The beaten track: European tourism, literature, and the ways to culture, 1800-1918 9780191671531, 9780198112952, 9780198122760

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THE BEATEN TRACK

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The Beaten Track | European Tourism, Literature, and the Ways to Culture, 1800-1918 JAMES BUZARD

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To Ina and Nathaniel

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Acknowledgements This book began as a doctoral dissertation in the Department of English

and Comparative Literature at Columbia University, where I had the good fortune to have advisers whose confidence in my capabilities kept

me going when my own confidence wavered. I am most indebted to Steven Marcus and Edward Mendelson for their guidance and vigilance, as well as for setting me such fine examples of tact and graceful profes-

sionalism in criticism and pedagogy. Jonathan Arac and Jeffrey Perl both went well beyond the call of duty in reading my work and in giving

me the benefit of their counsel. I must also thank A. Walton Litz for many acts of assistance and encouragement over the past few years. Others have aided in the production of this work by helping to maintain its producer. I owe my thanks to the Society of Fellows at Harvard University for the chance to read, discuss, reread, rethink, and rewrite with complete concentration and freedom. My colleagues from various fields have not only helped to alleviate the isolation that can come with independent scholarship; they have enriched my work in numerous ways, not least by enjoining me to speak a language that is applicable outside academic literary study. For her friendship and aid, I would especially like to thank the Administrator of the Society of Fellows, Diana Morse. At Columbia my department and the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences gave me much support; a Whiting Foundation Fellowship was a crucial help in the final stages of the dissertation. Joy Hayton and Doris Getzler merit special thanks for seeing me through the maze that leads, eventually, to the Ph.D.

Several other people have contributed to this book, most of them probably more than they are aware. The friends and colleagues who either asked me to tell them about my work or tolerated my talking about it when they hadn’t asked—they gave me the opportunity to work

out conceptual and compositional problems in the open air, the best place for me to perceive the unfulfilled potentials, theoretical lacunae, and instances of downright obtuseness that sometimes mar the thinking I do in solitude. If I focused on the suggestions they made or the formulations they helped me to make by listening, rather than on the fact that it was they who suggested and listened, I apologize, hoping they will recognize themselves in this belated expression of gratitude. Any persistence in

this book of blunders named above is, of course, none of their doing. I would particularly like to thank Daniel Aaron, Robert Belknap, Patrick

} vili Acknowledgements Brantlinger, David Cannadine, J. Martin Evans and other members of the English Department at Stanford University, Rhoda Flaxman, P. N. Furbank, Donald Gray, Robert N. Keane, Alice Levine, Richard L. Stein and the organizers of Interdisciplinary Nineteenth-Century Studies, and

Helen Vendler. Mr Edmund Swinglehurst and the archive staff at Thomas Cook in London were of great assistance in my search for Original materials concerning the formation and development of the company. An unpublished document by E. M. Forster was kindly made available to me by Dr Donald Parry and Ms Jacky Cox of King’s College, Cambridge; I thank the Provost and Scholars of King’s College for permission to quote from it. Finally, I must single out my friend Richard Moye, without whose unflaggingly available technical expertise my work would never have made its journey from typewriter to computer screen to printed page. To my parents, for the support they gave me in so many varieties, I can only say thanks with the awareness of how little that says. Whenever academic life has seemed absurdly self-reflexive, they have provided me with a stable reference point of decency and love. Most of all I thank my wife, Ina Lipkowitz, who has been with me for all the years—for all the days and hours—in which this work has been

done. She coaxed out of me the first prospectus of the first-written chapter, and her encouragement, acumen, humour, and love have seen me steadily through—just as in the many other ventures in which I have been privileged to have her as fellow-traveller. To our son Nathaniel, born somewhere in the midst of the final draft of Chapter 3, goes my special praise for the joyous distractions—as well as for everything else. Parts of Chapters 2, 3, and 5 have been or will be published as articles: ‘Forster’s Trespasses: Tourism and Cultural Politics’, in Twentieth-Century Literature, 34/2 (summer 1988), 155-79; ‘The Uses of Romanticism: Byron and the Victorian Continental Tour’, in Victorian Studies, 35/2 (autumn 1991), 29-49; and ‘A Continent of Pictures: Reflections on the

