of Christian Socialism. There are parallels between religious and socialist brotherhoods; these are underlined in Stretton’s treatment of Russian themes, resonating with her advocacy of mutual and collective support. A genuine sense of brotherhood promises the social amelioration of the world (Highway, 260, Ch.20). The co-operation exhibited by a colony of ants is contrasted with the antagonistic behaviour of humans, and man’s ‘tyranny’ over man (Hollow, 169, Ch.29). The analogy reflects Kropotkin’s views regarding the  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� Samuel also discusses the Bunyanesque terms in which social and journalistic reports were couched, confirming further discursive overlap.

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misappropriation of Darwin’s theories to justify eugenicist policies in respect of race and class. In Memoirs, he endorses the interpretation that mutual aid was as much a law of nature as mutual struggle, and more essential for progressive evolution (Kropotkin, 335–7).10 For Stretton, support for the disadvantaged is axiomatic, although social Darwinist notions of inferiority and degeneracy are both reproduced and interrogated through the complexities of her work. Likewise, notions of the Russian peasantry as, in part, ‘superstitious’ and ‘’brutish’ – containing elements perceived as ‘other’ in relation to the clean and well-mannered Stundists – mingle with outrage at abuses of power by the ‘Autocrat of All the Russias’ (Highway, 391).11 The anarchists had long recognized the revolutionary potential of the Russian sects. In England, their persecution invited wide coverage: as Pease, the Fabian secretary, emphasized, to the English the idea of people suffering for their religion seemed ‘a terrible injustice’; the Stundists, with their English connections, were an ideal object of sympathy (Senese, 55). In Stretton’s The Highway of Sorrow, the agnostic revolutionary Valerian – indulging in the ‘Russian passion of unrest, which took possession of the nation about the middle of the present century’ (111, Ch.10) – is particularly interested in the spread of Stundism amongst the peasantry, seeing it as ‘a field where his own political propagandism ought to find good soil’ (258, Ch.20). The struggles for political and religious freedoms are clearly entwined: the friends, Paul and Valerian, each hopeful of converting the other, have open discussions about religion and revolution – which, as well as indicating areas of disagreement, highlight common ground.12 Senese (19) confirms that this convergence of ideas is foregrounded in Stepniak’s Stundist Pavel Rudenko. Although atheists, Stepniak and Kropotkin drew on the New Testament for propaganda. The former had spent time with Russian sectaries, ‘arguing theological and social questions and interpreting the Gospel in a revolutionary sense’ (Senese, 4). Kropotkin records that Sergei, who knew the New Testament virtually by heart, addressed the peasants as a religious preacher, teaching them their rights and using biblical quotations to convince them of the need to revolt (Kropotkin, 225), a situation reproduced in The Highway of Sorrow, in which the Propagandists’ aim is to teach the peasantry ‘its rights, its powers, and the wrongs it suffered’ (291, Ch.23). The harnessing of religion for radical ends is relevant here, as in others areas of Stretton’s work, where her appropriation (and accompanying critique of cultural distortions) of a biblical model of freedom and equality for purposes of social or feminist protest is, as noted, a significant feature.13 10 �������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Kropotkin lectured on ‘Mutual aid & the struggle for life’ (Garnett, in Johnson (ed.), 1989: 63). 11 �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Chronicling the journey to Siberia, Stretton identifies the ‘better class of exiles’, again distancing protagonists from the ‘worst’ outcast types. 12 Like Stretton, who decried the narrow outlook of various acquaintances, Stundist Paul extends his reading beyond religious works (66, Ch.6). Valerian studies in the West and reads English political writings. 13 In the Hollow of His Hand (161, Ch.28) again invokes biblical examples regarding the treatment of women, children and outcasts.

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But to what extent would Stretton have been aware of the group’s full revolutionary agenda and its associations with violence? How far would she have been actively complicit in perpetuating anarchic ideas and propaganda through her fiction? A suggestion of naivety overlooks the fact that here was an extremely well read, well informed and politically-engaged woman. It also fails to consider the texts. The Highway of Sorrow acknowledges the revolutionary agenda, and the harnessing of dissident causes for purposes of propaganda and incitement; ideals are expounded, arguments explored. Stretton, aware of tensions between the Stundist and revolutionary causes, establishes a distance by signalling the Stundists’ tenet of non-resistance; they are bound to ‘shun all men who rebel against the powers that be’ (67, Ch.6). Yet the text arguably retains a foot in both camps, seeking to mediate, and enacting a dialogue which serves to interrogate assertions of truth and the workings of power. Despite a reaction, filtered through the perspective of certain characters, that, by challenging religious assumptions, the revolutionary Valerian has destroyed another’s faith (a faith later reaffirmed), the narrative displays openness and ambivalence. The condemnatory viewpoint is not definitive; closure emphasizes co-operation and a common bond rather than difference, error or lack of redemption. Valerian and Paul – one a political prisoner, the other accused of religious heresy – stand ‘side by side’ in exile, each respecting the other’s views. In considering Stretton’s involvement, it is important to emphasize the general climate in England – the extent of hostility towards the Russian government (encouraged by an instinctive distrust of absolute forms of power and by general social and political discontent), and the impact of the campaign to win popular sympathy. Many ‘peaceful’ Englishmen stressed, after hearing lectures and reading émigré material, that they would be Nihilists if they lived in Russia (Senese, 36).14 Stretton’s resistance to authority is a pervasive feature of her writings; we know that she abhorred despotism in public and private spheres, and professed republican sympathies. The strident condemnation in her texts of the Tsarist autocracy, in which Orthodox Church and State are seen as one, plainly suggests authorial endorsement. Admittedly, the émigrés were thought to have assimilated English ideas of reform. George Bernard Shaw was impressed by Stepniak’s ‘reasonableness and moderation’ (Senese, 38). The latter was respected in London, and admired by such figures as Annie Besant and William Morris. Interestingly, Morris, speaking at Stepniak’s funeral, maintained that the Russian had remained a revolutionary to the last (Johnson (ed.), 1993: 244). Fabians Hubert Bland and Edith Nesbit were frequent guests of Stepniak; as Julia Briggs (1987: 75) suggests, he perhaps provided the model for the Russian in Nesbit’s The Railway Children. 14 ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Interpretations of the term ‘Nihilism’ – some more benign than others – are arguably significant. Kropotkin criticizes the confusion of Nihilism with terrorism, stressing the Nihilist’s sincerity and opposition to all forms of tyranny (207–8).

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Stretton would doubtless have responded to the magnetism with which Stepniak dominated small gatherings, in which environment he was apparently irresistible, reducing even Shaw to silence (Senese, 37). Contemporaries mention his facility for bridging disparate viewpoints and reconciling animosities (Senese, 12), a characteristic shared by Stretton, who challenges constructions or perceptions of difference across texts and contexts. Although, according to Ward’s Introduction to Kropotkin’s Memoirs (14/15), the latter’s persona as ‘gentle sage’ or ‘liberal saint’ was misleading, his opinions more violent that his memoirs suggest, contemporaries and fellow anarchists remembered him as a truly good man, driven by the need to relieve suffering. As a woman of compassion, Stretton would have been drawn to such benevolence, and, perhaps, impressed by his apparently maternal qualities. Kropotkin is described as a late-Victorian moralist (13), serious and devoted to plain living, and as such he might be regarded as having attitudes in common with at least the legendary persona of Hesba Stretton. His critique of hypocrisy, arbitrary authority, patriarchal despotism, domestic slavery and loveless marriage for the sake of property (Memoirs, 207–9) also chimed with her own. Nonetheless, the views of the émigrés had received a high profile, with articles appearing regularly in journals. Stepniak’s espousal of anarchy and earlier justification of terrorism were not unknown; his writings on prominent revolutionists (translated as Underground Russia) reveal that he not only knew those concerned but ‘endorsed and even enthused over their acts of terror’ (Johnson (ed.), 1993: 9).15 An important article in the New Review in 1894 – the year of Stretton’s first Stundist story – attacks the Nihilist community in England, stressing the revolutionary implications of their project and berating the English intellectuals for sheltering them (Johnson (ed.), 1993: 3–4). The article does not name Stepniak as the murderer, but implies it. It would be absurd to assume that all this passed Hesba Stretton by – her letter to Kennan recognizes the group as ‘revolutionists’ – but, like others, she no doubt to a certain extent accommodated the knowledge. Finally, as Cutt (1979) concurs, Stretton may have been bored at this time. Her abhorrence of the ‘profound stagnation’ which marked periods or lifestyles characterized by inactivity or lack of excitement is, as we have witnessed, mirrored in textual patterns. Her writings, at various levels, tap into the energies present in themes which embody a complex blend of allure and danger, reflecting both personal and cultural ambivalence. Arguably, the proximity to such elements, with their undercurrents of transgression and subversion, is a seductive factor in her association with the exotic milieu of the Russian exiles, and her participation in their revolutionary project.

