The Gentleman's Daughter (9 page)

10 ‘The Choice of a Husband’,
c.
1825.

11 ‘The Choice of a Wife’,
c.
1825.

One-dimensional accounts of marital motivation that present families making a clear-cut operatic choice between love on the one hand and lucre on the other crudely reduce the intricacies of human choice. For surely the strategic and the emotional are blended in all of us? Human motivation rarely boils down either to pure, disinterested emotion or to scheming, material strategy.
¹¹
In any case, that the eighteenth century witnessed a great surge of romantic emotion which washed away all mercenary stains is unlikely in the extreme. In 1790s ladies' debating societies were still deliberating ‘In the Marriage State, which constitutes the greater Evil, Love without Money, or Money without Love?’
¹²
All but the most quixotic parents urged their offspring to make a sensible match, and as Elizabeth Bennet archly remarked in 1813, ‘Where does discretion end, and avarice begin?’
¹³
Simple choices are the essence of romantic tragedy, or a staged debate, but rarely are they the basis of decision-making in life. Wealth and rank had an intensely romantic, as well as mercenary, appeal.

If eighteenth-century choices are allowed to be complex, so eighteenth-century lovers must be allowed to vary. There was no single model of romantic presentation. There was, however, something of a standard, fashionable repertoire, as humourists enjoyed pointing out. Thus, Oliver Goldsmith mocked preening pretensions in his sketch of the history of courtship:

Jocular use of the romantic conventions of the 1730s was made by a Miss Marthae Taylor on a coach trip, when she and three other ladies teased an ‘old bachelor’ with their flirtatious attention. ‘For my part I did not scruple to mimic all the arts of his sex … Today I addressed him in the languishing vein, tomorrow in the heroic; now I speak my passion with a certain plainness and simplicity of style, by and by I adorn it with all the flowers of rhetoric and garnish of gesture that my sportive fancy could suggest, nor were gentle airs or soft poetry omitted …’
¹⁵
Similarly, Eliza Haywood in her novel
The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless
(1751) mocked the romantic addresses of a range of suitors, from the blunt sailor who offered ‘I can weather out any storm to come at you’, to the designing imposter who oiled ‘Divine Charmer … you are the empress of my heart, – the goddess of my soul … Words cannot describe the ardency of my flame.’ And so on. The courtier, the beau, the rake, the fool, the villain and the man of honour all had their own vocabularies. ‘What a romantic jargon is here?’ concluded Miss Thoughtless, unimpressed.
¹⁶
Thus, a range of rhetorical options was comfortably in place before the rise of literary sensibility and Romanticism.

Despite the appealing array of courting characters, the demands of Georgian gentility were such that matchmaking amongst the propertied remained a lengthy and complicated process of negotiation involving a range of family and friends, rather than a simple matter of beating hearts and lovers' vows. The issues at stake are perhaps best conveyed by the close analysis of the correspondence surrounding the making of an eighteenth-century marriage. Eighty-one letters written between 1745 and 1751 by Robert Parker of Alkincoats and Elizabeth Parker of Browsholme map the long road to marriage amongst the northern gentry. The protracted negotiations are most revealing in the exposure of power relations and gender strategy: the interplay of paternal commands and filial entreaties being basic to the Parker negotiations, although even individual decision-making was far from straightforward. Elizabeth Parker was profoundly ambivalent in the face of parental opposition, revealing the tension between the will to wed and the will to obey operating in a single breast – a reminder of the extent to which a woman could identify with the principles of her elders. Robert Parker's letters are enlightening in their
recourse to a range of voices, from the courtly to the desperate, through which he hoped to prevail upon his lady love. But whether dignified or despairing, the language Robert Parker used a-wooing also suggests some of the pleasure courtship held for women. For a sweet interval the tables were turned; as men coaxed and petitioned while women sat in judgement.

Robert Parker's courtship campaign lasted at least seven years, enduring many intermissions and revivals. His advances had been firmly and repeatedly discouraged by Elizabeth Parker's family in the 1740s, and his friends urged him to abandon his hopeless suit: ‘after ye usage you have mett wth nothing could be imputed to you, if you did make advances elsewhere.’ Still his hopes had not been extinguished; this was his ‘old love … not be forgot.’
¹⁷
In May 1751, after a silence of three years, Robert Parker resolved to bid again for Miss Parker's hand. He was thirty-one years of age, his father was dead and the match was his own to make. But how was he to go about reopening his suit? Under ordinary circumstances, he might contrive an encounter with his sweetheart at a public assembly or ingratiate himself in the home of a mutual acquaintance. Once on a cordial footing he might call on her in the bosom of her family.
¹⁸
With proximity guaranteed, a pretender could then introduce the courting strategy advocated in the humorous
Ladies Dictionary
of 1694. This manual advised the fashionable suitor to mobilize all his parts to secure the affections of his lady-love. If sufficiently enraptured a young woman might then be prepared to apply to her mother, harrying the older woman until she yielded her consent. Once won over, it should be left to the mother's discretion ‘to mould the father into a complying temper; as best able to deal with him’.
¹⁹
Unfortunately for Robert Parker, chance meetings on the moors of the remote Lancashire–Yorkshire border were improbable, assemblies were rare and he had long since been barred from visiting Miss Parker at home. Thus, he was limited to regenerating affection through a third party or by letter. Robert faced guaranteed paternal opposition and with Elizabeth's mother long dead there could be no hope of maternal intercession. The need to engage his sweetheart's advocacy was paramount. In the event, he renewed his campaign with a written proposal, secretly delivered by a visiting gentleman sympathetic to his suit.