! “Europe” of Nineteenth-Century Tourists’, in PMLA (Jan. 1993). I am

grateful for permission to reprint. |

Contents

List of Illustrations x

Abbreviations xi Introduction oy Century Travel 18

1. Tourist and Traveller in the Network of Nineteenth-

2. Tourism and Anti-Tourism: Conventions and Strategies 80

James 217

3. A Scripted Continent: British and American Travel-Writers

in Europe, c.1825—-1875 155 4. Ambivalent Appropriations: Culture and the Tourist in

Epilogue 332 Bibliography 338 5. Forster’s Trespasses: Tourism and Cultural Politics 285

Index 352

List of Illustrations (Between 148~149)

1. Cover from Guide to Cook’s Tours in France, Switzerland, and Italy (1865). Thomas Cook Archive.

2. Cover from Arthur Sketchley, Mrs Brown on the Grand Tour (London, George Routledge, no date). Bodleian Library. 3. Cover from Cook’s Excursionist (date unknown). Thomas Cook Archive.

4. Cover from The Traveller’s Gazette (1903). Thomas Cook Archive. 5. ‘Venice’, from Richard Doyle, The Foreign Tour of Messrs. Brown, Jones, and Robinson (1855; New York: D. Appleton, 1860). Harvard University Library.

6. ‘Viator Verax’, title page from Rev. George Musgrave, Cautions for the First Tour... (London: W. Ridgway, 1863). Bodleian Library. 7. From the frontispiece to Bayard Taylor (ed.), Picturesque Europe Vol Ill (New York: D. Appleton, 1875-9). Harvard University Library. 8. ‘They “Do” Cologne Cathedral’, from Richard Doyle, The Foreign Tour of Messrs. Brown, Jones, and Robinson. 9. ‘Nobility at the Pyramids’, Punch 14 (Jan—June 1848). Harvard University Library.

10. ‘News for the Excursionists’, Punch 15 (July-Dec 1848). Harvard University Library.

Abbreviations | The following abbreviations are used for frequently cited sources in the text.

AH E. M. Forster, Abinger Harvest (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, n.d.)

AHG E. M. Forster, Alexandria: A History and a Guide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986)

AM Henry James, The American (1876-7; Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1985)

AN Henry James, The Art of the Novel: Critical Prefaces by Henry James, ed. Richard Blackmur (New York: Scribner’s, 1934)

CO E. M. Forster, The Celestial Omnibus and Other Stories (New York: Vintage, 1976)

Corinne Germaine de Staél, Corinne, or Italy, trans. Avriel H. Goldberger (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1987)

CT Henry James, The Complete Tales of Henry James, ed. Leon Edel (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1962-5)

DE Anna Jameson, Diary of an Ennuyée (1826; Boston: Ticknor & Fields, 1857)

EI Constantine Henry Phipps, 1st Marquis Normanby, The English in Italy, 3 vols. (London: printed for Saunders & Otley, British and Foreign Public Library, 1825)

EM E. M. Forster, The Eternal Moment and Other Stories (1928; New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, n.d.)

Italy Samuel Rogers, Italy: A Poem (London: printed for Cadell & Moxon, 1830)

IWG William Wordsworth, The Illustrated Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes, ed. Peter Bicknell (New York: Congdon & Weed, 1984)

LC Henry James: Literary Criticism (Essays on Literature, American Writers, English Writers) (New York: Library of America, 1984)

Letters Henry James: Letters, ed. Leon Edel (Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1974-84)

LN __E.M. Forster, The Lucy Novels: Early Sketches for A Room with a View, ed. Oliver Stallybrass (London: Edward Arnold, 1977)

MF John Ruskin, Mornings in Florence: Being Simple Studies in Christian Art for English Travellers (3rd edn., Orpington, Kent: George