15 Johnson posits a vague awareness of Stepniak’s involvement in terrorism and murder, fed by rumours and gradually developing into a more concrete acknowledgement.

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Conclusion The project to retrieve and explore the range of Hesba Stretton’s work has confirmed its striking complexity, its centrality in key areas of nineteenth-century debate, and its participation in a network of cultural mythologies. Importantly, Stretton’s writings negotiate multiple concepts of alterity – from the figure of the child to the savage, and back again; in the process, they absorb and generate a tissue of ideas, meanings and experiences which resonate both at the surface of the text, and within the deeper structures of the narrative. In the process of recovery, we have uncovered ‘other’ stories, both in the sense of themes and perspectives previously unidentified or unexamined, and in terms of the stories of countless marginalized or disenfranchised ‘others’. We have encountered the outcast as both living entity, and as symbol or expression of facets of society’s desires, fears, inadequacies and self-division. In its enactment of the drama of lives and relationships – the ‘tragedies and comedies’ so clearly identified by the narrator of The Soul of Honour (1898: 116, Ch.11) – Stretton’s work speaks to an individual and collective readership. It holds up a mirror to Victorian society, and to ourselves, reminding us that we ‘discover who we are through encounters with an Other – sometimes empathetic, sometimes exploitative’ (Myers, 1999: 51), and that ‘every version of an “other”... is also the construction of a self’ (Clifford, 1986: 23, quoted in Myers, 1999: 51–2). Stretton’s narratives demonstrate how ideas about difference operate, how classifications are reinforced and identities or experiences shaped; the relationship between the ‘real’ and the image, created through society’s many forms of representation, is brought into focus. Importantly, we discover that these interrelated processes come into play across diverse spheres, classes, and even historical eras, not least because power is an ever-present element in human relations, whether personal, institutional or economic, and its effects are continually relevant. Assessment of Stretton’s undertaking reveals a picture fraught with contradictions and ambiguities. The personal and cultural ambivalence surrounding the various outsiders with whom she concerns herself is reflected and reinscribed in her work, in the language and philosophies expressed through the intermingled voices of author, narrator and characters. As in other areas of nineteenth-century discourse, competing registers exist side by side; a progressive engagement with the grievances of those on society’s margins is shot through with innate prejudices which reflect a simultaneous investment in positioning these as inferior or ‘other’. The fascination which impelled the young Stretton to ‘steal’ out of the house in order to join the crowd assembled to gaze at a young girl sentenced to ‘do penance in a white sheet’ (‘A Talk with Hesba Stretton’, 1896) sits alongside enlightened compassion and a determination to transform the situation of the disadvantaged or the transgressor, whatever the reason for his or her plight. As Stretton intimates in

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Hester Morley’s Promise (1873/1898: 243, Ch.35), the power of seeing with other people’s eyes is acquired over a lifetime; accordingly, this body of work offers the fruits of a lifetime’s endeavour to understand the forces which underlie the experiences and actions of others. If Stretton’s outcasts are objects of a spectator’s gaze, it is at least a female, and for the most part, generous gaze. In terms of the degree of empowerment offered by Stretton’s narratives, it is clear that the outcast emerges as both victim and creative or subversive force. These texts foreground vulnerability and exploitation, but also the possibility of challenging and answering back, with the voice of the marginalized figure – not least that of the child and woman – harnessed to underline injustices, and, in conjunction with authorial comment, to critique society. The implications of these combined strategies should not be underestimated. Moreover, the writing is infused with Stretton’s underlying urge to rebel against authority and the establishment, rendering her work simultaneously, and alternately, conservative and radical – even, at times, revolutionary; forward-looking, liberating and open, as well as reactionary, nostalgic and hegemonic. In an uncertain world, her narratives offer both reassurance and space for questioning and doubt, arousing interest and awareness, providing a commentary and provoking thought. If a focus on morality potentially distracts attention from the larger social context, deflecting questions about poverty and inequality, this is not the overriding situation here. Stretton presses her case for reform, recognizing that social amelioration entails both individual and collective responses and responsibilities, and a progressive belief in material and environmental, as well as moral and spiritual transformation. Just as the protagonists of Half Brothers (1892/n.d.: 109, Ch.17) are anxious to undertake schemes for ‘social as well as religious improvement’, these various aspects – sometimes complementary, sometimes competing – are juxtaposed and integrated in Stretton’s writing. Religion emerges as a revolutionary and emancipatory as well as a restrictive force; at the same time, the impulses in her work interact with a wider contemporary movement towards the replacement of religious intensity by a preoccupation with social questions. Hesba Stretton’s awareness of the need to balance diverse facets of experience is underscored by a protagonist’s pleas that his clerical friend should ‘write me a sermon for my romance’ (Hester Morley’s Promise, 139, Ch.20). It is this counterbalancing of ideas and elements which contributes to the appeal of her texts. Their multiple strands interfuse material, spiritual and archetypal concerns, blending narrative and serious ideas, fact and fantasy, satire and compassion, pathos and practicality, gothic and pastoral, melodrama and the maternal. As a result, the writings are emotionally, psychologically and politically engaged. Stretton took advantage of popular forms and themes to promote pressing social, moral and spiritual agendas, to articulate the shared needs of the dispossessed or disenfranchised, and to expose – wittingly and unwittingly – society’s yearnings, See���������������������������� Jacqueline Rose (1994: 99). ����������������������������������������������������������� See Himmelfarb (1991: 4) regarding this change in emphasis.

 

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fears and preoccupations. She skilfully negotiated the mores of the evangelical and juvenile publishing environment to create a platform for the morally complex popular fiction she sought, from the first, to publish, and for the expression of a powerful, if sometimes contradictory, female voice. It is the tensions, ironies and mixed motives which render the work interesting and provocative – the conflicts, for example, between the endorsement of order and control, and an underlying resistance to order, domestication and containment. Stretton undertakes an enterprise of border-crossing and bridge-building; in its engagement with the concerns and perspectives of diverse communities and classes, her work arguably occupies something akin to that place of ‘hybridity’ identified by Mitzi Myers – a site of mediation where ‘cultures meet and clash’ (Myers, 1999: 47–8), offering the possibility of common understandings and identification with the lives, experiences and viewpoints of others. Concrete assessments are, of course, problematic, because interpretation and evaluation depend on the circumstances, ideologies and value-judgements of readers and critics, on the elements accorded precedence – on whether, for example, we view waywardness or lack of civilization as a virtue or a vice, whether we regard moral conservatism and ‘old-fashioned’ designations of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ as desirable or pernicious, and the extent to which we read against the grain. A network of voices is embedded within Stretton’s multilayered narratives. These may be literal ‘voices’, belonging to the different characters or classes; they may also represent the competing messages which emerge from the tensions. It is appropriate only to demonstrate that various kinds of reading are possible and to remain open to hearing the nuances of those intersecting voices, and the different, and yet kindred, stories they tell. This investigation has reclaimed Stretton’s stories as fertile ground for critical consideration. Lance Salway, in 1970, recognized that the influence on readers and on Victorian social attitudes of the short narrative Jessica’s First Prayer qualified both text and author for special consideration in the history of juvenile literature (27). Further exploration establishes the entire range of her writings as worthy of attention. The serious study of these texts contributes to a better understanding of her work, and of the wider context of its production; the recovery project has relevance for the literary or cultural historian, and, somewhat surprisingly, for a modern audience and world. We are likely, moreover, as readers, to find ourselves engaging with those ‘uncanny’ forces which we encounter in ‘remote corners of [our] own personality’ (Freud, 1919/2003: 150). It has been my intention to open up interpretation in order to stimulate discussion and encourage further scrutiny of Stretton’s literary undertaking, based on diverse approaches to literary analysis and comparative study. If Hesba Stretton’s writings speak of, and furnish, experiences which offer what John Berger (quoted in Myers, 1999: 52) terms ‘other ways of telling’, it is time to look again at, and invite fresh ways of seeing, this essentially outcast body of work.