On the face of it, Robert's opening volley reads like the innocent relation of news to an old acquaintance:

but the style is deceptive. This was an incendiary, designed to inflame an old love and frighten her into action. Nevertheless, Robert Parker could ill afford to hurt Elizabeth Parker's pride, so he followed up with fulsome reassurances: ‘You can't but imagine after [what] has passed betwixt us but that this Resolution is forced and … that I have nothing but wretchedness and Misery before me … dear Miss Parker … give me leive to hope [that your last decision] & Severe decree is not irrevocable.’ The rest of the letter used the conventional language of proposal, familiar from the popular letter-writing manuals of the period. Invariably, when the perfect gentleman correspondent disclosed a sincere and honourable passion, he diffidently stressed his own unworthiness, in contrast to the estimable qualities of his chosen object.
²⁰
Robert Parker was no different. He presented himself as supplicant, ‘a humble servt and sincere admirer’. In emphasizing his subservience to Elizabeth's wishes, he flatteringly accentuated her power over him and her gracious condescension:

Respectfully he invoked the memory of intimacies and promises. Throughout he was at pains to demonstrate his sincerity and honour. As a stoic, he would bear her decision:

Having stressed his capacity for self-control, he ended with a request that Elizabeth condescend to a clandestine meeting at eleven o'clock that night.

A well-judged combination of threat and promise, the letter had the desired impact. No evidence survives of Elizabeth's private reaction, and the secret meeting was refused, but guarded encouragement was extended
by letter. Although Elizabeth's reply was crisp, a disdainful reference to her rival indicated that Robert had hit his mark:

This terse declaration did not satisfy Robert Parker. If Miss Parker was lukewarm or irresolute then there was little hope she would prevail. The ideal respondent declared herself ‘a warm and zealous advocate’ from the outset. Injecting some urgency into the proceedings, Robert promptly wrote again reminding her of

Through emotional blackmail, Robert pressured Elizabeth to ‘determine in my favour’ and bring her powers of persuasion to bear: ‘It must be fm yr. Resolution & wont'd good nature [that] I must expect my Happiness or Misery.’ The identity of the other contender never emerges, perhaps she was fictitious, but, as Robert had intended, the spectre of the rival sufficiently stiffened Elizabeth's resolve. Four days later all is summarized in an innocuous note:

This formal exchange of letters represents a terse debate with three issues in play: power, duty and honour. If power is defined as the ability to control individuals and events, an unsuitable lover who lacked influential kin was all but impotent. Under such circumstances, everything turned on the daughter's advocacy, so Elizabeth Parker had to be persuaded to use all her eloquence on her widowed father. This father–daughter axis was
more than a commonplace of social commentary or a flattering opening gambit. Elizabeth Parker was a noted intercessor in family disputes. In 1753 London relatives called on Elizabeth to reconcile her father and brother, at odds over a settlement negotiation: ‘God will reward the glorious peace maker’, encouraged her Aunt Pellet: ‘[Your uncle] & all other friends think tis in your power (more than all them put together) to prevail with your dear pappa …’
²⁵
In recognition of Elizabeth Parker's skill in mediating patriarchal authority, her betrothed was prepared to take a secondary role in the protracted marriage negotiations: ‘The Management of this Affair I must leave entirely to you …’ In the course of their long amour, Robert Parker had often requested her advice and relied on her judgement: ‘[I] expect a Line in [the] meantime to know how our affair goes on, & likewise how I am to behave …’ He often appealed to her domestic statecraft: ‘do not fail using all arguments yr Rhetorick is master of in my behalf’, being certain that it must be from ‘yr good Management’ that success would ultimately issue.
²⁶
Exactly how Elizabeth Parker managed her father is hinted at in a reference to subsequent paternal obstruction: ‘My father … condemns me greatly to be in a hurry and it was with much difficulty that he let me write for my Cloaths, nay even the Morning he set out almost insisted on not sending my letter, and when he was so positive about it I began to fear that his [commands] would have got the better of my entreaties. But at last he consented …’
²⁷