Allen, 1889) |

NCL Charles Lever, The Novels of Charles Lever (Boston: Little, Brown, 1894)

PFI Charles Dickens, Pictures from Italy (1846; New York: The Ecco Press, 1988)

Pharos E. M. Forster, Pharos and Pharillon: A Novelist’s Sketchbook of

xii Abbreviations , Alexandria through the Ages (1923; New York: Alfred A. Knopf,

1962) : PI E. M. Forster, A Passage to India (1924; London: Edward Arnold, 1978)

PP Henry James, Portraits of Places (Boston: James R. Osgood, 1883) Praeterita John Ruskin, Praeterita: The Autobiography of John Ruskin (1889; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983)

Henry Colburn, 1846) ,

RT Frances Trollope, The Robertses on their Travels, 3 vols. (London:

RV E. M. Forster, A Room with a View (1908; London: Edward Arnold, 1977)

TS Henry James, Transatlantic Sketches (1875; New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1893)

VI Frances Trollope, A Visit to Italy, 2 vols. (London: Richard Bentley, 1842)

WA E. M. Forster, Where Angels Fear to Tread (1905; London: Edward Arnold, 1975)

Introduction | The tourist is the other fellow. (Evelyn Waugh)

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, ‘tourist’ made its first appearance in English in the late eighteenth century, functioning as a straightforward synonym for ‘traveller’. Among the earliest entries provided by the OED is Samuel Pegge’s statement, in a book of 1800 on new English usages, that ‘A Traveller is now-a-days called a Tour-ist.’' Yet while this neutral equation of the two terms is still current, most English speakers also recognize a distinct negative connotation for ‘tourist’. By the OED’s accounts, ‘tourist’ had acquired this darker side by the middle of the nineteenth century; but the dictionary does not refer to the disruptive ‘rattling Tourist’ of whom Adam Walker spoke in 1792, nor does it include

the derogatory use made of the term by William Wordsworth in ‘The Brothers’, a poem of late 1799, in which a character sighs irritably, ‘These Tourists, heaven preserve us!’ When Fraser’s Magazine made the distinction (in 1849), ‘He was rather a tourist than a traveller’, its editors were relying on a range of meanings for the former term that had been a half-

century or more in the making; it is a range of meanings we have been exploiting ever since. Evelyn Waugh summed up the commonly held attitude when he wrote of his compatriots (in 1930) that ‘every Englishman

traveller and not a tourist’.° abroad, until it is proved to the contrary, likes to consider himself a

Though it is often used in this derogatory sense without great precision, ‘tourist’ does rest on a rough consensus: it can conjure up in our imaginations a personality profile, a life-style, perhaps a class identification, and a host of scenarios in which ‘the tourist’ performs some characteristic act.

The tourist is the dupe of fashion, following blindly where authentic travellers have gone with open eyes and free spirits. In his diary of the early 1870s the Reverend Kilvert asserted that ‘If there is one thing more hateful

than another, it is being told what to admire and having objects pointed 1 Pegge’s was the earliest entry in the first edition of the OED; the second edition includes an earlier

entry, from 1780, which also uses ‘tourist’ in a neutral sense. 2 Adam Walker, A Tour from London to the Lakes (London, 1792); quoted in Ian Ousby, The Englishman’s England: Travel, Taste, and the Rise of Tourism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 19. Wordsworth, The Poems, ed. John O. Hayden (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1981), i. 402, I. 1. 3 Labels: A Mediterranean Journal (London: Duckworth, 1930), 44.