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Bibliography For the purposes of this bibliography, Stretton’s work is divided into categories. Texts issued in volume form are listed with the date of publication in that form, although some titles first appeared in serial publications. Publishers shown, refer, as far as possible, to first publication as a volume, followed by editions cited, where applicable. Stories or articles which appeared only in magazines or journals are listed separately. Texts by Hesba Stretton in Chronological Order Fern’s Hollow (1864/n.d.), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Children of Cloverley (1865/label 1876), London: The Religious Tract Society. Enoch Roden’s Training (1865/label 1902), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Fishers of Derby Haven (1866/label 1884), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Clives of Burcot (1867), London: Tinsley/(n.d.), London: Miles and Miles (republished in 1909 by R.E. King as The Price of a Secret; or, The Clives of Burcot). Jessica’s First Prayer (1867/n.d.), London: The Religious Tract Society. Paul’s Courtship (1867) London: Wood. Pilgrim Street: A Story of Manchester Life (1867/inscr.1890), London: The Religious Tract Society. Little Meg’s Children (1868/label 1889), London: The Religious Tract Society. Alone in London (1869/inscr.1872), London: The Religious Tract Society. David Lloyd’s Last Will (1869), Manchester: Tubbs and Brook; London: Sampson, Low, Son and Marston. A Sin and A Shame (1870), Glasgow: Scottish Temperance League. Nelly’s Dark Days (1870), Glasgow: Scottish Temperance League. Max Kromer (1871/n.d.), London: The Religious Tract Society. Bede’s Charity (1872/c.1890), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Doctor’s Dilemma (1872), London: H.S. King. Hester Morley’s Promise (1873), London: H.S. King/(1898), London: Hodder and Stoughton. The King’s Servants (1873), London: H.S. King/(label 1911), London: The Religious Tract Society. Lost Gip (1873), London: H.S. King/(1878), London: C. Kegan Paul. Cassy (1874), London: H.S. King/(c.1888), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Wonderful Life (1875), London: H.S. King.

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Brought Home (1875), Glasgow: Scottish Temperance League. Friends Till Death (1875) London: H.S. King. The Storm of Life (1876), London: H.S. King/(label 1910), London: The Religious Tract Society. Two Christmas Stories (1876), London: H.S. King. Sam Franklin’s Savings Bank (1876), London: H.S. King. The Worth of a Baby and How Appletree Court was Won (1876), London: H.S. King. Old Transome (1876), London: H.S. King. Michel Lorio’s Cross and Left Alone (1876), London: H.S. King/inscr. 1888 and n.d., London: The Religious Tract Society. A Night and A Day (1876), London: H.S. King. The Crew of the Dolphin (1876), London: H.S. King. Through a Needle’s Eye (1878), London: H.S. King. A Man of His Word (1878), London: H.S. King/(inscr.1901, combined with Two Secrets) London: The Religious Tract Society. Mrs. Burton’s Best Bedroom [1878]/(n.d.), Books for the People Series, No.2, London: The Religious Tract Society. A Thorny Path (1879/c.1882), London: The Religious Tract Society. In Prison and Out (1880), London: Isbister. No Place Like Home (1881/inscr.1904), London: The Religious Tract Society. Cobwebs and Cables (1881/n.d.), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Young Apprentice (1881), New York: Ogilvie. Two Secrets and A Man of His Word (1882), London: The Religious Tract Society. Under the Old Roof (1882/n.d.), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Lord’s Pursebearers (1883), London: Nisbet/n.d. in Day of Rest Annual, London: Strahan. Carola (1884/label 1898), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Sweet Story of Old [1884], London: The Religious Tract Society. Her Only Son (1887) London: The Religious Tract Society. The Ray of Sunlight; or Jack Stafford’s Resolve and Other Readings for Working Men’s Homes. By Stretton et al. [1887], London: The Religious Tract Society. Only a Dog (1888), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Christmas Child (1888), London: The Religious Tract Society. A Miserable Christmas and a Happy New Year (1888), London: The Religious Tract Society. An Acrobat’s Girlhood [1889], London: The Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge. Half Brothers (1892/n.d.), London: The Religious Tract Society. The Highway of Sorrow (1894/1897): London and Paris, Cassell. In the Hollow of His Hand (1897/label 1903): London: The Religious Tract Society. The Soul of Honour (1898/label 1905), London: Isbister. Good Words from the Apocrypha (Selected and arranged by H. Stretton and H. Synnot) (1903), London: Skeffington.

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The Parables of Our Lord (1903), London: The Religious Tract Society. Jessica’s Mother ([1904]/label 1925), London: The Religious Tract Society (first published 1867 in the Sunday at Home) Although this text was included in the RTS Penny Tales for the People series before 1900, and was issued by The Bible Institute Colportage Association, Chicago as Part II of the complete ‘Jessica’ story [1897], a separate-volume hardback edition did not, it is thought, appear until the early twentieth century. (See also Alderson and Garrett, 1999, 22–3 and note 6 to Chapter 2 of the present study). Thoughts on Old Age (1906), London: The Religious Tract Society. Poison in the Packet: An Old Story Retold (listed under RTS 1D Books for the People) n.d. (Captain Webb’s 1964 commentary cites diary entries by Stretton for 1887/8 referring to ‘A Green Bay Tree’, which possibly became Half Brothers, and ‘Papers on the Parables’, possibly the later The Parables of Our Lord). Articles, Stories and Chapters by Hesba Stretton in Chronological Order ‘The Lucky Leg’, Household Words, 19.3.1859, 374–80. ‘The British Pompeii’, Chambers’s Journal, 3.9.1859, 148–51. ‘The Postmaster’s Daughter’, All The Year Round, 5.11.1859, 37–44. ‘The Ghost in the Clockroom’ in ‘The Haunted House’, All The Year Round, 13.12.1859/collected in C. Dickens et al., Christmas Stories (1862), Leipzig: Tauchnitz, 22–34. ‘Manchester Free Libraries’, Chambers’s Journal, 2.6.1860, 340–42. ‘The Travelling Post-Office’, Chambers’s Journal, 20.7.1861, 44–7. ‘The Withered Daisy’, All The Year Round, 23.11.1861, 210–16. ‘Aboard an Emigrant Ship’, All The Year Round, 12.4.1862, 111–15. ‘Alice Gilbert’s Confession’, Temple Bar, 1862, May, 253–67. ‘Felicia Crompton’, All The Year Round, 10.1.1863, 425–32. ‘The Blackburn Sewing Schools’, Temple Bar, 1.2.1863, 339–48. ‘A Provincial Post-Office’, All The Year Round, 28.2.1863, 12–16. ‘Humphrey Grainger’s Losses’, Temple Bar, 1.8.1863, 39–53. ‘The Real Murderer’, All The Year Round, 2.1.1864, 448–56. ‘Eleven Hundred Pounds’, All The Year Round, 13.8.1864, 15–24. ‘A Summer Day on the Wrekin, The Leisure Hour, Vol.13, 1864, 603–5. ‘Another Past Lodger Relates Certain Passages to her Husband’ in ‘Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy’, All The Year Round, 1.12.1864 (Extra Christmas Number), 40–47. ‘Not to be Taken for Granted’ in ‘Dr. Marigold’s Prescription’, All The Year Round, 7.12.1865 (Extra Christmas Number), 20–27. ‘The Travelling Post-Office’ in ‘Mugby Junction’, All The Year Round, 10.12.1866 (Extra Christmas Number), 35–42 (a different story from the one in Chambers’s Journal). ‘Maurice Craven’s Madness’, Temple Bar, 1867, February, 347–89. ‘No Bribery’, All The Year Round, 23.10.1869, 493–97.