2 Introduction out to one with a stick, Of all noxious animals too the most noxious is a tourist ...’.4 If the ‘traveller’ exemplifies independence and originality, the tourist, as Paul Fussell puts it, ‘moves toward the security of pure cliché’.° The traveller exhibits boldness and gritty endurance under all conditions (being true to the etymology of ‘travel’ in the word ‘travail’); the tourist is the cautious, pampered unit of a leisure industry. Where tourists go, they

go en masse, remaking whole regions in their homogeneous image. The OED contains the adjectival combinations ‘tourist-crammed, -haunted, -mobbed, -ridden, [and] -trodden’, descriptions of the sad fate of every locale that has become a popular tourist attraction. In fact, by the first decades of the twentieth century—by that period which Fussell has studied in Abroad: British Literary Traveling between the Wars—this negative ‘tourist’ and its associated terms had gained a surprising currency in much broader contexts than those immediately related to tourism. Many instances suggest the tourist’s peculiar place in modern representations of the value and the possible decline of civilization, or of the processes of true and false (‘touristic’) perception. The early twentieth century is the time of ‘Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar’, T. S. Eliot’s poem about two visitors to Venice and their relationship to the city’s decay. We may also find, in D. H. Lawrence’s Studies in Classic American Literature (1923), an aside to the effect that ‘the American admiration of five-minutes tourists has done more to kill the

sacredness of old European beauty and aspiration than multitudes of | bombs would have done’, and we recognize the attempt to relate tourism to general cultural ‘health’.© When we accompany the characters of Lawrence’s novella ‘St Mawr’ to Santa Fe, to find the main street placarded with signs reading ‘Welcome, Mr. Tourist’ and ‘Thank You, Mr. Tourist’,

we need no extensive commentary to assist us in inferring the author’s socio-cultural diagnosis.’ In a book of 1931 about Marcel Proust we can encounter the young Samuel Beckett contrasting habitual, quotidian consciousness with the ‘enchantment’ of Proust’s art, using these terms: ‘Normally we are in the position of the tourist (the traditional specification

would constitute a pleonasm), whose aesthetic experience consists in a series of identifications and for whom Baedeker is the end rather than the means.’® In characterizing our ordinary daily condition as ‘Baedeker con-

sciousness’, Beckett presumes that his readers are familiar with the accepted attributes of the tourist—to go into detail, he says, would be a 4 Robert Francis Kilvert, Kilvert’s Diary: Selections from the Diary of the Rev. Francis Kilvert, 1 January 1870-19 August 1871 (new and corr. edn. London: Jonathan Cape, 1960), 79. 5 Abroad: British Literary Traveling between the Wars (New York: Oxford University Press,

E Sodies in Classic American Literature (1923; Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1977), 45. 7 In ‘St Mawr’ and ‘The Man Who Died’ (1925; New York: Vintage, n.d.), 132. 8 Proust (1931; New York: Grove Press, 1957), 11.

Introduction 3 ‘pleonasm’, a redundancy. From later works as different as Edmund Wilson’s Europe without Baedeker (1947) and Hans Magnus Enzensberger’s ‘Tourists of the Revolution’ (1973), it is possible to derive the same _ suggestion that a ‘touristic’ relationship to a given situation is attenuated, superficial, and routine. Can we historicize this value-laden concept in order to discover what function it has been serving in our representations of culture? Before even beginning such a task, we need to acknowledge that critical accounts have often tended to repeat, rather than investigate, the customary denigration

of the touristic. Paul Fussell has recently considered the relationship between tourist and traveller—and the relationship between their different

activities—in the following manner: )

Tourism simulates travel, sometimes quite closely. . . . But it is different in crucial ways. It is not self-directed but externally directed. You go not where you want to

go but where the industry has decreed you shall go. Tourism soothes you by comfort and familiarity and shields you from the shocks of novelty and oddity. It confirms your prior view of the world instead of shaking it up. Tourism requires that you see conventional things, and that you see them in a conventional way.’

What contrary positive value is being exalted when the touristic is represented in this way? Fussell’s explanation makes confident assumptions about the different inner mental or imaginative conditions of travellers and tourists, but these assumptions are themselves the product of nearly two hundred years’ concerted cultural stereotyping. Nor does an attempt to view the question of travel and tourism historically guarantee that we will escape such generalizations. A number of writers on the subject describe large historical periods governed by the one, then the other term: we

read of ‘the age of travel’ being superseded by that of tourism. In an essay significantly titled “The Lost Art of Travel’, Daniel Boorstin reminds us

that In the fifteenth century the discovery of the Americas, the voyages around Africa and to the Indies opened eyes, enlarged thought, and helped create the Renaissance. The travels of the seventeenth century around Europe, to America, and to the Orient helped awaken men to ways of life different from their own and led to the Enlightenment. The discovery of new worlds has always renewed men’s minds. Travel has been the universal catalyst.

In contrast, Boorstin argues, we now have planned tourism, in which ‘We

get money-back guarantees that we will see what we expect to see’, endlessly confirming our own expectations rather than challenging them.’ Anyone with a ‘traveller’s spirit’ in the degraded age of tourism is 9 Paul Fussell, ed., The Norton Book of Travel (New York: Norton, 1987), 651. 10 The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America (1961; New York: Atheneum, 1985), 78~9, 117.

4 Introduction . likely to suffer from acute alienation. It is hard to miss the element of nostalgia in such historical distinctions that marks them as more polemical than descriptive. ‘Obviously, what is being proposed’, writes Ian Ousby,

_ 4is not historical definition but a vision of a Golden Age’—‘a phantasm, compounded of modern self-dislike, intellectual snobbery and sentimentality about the past. And ironically enough,’ Ousby adds, naming but one of tourism’s illustrative ironies, this impulse ‘ends up serving the very

phenomenon it sought to denounce and escape, for the tourist industry well knows how to exploit our yearning to get off the beaten track and rediscover genuine travel ...’.'! (Advertisements placed in 1989 for the Thomas Cook Escorted Journey describe it as ‘not a trip for the tourist but a voyage of discovery for the traveller .. .’.!2) _ Inhis essay ‘The Semiotics of Tourism’, Jonathan Culler castigates the writings of Boorstin and Fussell on tourism for exemplifying ‘what passes for cultural criticism: complaints about the tawdriness or artificiality of modern culture which do not attempt to account for the curious facts they

rail against and offer little explanation of the cultural mechanisms that might be responsible for them’.!> My work here is an attempt to evade such damning allegations by considering the formation of modern tourism

and the impulse to denigrate tourists as a single complex phenomenon with important socio-cultural conditions and consequences. As first principles, I will delimit ‘tourism’ as a phenomenon of determinate historical origin in the modern industrializing and democratizing nations of northern Europe and, later, America; and I will construe ‘the tourist’ as a mythic

figure, a rhetorical instrument that is determined by and in turn helps to

determine the ways such nations represent culture and acculturation to themselves. The master-trope for my investigation is named in my title. If

there is one dominant and recurrent image in the annals of the modern tour, it is surely that of the beaten track, which succinctly designates the space of the ‘touristic’ as a region in which all experience is predictable and

repetitive, all cultures and objects mere ‘touristy’ self-parodies. I take it that rather than being a description of objective differences, the tourist/traveller dichotomy has functioned primarily, as Culler says, ‘to

Sage, 1990), 96. | 11 Qusby, The Englishman's England, 6-7.

12 Quoted in John Urry, The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies (London:

13 In Framing the Sign: Criticism and its Institutions (Norman, Okla.: University of Oklahoma Press, 1989), 154. For other criticisms, see Dean MacCannell, The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class

(New York: Schocken Books, 1976), 107; Jost Krippendorf, The Holiday Makers: Understanding the Impact of Leisure and Travel (Oxford: Heinemann Professional Publishing, 1987), p. xviii; Philip Pearce

and Gianna Moscardo, ‘The Concept of Authenticity in Tourist Experiences’, Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology, 22/x (Mar. 1986), 122. In a recent essay (‘Travel, Tourism, and “International Understanding”’), Fussell acknowledges Culler’s insights, but he does not alter his position on theinner distinctiveness of ‘travellers’; see Thank God for the Atom Bomb and Other Essays (New York: Ballantine Books, 1988), 124-46.