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‘Gipsy Glimpses’, All The Year Round, 8.5.1869, 536–40. [‘Lord Westbourne’s Heir’, All The Year Round, 10 & 17:8:1872]. ‘Mont St. Michel’, The Leisure Hour, 18.10.1873, 666–9. ‘Introduction’ to G. Holden Pike (1875) Children Reclaimed for Life: The Story of Dr. Barnardo’s Work in London, London: Hodder and Stoughton. ‘Ragged School Union Conferences’, The Sunday at Home, 7.4.1883, 266–8. Appeal on behalf of the London Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children (1884). ‘Cruelly-Treated Children’: Appeal on behalf of the LSPCC, Letter Leaflet No.2, 1886 (also appeared in the Sunday Magazine). ‘Women’s Work for Children (1893) in A. Burdett-Coutts (ed.) Woman’s Mission, London: Sampson Low, Marston. (An informal list compiled by T.C. Hancox in 1966 (Shropshire Archives BS 91v.f.) attributes to Stretton a number of other articles, published in journals such as The Argosy, but not included for the purposes of this study.) Log Books 1858–71; 1875 (material by permission of Shropshire Archives, Ref. 6001/5556) Correspondence in Chronological Order Lord Shaftesbury to the Editor of the Record, 28.11.1867 (material by permission of Shropshire Archives, Ref. 6000/19556) Stretton to [Mr] Priestley, 2.10.1869 (Autograph Letter Collection: Literary Ladies, 9/07/039, The Women’s Library, London Metropolitan University) Stretton to The Times, 8.1.1884; 30.6.1884 Stretton to Mr Agnew, 14.7.1884 (NSPCC Archives) Exchange between Stretton and others in The Times, 8.1.1885–16.1.1885 Stretton to [Mr] Pattison, 16.4.[1886?] (University of London Library, AL225) Stretton to T.F. Unwin, 29.4.1890; 2.12.1890 (Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center) Stretton to W. Taylor, 1.3.[1892?], Osborne Collection Stretton to Lord Ancaster, 15.12.1894 (NSPCC Archives) Shaw, G.B. to Stretton, 8.10.1906 (material by permission of The Society of Authors) Stretton to Shaw, 10.10.1906 (Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center) Stretton to T.F. Unwin, 26.8.1910 (Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center) Miscellaneous ‘The Origin of the London S.P.C.C.’ (Handwritten account by Stretton dated 4.4.1908, material by permission of Shropshire Archives, 6000/19290) Last Will and Testament (Shropshire Archives, BS91 v.f.)

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Archives Consulted Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, University of Texas at Austin H.S. King/C. Kegan Paul, University College, London NSPCC Archives, London Osborne Collection of Early Children’s Books, Toronto Shropshire Archives, Shrewsbury The United Society for Christian Literature (incorporating records of the Religious Tract Society), University of London, School of Oriental and African Studies University of London The Women’s Library, London Metropolitan University Further Sources In view of the fact that some texts serve as both primary and secondary material, sources are classified according to chronological criteria rather than under discrete primary and secondary categories. A division is made between material originally published before Stretton’s death in 1911, and texts published after 1911. Sources up To and Including 1911 Alcott L. (1868)/V. Alderson (ed.) (1990) Little Women, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Anon (1876) ‘Sunday-School and Lending-Library Literature’, Church Quarterly Review, Vol. 2, 43–68. Anon (1896) ‘A Talk with Hesba Stretton’, Sunday Hours, Vol.1, No.7, 164–6. Anon (signed C.H.I.) (1911) ‘Hesba Stretton’, Seed Time and Harvest, December, 11–12. Anon (1911) ‘Hesba Stretton – Born 1832’, I. Memoir, Sunday at Home, December, 121–4. Barlee, E.M. (1884) Pantomime Waifs, London: Partridge and Company. Barnardo, T.J. (ed.) (1881) “Taken Out of the Gutter”: A True Incident of Child Life on the Streets of London, London: Haughton and Company. Barnardo T.J. (ed.) (1885/6) ‘A City Waif: How I Fished for and Caught Her’ in Tracts on Dr. Barnardo’s Homes, London: Shaw and Company. Barnardo, T.J. (ed.) (1885/6) ‘Rescued for Life: The True Story of a Young Thief’ in Tracts on Dr. Barnardo’s Homes, London: Shaw and Company. Barnardo, T.J. (ed.) (1885/6) ‘God’s Little Girl’ in Tracts on Dr. Barnardo’s Homes, London: Shaw and Company. Barnardo, T.J. (ed.) (1885/86) ‘Kidnapped: A Narrative of Fact’ in Tracts on Dr. Barnardo’s Homes, London: Shaw and Company.

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Barnett, S. (1886) ‘Distress in East London’, Nineteenth Century, Vol. 20, JulyDecember, 678–92. Besant, A. (1882/1987) ‘Marriage: As It Was, As It Is, and As It Should Be’ reproduced in S. Jeffreys (ed.) The Sexuality Debates, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Booth, C. (1891/1976) ‘Life and Labour of the People in London’ extracted in P. Keating (ed.) Into Unknown England 1866-1913, Glasgow: Fontana/Collins. Booth, W. (1890/1976) ‘In Darkest England and the Way Out’ extracted in P. Keating (ed.) Into Unknown England 1866-1913, Glasgow: Fontana/Collins. Borrow, G. (1851/1961) Lavengro, London: Dent. Borrow, G. (1857/1948) The Romany Rye, London: The Cresset Press. Bronte, C. (1847/1992) Jane Eyre, Ware: Wordsworth. Bronte, E. (1847)/L. Peterson (ed.) (1992) Wuthering Heights, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Burdett-Coutts, A. (ed.) (1893) Woman’s Mission, London: Sampson, Low, Marston. Butler, J. (1879) Social Purity, London: Morgan and Scott. Castle Smith, G. (1875) Froggy’s Little Brother, London: Shaw and Company. Charlesworth, M. (1854/1895) Ministering Children, London: Seeley and Company. Dickens, C. (1838)/P. Fairclough (ed.) (1966) Oliver Twist, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Dickens, C. (1839)/D. Walder (ed.) (1995) Sketches by Boz, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Dickens, C. (1841)/A. Easson (ed.) (1985) The Old Curiosity Shop, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Dickens, C. (1844/1995) ‘The Chimes’ in Christmas Books, Ware: Wordsworth. Dickens, C. (1848/1995) ‘The Haunted Man’ in Christmas Books, Ware: Wordsworth. Dickens, C. (1853)/N. Bradbury (ed.) (1996), Bleak House, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Dickens, C. (1854)/G. Smith (ed.) (1994) Hard Times, London: Everyman. Eiloart, G. (1868) Meg, London: Hurst and Blackett. Eliot, G. (1859)/S. Gill (ed.) (1980) Adam Bede, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Eliot, G. (1860)/A.S. Byatt (ed.) (1979) The Mill on the Floss, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Eliot, G. (1861/1994) Silas Marner, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Friederichs, H. (1894) ‘Hesba Stretton at Home’, The Young Woman, No. 22, July, 327–33. Gaskell, E. (1848)/E. Wright (ed.) (1987) Mary Barton, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gaskell, E (1853)/A. Easson (ed.) (1997) Ruth, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Green, S.G. (1899) The Story of the Religious Tract Society for One Hundred Years, London: The Religious Tract Society. Hocking, S. (1880) Her Benny (1890 Edition, reprinted, n.d.) Manchester: ‘Memories’.

Bibliography

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Hocking, S. (1882) Poor Mike: The Story of a Waif, London: Frederick Warne. Hocking, S. (1883) Dick’s Fairy, London: Frederick Warne. Hughes, T. (1857) Tom Brown’s Schooldays, Cambridge: Macmillan. James, H. (1897)/A. Poole (ed.) (1996) What Maisie Knew, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kennan, G. (1891) Siberia and the Exile System (2 Vols), New York: The Century Company. Kingsley, C. (1863/1995) The Water-Babies, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Kropotkin, P. (1899)/Ward (ed.) (1978) Memoirs of a Revolutionist, London: The Folio Society. Lynn Linton, E. (1883) The Girl of the Period and Other Social Essays, London: Bentley and Son (‘The Girl of the Period’ first appeared in the Saturday Review, 14.3.1868). MacDonald, G (1871/1966) At the Back of The North Wind, New York: Airmont. Mayhew, H. (1861–62)/V. Neuburg (ed.) (1985) London Labour and the London Poor, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Meade, L.T. (1877/label 1916) Scamp and I, London: Shaw and Company. Mearns, A. (1883/1976) ‘The Bitter Cry of Outcast London’ extracted in P. Keating (ed.) Into Unknown England 1866-1913, Glasgow: Fontana/Collins. Mill, J.S. (1869/1998) The Subjection of Women, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Molesworth, M. (1893) ‘For the Little Ones – “Food, Fun, and Fresh Air” in A. Burdett-Coutts (ed.) Woman’s Mission, London: Sampson, Low, Marston. Morrison, M.A. (1893) The Stundists: The Story of a Great Religious Revolt, London: James Clarke and Company. Nesbit, E. (1899/1958) The Story of The Treasure Seekers, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Nesbit, E. (1906/1995) The Railway Children, Harmondsworth: Penguin. Nesbit, E. (1909/1947) Harding’s Luck, London: Ernest Benn. Peek, F. (1888a) ‘The Workless, The Thriftless and The Worthless’ I, The Contemporary Review, Vol. 53, 39–52. Peek, F. (1888b) ‘The Workless, The Thriftless and The Worthless’ II, The Contemporary Review, Vol. 53, 276–85. Pike, G. Holden (1875) Children Reclaimed for Life: The Story of Dr. Barnardo’s Work in London, London: Hodder and Stoughton. Rossetti, C. (1874/1992) ‘Speaking Likenesses’ reprinted in N. Auerbach and U.C. Knoepflmacher (eds) Forbidden Journeys: Fairy Tales and Fantasies by Victorian Women Writers, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Rossiter, E. (1881) ‘Child Life for Children’, Nineteenth Century, Vol.10, 567–72. Rousseau, J.J. (1762/1974) Emile (transl. B. ������������������������� Foxley), London: Dent. Salmon, E. (1886a) ‘What Boys Read’, Fortnightly Review, Vol. 45, 248–59. Salmon, E. (1886b) ‘What the Working Classes Read’, Nineteenth Century, Vol. 20, 108–17. Salmon, E. (1886c) ‘What Girls Read’, Nineteenth Century, Vol. 20, 515–29.

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Seeley, J.R. (1865/1907) Ecce Homo, London: Dent. Sellers, Miss E. (1893) ‘Women’s Work for the Welfare of Girls’ in A. BurdettCoutts (ed.) Woman’s Mission, London: Sampson, Low, Marston. Sims, G.R. (1889/1976) ‘How the Poor Live’ extracted in P. Keating (ed.) Into Unknown England 1866-1913, Glasgow: Fontana/Collins. Stead, W.T. (1885) ‘The Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon’, Pall Mall Gazette, July, 6–10. Steer, Miss M. (1893) ‘Rescue Work by Women among Women’ in A. BurdettCoutts (ed.) Woman’s Mission, London: Sampson, Low, Marston. Stepniak, S. (1883) Underground Russia, London: Smith, Elder. Stepniak, S. (1889) The Career of a Nihilist, London: W. Scott. Stepniak, S. (1900) Stundist Pavel Rudenko, Geneva: Izd. Fanni Stepniak. Strahan, A. (1875) ‘Bad Literature for the Young’, The Contemporary Review, Vol. 26, 981–91. Sumner, Mrs (1893) ‘The Responsibilities of Mothers’ in A. Burdett-Coutts (ed.) Woman’s Mission, London: Sampson, Low, Marston. Synnot, H.L. (1875) ‘Institutions and Their Inmates’, The Contemporary Review, Vol. 26, 487–504. Taylor, H. (1850/1995) ‘The Enfranchisement of Women’ reproduced in A. Pyle (ed.) The Subjection of Women: Contemporary Responses to John Stuart Mill, Bristol: Thoemmes Press. Walton, O.F. 1874/C. Wright (ed.) (1982) Christie’s Old Organ, New Jersey: Bridge Publishing. Walton, O.F. (1877/1999) A Peep Behind the Scenes, Fearn: Christian Focus. Waugh, B. (1873/1984) The Gaol Cradle: Who Rocks It?, New York and London: Garland. Waugh, B. (1888) ‘Street Children’, The Contemporary Review, Vol. 53, 825–35. Webb, Hesba D. (1911) II ‘A Personal Note’ to Memoir, The Sunday at Home, December, 124–5. Wortley, Mrs S. (1893) ‘Emigration’ in A. Burdett-Coutts (ed.) (1893) Woman’s Mission, London: Sampson Low, Marston. Yonge, C.M. (1876) Womankind, London: Mozley and Smith. Post-1911 Sources Alderson, B. and Garrett, P. (1999) The Religious Tract Society as a Publisher of Children’s Books (Exhibition Catalogue), Hoddesdon, The Children’s Books History Society. Aries, P. (1996) Centuries of Childhood, London: Pimlico. Ashcroft, B. (2000) ‘Primitive and Wingless: the Colonial Subject as Child’ in W.S. Jacobson (ed.) Dickens and the Children of Empire, Basingstoke: Palgrave. Avery, G. (1965) Nineteenth Century Children: Heroes and Heroines in English Children’s Stories 1780-1900, London: Hodder and Stoughton.

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Index ‘Aboard an Emigrant Ship’ (Stretton) 70 Acrobat’s Girlhood, An (Stretton) 65–6, 97, 110–11, 123, 140 age of consent 119n8 Alcott, Louisa May 56n12, 85, 102 ‘Alice Gilbert’s Confession’ (Stretton) 24, 70, 147 All the Year Round (journal) 69, 71 Alone inLondon (Stretton) child in84, 88, 97, 104–5, 123 cross-generational solidarity in108 and divorce 147 domestic violence in99, 150 on escaping the city 31 Hester Morley’s Promise and 6 on juvenile delinquency 188, 192 narrator-narratee relationship in59 orphanhood in92 on poverty 181 publication details 1, 54, 55, 72, 74 surrogate parent in108 urban images in169 American Tract Society 55 Arnold, Matthew 168 Barnardo, Dr 41, 88, 90, 92, 95, 98, 99, 103, 104n14, 107, 110, 118, 119, 120, 121n10, 124, 130n20, 143n, 191 Barnett, Samuel 11 Bede’s Charity (Stretton) change of narrator in66, 184 child’s viewpoint in60 on city life 166, 169 cross-audienced nature of 61–2 cross-generational solidarity in108 illustrations from 137, 167, 183 on juvenile delinquency 187 on materialism 40 metaphors of otherness in171 mother in145 on the poor 117 poverty and class 181–5 publication details 53, 75

rural idyll in176 as transitional work 59 on women 34, 38, 156 Besant, Annie 157, 212 ‘Blackburn Sewing Schools, The’ (Stretton) 36, 41 Bland, Hubert 212 Bluebeard motif 153 Bodichon, Barbara Leigh-Smith 157 Booth, Charles 143, 174, 179n, 194 Booth, William 176 Borrow, George 196 Boucicault, Dion 29, 174 Bronte, Charlotte 26, 50, 56n12, 66, 85, 129, 130, 131, 133, 151, 197 Bronte, Emily 20, 176, 196–7, 200 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 89 Burdett-Coutts, Baroness 1, 43, 135 Butler, Josephine 125 Carola (Stretton) compulsory education and 90 controlling mother in37, 158 critical appraisal of 57 drunkenness in130, 143, 173 family configurations in106 on female autonomy 154 as general work 59 illustration from 132 Jew in194–5 on marrying beneath one’s station 184 on men as foolish 151 metaphors of otherness in173 multiple perspectives in65 on poverty and crime 185 publication of 76 resistance to containment in33 rural idyll in176 symbolism of sexual development in128–34 thought processes in64 as transitional work 59 vulnerability of destitute girls in120