Introduction 5 convince oneself that one is not a tourist ... the desire to distinguish between tourists and real travelers [being] a part of tourism— integral to it

rather than outside it or beyond it’.'* One important implication is that

the dichotomy has more to do with the society and culture that produce | the tourist than it does with the encounter any given tourist or ‘traveller’ may have with a foreign society and culture. As John Pemble writes, describing the attitudes of many Victorians and Edwardians abroad, ‘the claim to be a “traveller”, as opposed to a “tourist” or an “excursionist”, was in most cases only a special kind of snobbery . . . [implying] revulsion

from the British masses ...’.!5 I would quarrel only with Pemble’s minimizing word ‘only’. Snobbish ‘anti-tourism’, an element of modern tourism from the start, has offered an important, even exemplary way of regarding one’s own cultural experiences as authentic and unique, setting them against a backdrop of always assumed tourist vulgarity, repetition, and ignorance.'* The experiences and performative opportunities provided on tour have contributed vitally to the lasting conceptions tourists (travellers?) build about themselves and the societies they inhabit and tour—images of self and setting reciprocally reinforcing one another. For both, Judith Adler’s statement that in travel ‘Enduring identities are often narratively constructed on the basis of brief adventures’ holds true.” The Beaten Track studies a wide range of texts drawn from literature, travel-writing, guidebooks, periodicals, and business histories, in order to understand what modern ways of thinking about ‘culture’ and personal ‘acculturation’ owe to the nineteenth century’s ambivalent confrontation with a democratizing and institutionalizing tourism. In giving such a focus to this project, | am pursuing the suggestion made by the sociologist Dean MacCannell in his intriguing book The Tourist: A New Theory of the

Leisure Class that tourism may provide a key to an ‘ethnography of

modernity’ (though for many reasons I do not aim at the kind of explanatory totality which ‘ethnography’ in its traditional sense connotes). As MacCannell compellingly argues, in modern Western

societies ‘leisure is displacing work from the center of social arrangements’, and tourism is one of the most concentrated and highly organized forms of leisure in our world, as well as arguably the form most

heavily laden with the imaginative and emotional energies of its

Press, 1987), 265. ;

14 ‘Semiotics of Tourism’, 156. 1S The Mediterranean Passion: Victorians and Edwardians in the South (Oxford: Oxford University

16 For ‘anti-tourism’, see Fussell, Abroad, 47-50. Both Fussell and John Urry (who describes an

anti-touristic quality in writing of the ‘romantic gaze’—see Tourist Gaze, 45-7) are right in identifying the denigration of tourists and the denial of being a tourist as marks of the educated middle class; but Fussell idealizes an upper-class capacity, and Urry a working-class (and ‘post-modern’) one, for genial

willingness to admit that one is a tourist and to share in collective tourist pleasures without angst.

17 ‘Travel as Performed Art’, American Journal of Sociology 94/6 (May 1989), 1385.

6 Introduction practitioners. '® A presupposition of tourism is that tourists are members of modern societies who live all the year, perhaps all their lives, for the charge of excitement and release, of densely impacted meanings, which tourism seems to offer. To figure touristic desires in this way is to regard them as a measure of what tourists’ own society denies them, or at least holds in reserve for holiday indulgences. Specifically, I argue that, after the Napoleonic Wars, the exaggerated

perception that the Continental tour was becoming more broadly accessible than ever before gave rise to new formulations about what constituted ‘authentic’ cultural experience (such as travel is supposed to provide) and new representations aimed at distinguishing authentic from spurious or merely repetitive experience. ‘Authenticity’, as Erik Cohen points out, is a concept ‘not given, but “negotiable”’ in society, and my work attempts to trace the emergence of a modern concordat on cultural

authenticity in the British (and to a limited extent American) touring classes—which is to say, the upper and middle classes.’ In the period I study here, anti-tourism evolved into a symbolic economy in which travellers and writers displayed marks of originality and ‘authenticity’ in an attempt to win credit for acculturation; and visited places were perceived as parts of a market-place of cultural goods, each location chiefly of