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Carpenter, Mary 189, 191 Carroll, Lewis 86 Cassy (Stretton) Cassy as little more than a child 63 child’s experiences in84, 97, 98, 99, 101, 102 doubly-nuanced sexuality in121 forest imagery in33, 128 on surveillance 189 metaphors of otherness in171, 172 mother in97, 140, 142, 147, 159 publication details 54, 55, 75 religious preoccupation in67 travellers in198–9 urban images in169 on woman 149–50, 152, 154, 156 Castle Smith, Georgina Froggy’s Little Brother 60, 84, 104, 105n Charlesworth, Maria 97 children 81–113 boundary crossing by 105–6 centrality inStretton’s writings 11 childhood studies 8–9 constructed nature of childhood 9, 81 defining characteristics of childhood 82–3 economic exploitation of 121–3 empowerment of child-figure 100–106 family configurations for 106–11 forms of freedom for 93–7 images and discourses of childhood 81–90 innocence of 84–6, 117, 121 juvenile delinquency 187–93 Madonna and child images 85 marginality of 9, 10, 81–2, 207 mother-child relations inStretton’s work 21–2 orphanhood 91–3 as other 3, 81–2 parent-child relationships 97–100 poor 3, 83–4, 87–90, 117–18, 187 rescue 88–90 right to protection of 11, 89, 125, 177 and sexuality 86, 117, 118, 119, 120 spectrum of relationships inlives of 90–91 Stretton’s interest indeprived 41–4, 89–90 inStretton’s longer novels 59

symbolic imagery associated with psychosexual development 127–34 women’s position and happiness of 112, 147 Children of Cloverley, The (Stretton) adult interest in59 changes required in53 on child-mother relationship 21, 139 on children 85, 103–4, 105, 106 confinement motif in32 on enslavement 31 on juvenile delinquency 188 message of 63 children’s homes 33–4 children’s literature inevangelical publishing 53–4 generic features associated with 67 increasing secular market for 77 instruction and moralizing in62–3 sexuality avoided in86 Stretton’s work as 1, 49, 58–62, 71–2, 77 women as authors of 50–51 civilization, discourse of 199–202 cleanliness 170–73 Clives of Burcot, The (Stretton) autobiographical nature of 26–7 concerns of 6 confinement motif in6, 32 critical response to 70, 71 marriage as solution in38 on motherhood 144, 160, 161 mother-in-law in158 multiple perspectives in66 mystery of origin in93 parent-child relationships in99 publication of 24, 37, 69 Quaker influence on 22 Wills as intended dedicatee of 19 on woman’s place 152–4 Cobwebs and Cables (Stretton) cross-audienced nature of 61 jealous mother in158 metaphors of otherness in170 on mother love 160–61 on poverty 11 publication details 53, 76 Stretton’s travels drawn on 38 urban images in166 on varieties of freedom 31

Index woman writer in6, 25, 70, 72–3, 75 on women 57, 152 on writer’s ideas as children 163 crime female criminals 187 juvenile delinquency 187–93 poverty and 185–7, 192 David Lloyd’s Last Will (Stretton) confinement motif in32 critical response to 71 on dear old maiden lady 45 decline instatus in39, 181 fairy-like Mab 37 fairy-tale motifs in68 on men not marrying clever women 38 on the poor 41, 182, 185 publication details 75, 76 on religion 28, 53, 186 sense of darkness and menace in21 Dickens, Charles 19, 58, 83, 84, 87, 92, 101, 104, 121, 124, 141, 166, 169, 179, 180, 181, 185, 188, 191, 194, 200 divorce 147 Doctor’s Dilemma, The (Stretton) boredom in32 breadth of perspective in6 change of narrator in67 critical response to 75 on divorce 147 fairy-tale motifs in68 gypsy in196 interrelated themes in4 perceptions of foreigners in38 practicality over sentiment in178 stepmother in158 on women 153, 158, 159 domestic service 22, 63, 140 domestic violence 99, 150 ‘Dorcas’ meetings 36, 158 Doré, Gustave 32, 125, 135, 142, 189 drunkenness 141–6, 173 education, compulsory 90 ‘Eleven Hundred Pounds’ (Stretton) 40 Eliot, George 19, 56n12, 70, 71, 122, 123, 135, 197 Enoch Roden’s Training (Stretton) authorial judgement in64

237

on class difference 180–81 empowerment of child-figure 101 fairy-tale motifs in68 on governesses’ lot 38 as layered text 61 male emotion in107 multiple perspectives in64 on socialist utopia 210 payment for 74 religious preoccupation in67 on woman’s place 151 evangelical publishing 51–4, 126 Ewing, Juliana 61, 196 fathers 92, 98–100 ‘Felicia Crompton’ (Stretton) 20 feminism 9, 26, 27, 100, 152 Fern’s Hollow (Stretton) 59, 61, 64, 83, 122 Fishers of Derby Haven, The (Stretton) 52, 53, 69 Friederichs, Hulda 24, 38, 45, 57, 70 Gaskell, Elizabeth 19, 56n12, 97, 124, 125, 130n20, 135, 139, 140, 142, 146, 149, 155, 161, 166, 179, 182, 186, 188 ‘Ghost inthe Clock Room, The’ (Stretton) 35 governesses 33, 38 Green, Samuel 55, 62, 89, 117 gypsies 195–9 Half Brothers (Stretton) change of narrator in66 civilizing Martino 199–202 confinement motif in32 inappropriate bride in37 moors in176 on mother-child fusion 161 payment for 76 perceptions of foreigners in38 on the poor 177 protagonist’s literary education 19 on religious observance 27 restlessness in32 on savagery versus civilisation 6 on social improvement 216 theatrical performance in29 urban images in168, 176–7 on woman’s place 156 Hall, Robert 22

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Hester Morley’s Promise (Stretton) acknowledgement of ambiguity in62 change of narrator in67 on children 19, 85, 102, 104 on class position 39–40 on the country 83, 175, 176 critical response to 75 engagement with Victorian culture 6 on exercise 31 intellectual debate in19 marriage 38, 153 as melodrama 69 mother in139, 146, 147, 160, 161 publication details 76 rejection and deprivation in96 on seeing with other people’s eyes 5, 216 on social mothering 162 spinster in159 stepmother-figure in22 superstition in21 on woman’s place 151, 153, 154 writing process 24 Highway of Sorrow, The (Stretton) controlling mother in37, 158 forest imagery in128, 176 on Jews 195 on prolongation of girlhood 36 publication of 76 on religion for radical ends 211–12 and Rudenko 205–6, 211 Stepniak as collaborator in203, 210 Hill, Florence Davenport 43, 189 Hocking, Silas 87, 98, 111n Hodder and Stoughton 76 Houlston, John 18 Houlston and Wright 74 Household Words (journal) 69 Hugo, Victor 19, 87n7 InPrison and Out (Stretton) confinement motif in31 cross-generational solidarity in108 fairy-tale motifs in68 illustrations from 94, 109 on indiscriminate alms-giving 42 on juvenile delinquency 187, 189, 191–3 metaphors of otherness in171 mother in140, 145, 146 on poverty and crime 185

sibling bonds in104n15 on undervaluing of daughters 151 vulnerability of destitute girls in120 Inthe Hollow of His Hand (Stretton) children as pawns in111, 208 confinement motif in32 on female criminals 187 illustration from 209 on Kennan 205 male responsibility 107 metaphors of otherness in171, 177 mother in146 publication of 76, 206 on religion 27, 207 on town life 176 on women 152, 207 infanticide 144–5 Isbister 43, 76, 77 Jessica’s First Prayer (Stretton) and Barnardo’s city waif 88 doubly-nuanced sexuality in121 empowerment of child-figure in100– 102 errant mother in90, 141, 142–3, 145 family configurations in106 illustrations from 95, 122 influence of 217 on juvenile delinquency 189 London East End setting of 41 men affected by 57, 58, 59 metaphors of otherness in171 multiple perspectives in66 publication details 54–5, 72, 73, 73n rejection and deprivation in96 inRussian schools 203 as subtly layered 1, 61 success of 49, 54, 74 on woman’s place 154 Jessica’s Mother (Stretton) 54, 101, 106, 141, 142, 143, 171 Jews 193–5 Kegan Paul 75, 76 Kennan, George 205, 206, 213 King, H.S. 55, 56, 75, 76 King’s Servants, The (Stretton) book publication of 75 illustration from 127

Index problem of fallen girls in61, 125 on social mothering 162 success of 55 suicide in142 as transitional work 59 Kingsley, Charles 56n12, 64, 68, 99, 172 Kropotkin, Peter 204, 206, 210–211, 213 Leared, Arthur 144 Left Alone (Stretton) 38, 61, 68, 87, 111, 147 Leisure Hour (periodical) 51, 53, 71, 74 Linton, Eliza Lynn 70, 129 Little Meg’s Children (Stretton) crafted simplicity of 61 critical response to 72 daughter takes on adult role in102, 104 economic exploitation of children in121–2, 124 fairy-tale motifs in68 as girls’ favourite 56 illustration from 103 men affected by 57, 58 message of 63 parent-child relationships in99 poor child in84 publication details 53, 55, 73 success of 1, 49, 55 suicide contemplated in142 surrogate parent in107 urban images in165, 168 London bridges 142, 171 dramatization of city life 174 East versus West Ends 32–3, 181 increasing poverty in11 Jews inEast End 193, 195 Stretton and 41, 75 urban images 166–70 London Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children (LSPCC) 1, 42–3, 89, 123, 123n12 Lord’s Pursebearers, The (Stretton) child beggar in108, 123 on children 42, 83, 85, 89, 104, 118 on city life 169, 170, 174, 176, 181 economic exploitation of children in108, 120, 123, 124 fraudulent family in109–10 as general work 59

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metaphors of otherness in171, 173 play and laughter absent in83 on the poor 87, 178 resistance to containment in33 restlessness in32 sense of darkness and menace in21 Lost Gip (Stretton) classes of poverty in180 empowerment of child-figure 101, 104 gypsy in196 on juvenile delinquency 188, 189 metaphors of otherness in171, 173 mother in140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 146 parent-child relationships in97, 98 publication details 54, 55, 75 surrogate parent in107 uncertain paternal identity in92 on woman’s place 155 ‘Lucky Leg, The’ (Stretton) 36, 143–4, 153, 160 MacDonald, George 29, 68, 84, 92, 123 Mclaren, Alexander 29 Man of His Word, A (Stretton) 21, 32, 75, 192, 193 Manning, Sam 71, 72, 74, 75 marriage 35, 36, 38, 39, 153, 160, 184 Martin, John 26 Marx, Eleanor 210 materialism 40 ‘Maurice Craven’s Madness’ (Stretton) 70 Max Kromer (Stretton) angel-like child in85 changes required in53 male responsibility 107 payment for 74 Religious Tract Society publishes 75 Stretton’s travels drawn on 38 suitability for the young 52 women and children as pawns of war in111–12, 207 Mayhew, Henry 22, 84n, 87, 93, 98, 105, 108n, 110, 118, 120–21, 124, 177, 177n15, 179n, 188, 189, 192, 194, 196 Meade, L.T. 139, 145n Mearns, Andrew 129, 169, 185 melodrama 69, 127, 135, 174–5, 208, 216 Michel Lorio’s Cross (Stretton) 21, 24, 61, 75

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Mill, Harriet Taylor 154, 157 Mill, John Stuart 30n15, 152, 153, 157 Millais, John Everett 85, 86 Minerva Press 149 Molesworth, Mary Louisa 60, 83 Morris, William 205n6, 212 motherhood 138–50 drunken mothers 141–6 errant mothers 90 idealization yet marginalization of 4, 12, 138 ‘little mothers’ 102–6 longing for maternal affection 97 Madonna and child images 85 mother-child relations inStretton’s work 21–2 poverty-stricken mothers 140–41, 145, 146, 147 psychological elements inmother-child relationship 159–61 as site of socialization 93 social and literary ‘mothers’ 161–3 softening influence on wild boys 188 mothers-in-law 37, 158 Mrs. Burton’s Best Bedroom (Stretton) 172–3 Myers, Mitzi 6, 9, 51, 82, 111, 163, 217 Nelly’s Dark Days (Stretton) 99, 140n3 Nesbit, Edith 57, 94, 110, 155, 181, 212 Night and a Day, A (Stretton) 55 Nisbet 74, 76 ‘No Bribery’ (Stretton) 66 No Place Like Home (Stretton) 54, 76, 128, 139–40, 176, 187, 188, 193 ‘Not to be Taken for Granted’ (Stretton) 66, 84, 96, 97, 104n15 ‘Origin of the London S.P.C.C., The’ (Stretton) 42, 43 orphanhood 91–3 Paul’s Courtship (Stretton) 37, 71, 149n Peek, Francis 10 Pike, Godfrey Holden 120 Pilgrim Street (Stretton) empowerment of child-figure in101, 105 illustration from 190 on juvenile delinquency 189, 191 Manchester setting of 19, 41

message of 63 parent-child relationships in97, 99, 100 on poverty and crime 185 publication details 53, 54, 72, 74 Popular Book Club 20 ‘Postmaster’s Daughter, The’ (Stretton) 34, 38, 40, 52, 139 Potter, Beatrice 181, 194, 195 poverty children of the poor 3, 83–4, 87–90, 117–18, 187 and class 39 classes of 179–85 and crime 185–7, 192 literary representations of 165–6 inLondon’s East End 33 versus low position 40 metaphors of otherness 170–75 poverty-stricken mothers 140–41 and prostitution 118, 120 ‘rediscovery’ inlate nineteenth century 10 spectrum of attitudes toward 177–8 Stretton’s deep concern with 11, 41 Stretton’s interest indeprived children 41–4, 89–90 Power-Cobbe, Frances 131, 153, 162 prostitution 99, 118–26, 173 ‘Provincial Post-Office, A’ (Stretton) 34, 196 Puritanism 85 ‘Ragged School Union Conferences” (Stretton) 22, 201 Read, Herbert 57–8, 68 religion on equality of women 155 God as father 100 material inequality justified by 186 Mother and Child idea in138 mother’s influence in22 Revivalism 28 and sexuality 116 social control equated with 63 and socialism 210–11 Stretton on established Church 27, 206–7 Religious Tract Society 51–4 broadmindedness of 126 cheap editions published by 54 and established Church 206 foreign distribution by 55

Index grants made to libraries by 56 instruction and moralizing inworks of 62–3 on juvenile crime 188 new authors become prominent in77 romantic fiction and works of 69 Stretton’s business negotiations with 73–5, 76 Stretton’s importance to 72 Rescue Society of London 120 Revivalism 28 Reynolds, Joshua 85 Rossetti, Christina 97, 128 Rossiter, Elizabeth 188 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 83, 87, 138–9, 201 Routledge, Edmund 73 Rudenko, Pavel 205–6, 211 running away 98 Russian-themed narratives 203–13 patriarchal oppression as theme of 207 on peasant superstitions 21 publication of 76 revolutionary ideas in211 and Stretton’s wider writings 8 themes of 45–6 Salmon, Edward 54, 56, 61n Seed Time and Harvest Memoir (anonymous) 21 Seeley, J.R. 195 serial publication 72 sermons 29–30 sexuality 115–34 childhood innocence and 86 class and female 116–17 little womanliness and 104 prostitution 99, 118–26, 173 religion and 116 of street child 87, 119 symbolic imagery associated with psychosexual development 127–34 young women and fears about 117–18 Shaftesbury, Lord 43, 57, 111n19 Shaw, George Bernard 212, 213 “Silly Novels by Lady Novelists’ (Eliot) 70 Sims, George 102, 168, 169, 176, 177 Smith, Annie (sister) 17, 35 Smith, Hannah (sister) 17, 24, 25, 34, 35, 36

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Smith, Lizzie (Elizabeth) (sister) 17, 24, 25–6, 35, 36, 38, 45, 47 social Darwinism 90, 129, 133, 211 socialism 204, 210–11 Soul of Honour, The (Stretton) addressed to mature reader 77 on desire for freedom 30, 31 on emancipation of girls 34, 129 on financial security 40 ‘getting and spending’ in12 images of alienation in6 inappropriate bride in37 on isolation and freedom 36 mystery of origin in93 religion in28, 67 on social mothering 161, 162 on speculative ventures 41 stepmother in158 on ‘tragedies and comedies’ 174, 215 urban images in33, 166, 174, 175 on women’s superiority 38 Southey, Robert 50 spinsters (old maids) 36, 45, 159 Spurgeon, C.H. 57 Stead, W.T. 43, 129 Steer, Mary 119–20 stepmother-figures 22, 158 Stepniak (Kravchinsky), Sergei 203, 204–5, 206, 208, 210, 211, 212–13 Storm of Life, The (Stretton) book publication of 75 on childhood innocence 84, 123 confinement motif in32 cross-audienced nature of 62 cross-generational solidarity in108 exploitation of child 124 family estrangement in111 as ‘given’ to Stretton 24 illustration from 136 London setting of 174 metaphors of otherness in172, 177 mother in142, 146, 147, 160 on poverty and crime 185, 186 success of 55 surrogate parent in107 street vendors 119 Stretton, Hesba biographical details of

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The Writings of Hesba Stretton comfort and prosperity of later life 44–5 early life 17–19, 34–5 education 17, 18 gypsy camp visited by 197 house on Ham Common 45 move to London 75 move to Manchester 41 near working-class status of family 39 patriarchal name rejected 36 pen name adopted 1n1 publishing industry relations 69, 72–7 relationship with sister Lizzie 25–6 writing method 24 characteristics of works of acknowledgement of ambiguity in62 colonialist implications of 9, 87–8, 172, 199 counterbalancing ideas and elements in216–17 on country life 32 critical response to 70–72 cross-audienced nature of 61–2 desire for freedom in30–31 fear of confinement in31–2 as forum for self-expression 91, 26–7 generic interplay in67–9 horror of institutions and regulations in33–4 hybrid nature of 8 images of heaven and hell in175–8 impoverished protagonists of 39 incipient feminism of 26, 27, 152 intersections between 6–7 issues addressed by 1 literary allusions in19 mother-child relations in21–2, 159–61 multiple perspectives in63–7 narrative complexity of 60–61 narrative voice and register in59–60 as not written down to audience 58 outcast society in2–5, 10–11, 41–4, 165–202 popularity of 54–6 range of 49 reader response to 56–8

religious preoccupation of 67–9 romantic relationships in35 sermons in29–30 settings of 31 social and political critique in51 social position in39–41 spectrum of relationships in90–91 supernatural and uncanny in20–21 texts as outcasts 3 as transcending times 12 transgressive women in147, 149 unequal marriage in39 women in34–9, 135–63 written from perspective of ‘the submerged’ 5 personal characteristics of activities enjoyed 28–9 anti-authoritarianism 27–8, 44, 216 childlessness 21 distaste of domesticity 22 imaginative faculties 20 and marriage 35–6 mercurial personality 70 mother’s influence 21, 22 passion for walking 31 reaction to criticism 70 sense of humour 29 travel 38 portraits of 18, 30, 45, 46 insocial and political reform association with Russian exiles 8, 44, 76, 203–13 Dr Barnardo compared with 88 interest indeprived children 41–4, 89–90 as middle-class observer 178 social mothering by 162–3 views of criticism of women 36–7, 157–9 on education 19–20 on established Church 27, 206–7 on old age 47 religious views 27, 28 Stundists 8, 44, 171, 195, 203, 206, 207, 211, 212 suicide 142 ‘Summer’s Day on the Wrekin, A” (Stretton) 31 Sumner, Mrs 139, 188

Index Sunday at Home (periodical) 51, 56, 72, 75 Sweet Story of Old, The (Stretton) 60, 76 Synnot, Henrietta 138 ‘Talk with Hesba Stretton, A’ (Sunday Hours) 17–18, 215 Thorny Path, A (Stretton) chapter titles as instructional 64 cross-audienced nature of 62 cross-generational solidarity in108 empowerment of child-figure 104 illustration from 148 on men 39 metaphors of otherness in171 mother in147 orphanhood in92 on the poor 177, 182 rejection and deprivation in97 urban deprivation in169–70 on woman’s place 154, 155 Thoughts on Old Age (Stretton) 47 Through a Needle’s Eye (Stretton) 76 Tom Brown’s Schooldays (Hughes) 193 ‘Travelling Post-Office’ in‘Mugby Junction’ (Stretton) 70 Trevelyan, Sir Charles 166 Two Secrets (Stretton) 196 Under the Old Roof (Stretton) 59, 76, 156–7, 158 Unwin, T. Fisher 205 urban images 166–70 Volkhovsky, Felix 204, 205, 208 Volkhovsky, Vera 205 ‘waif’ narratives 1, 49, 67 Walton, O.F. 56n12, 60, 108, 111n, 198 war, glorification of 207–8 Waugh, Benjamin 1, 11, 43, 87, 140, 168, 173, 179, 186, 187, 189, 191, 192, 193 Webb, Captain 19, 23, 25, 26, 28, 40, 43, 44, 204, 205, 206 Webb, Hesba D. 24, 26 Westall, William 210

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Wills, William Henry 19, 70, 73 ‘Withered Daisy, The’ (Stretton) 154 Womankind (Yonge) 36 Woman’s Mission (Burdett-Coutts) 135 women 135–63; see also motherhood inbusiness world 34 children’s happiness and position of 112, 147 class and female sexuality 116–17 continuing exploitation of 12 domestic violence against 99, 150 and emotion 57 fears about sexuality and young 117–18 female criminals 187 feminism 9, 26, 27, 100, 152 as guardians of home and family 51 Married Women’s Property Acts 156–7 matrimonial question 35 place of 150–57 as property 153–4, 207 social and domestic confinement of 32 Stretton as favourite author among girls 56 Stretton on new freedoms sought by 34 Stretton’s criticisms of 36–7, 157–9 Stretton’s preoccupation with lot of 2, 5 inStretton’s works 34–9, 135–63 subordination of 3–4 unequal power relations inlives of 91 the ‘woman question’ 11, 38 writers 50–51 ‘Women’s Work for Children’ (Stretton) 126n16, 135, 138, 170, 191 Wood, Charles 35, 37, 70 Wood, Ellen 19, 26, 37, 56n12, 61n, 70, 126, 158, 161 Yates, Edmund 70 Yonge, Charlotte 36, 56n12, 68, 86, 117, 139, 158, 162 Youthful Offenders’ Act 189