interest for the demonstrably appropriatable tokens of authenticity it afforded. Travel’s educative, acculturating function took on a newly com-

petitive aspect, as travellers sought to distinguish themselves from the ‘mere tourists’ they saw or imagined around them. Correspondingly, the authentic ‘culture’ of places—the genius loci—was represented as lurking in secret precincts ‘off the beaten track’ where it could be discovered only by the sensitive ‘traveller’, not the vulgar tourist. This development, it seems to me, helped to establish a view of accultur-

ation as a double and potentially self-contradictory process, requiring gestures of both self-distinction (to separate oneself from the crowd) and solidarity (to appeal to an imagined small group of independent spirits). Furthermore, the criteria for separating authentic from touristic experience have not been those visibly based on advantages of birth (in contrast to the overt privileges of the pre-1800 Grand Tour), but rather a loosely

defined set of inner personal qualities that amounts to a superior emotional-aesthetic sensitivity. In this respect tourism has become an exemplary cultural practice of modern liberal democracies, for it has evolved an appearance of being both popularly accessible and exclusive at once. In spite of its ‘meritocratic’ ideology, however—and also because of 18 See The Tourist, esp. 1-37. 19 For Cohen, see ‘Authenticity and Commoditization in Tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research, 15

ne a7 and ‘Traditions in the Qualitative Sociology of Tourism’, Annals of Tourism Research, 15

Introduction 7 it—modern tourism has tended to reinforce existing privileges, reproducing assumptions about the special suitedness of well-to-do northern Euro-

pean men for fully-realized acculturation. Licensing the notion of a superior sensibility that apparently owes nothing to social conditions, it has in effect masked differences in degree of freedom from economic necessity and in what Pierre Bourdieu calls ‘habitus’, the internalized system of ‘dispositions’ which, among other things, prepare one for the satisfactory

appropriation of cultural goods.*° Bourdieu’s view of an ‘ideology of natural taste’ which ‘naturalizes real differences, converting differences in the mode of acquisition of culture into differences of nature’, is a critical

perspective endorsed by this work.”! |

There is another sense in which tourism may emerge as an ‘exemplary cultural practice’ in modern societies: for its trenchant illustration of the basic ambivalence of ‘culture’ itself, that ‘one of the two or three most complicated words in the English language’. To explain this, it will be

useful to recall Raymond Williams’s elaboration of ‘three broad categories of usage’ for the term (outside its scientific applications). First, Williams writes, there is the noun describing ‘a general process of intellectual, spiritual and aesthetic development’; secondly, that ‘which indicates a particular way of life, whether of a people, a period or a group ...3 and thirdly, the noun designating ‘the works and practices of intellectual and especially artistic activity’. Williams points out that in English the first and third usages ‘are still close’ in that works of intellectual and

artistic production are regarded as the stimuli for personal acculturation.” ‘Culture’, then, shuttles between two frames of reference: aesthetic objects and their role in personal acculturation, on the one hand, and the anthropological sense of a group’s ‘whole way of life’ on the other.

| And though ‘some writers reserve the word for one or other of these senses’, Williams ‘insist[s] on both, and on the significance of their conjunction’. * Modern tourism /anti-tourism is in part a quest for both these meanings—a journey fraught with paradox, assertion, risk, frustration. As the product of anti-touristic rhetoric, ‘the tourist’ and his or her domain represent the sinister or parodic double to many modern wishes about culture and acculturation. A modern liberal tradition of thought about the rela-

tionship of culture and society has constituted ‘culture’ as a comple20 For ‘habitus’, see Outline ofa Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977),

wei Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984), 68. 22 Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976), 76,

arr ‘Culture is Ordinary’, in Resources of Hope: Culture, Democracy, Socialism, ed. Robin Gamble (London: Verso, 1989), 4.

8 Introduction mentary and compensatory region wholly separate from material social life, a ‘court of human appeal’ where the self may find inner redress for the

sacrifices of living in modern industrial society.** Great artistic works contribute to what Mill called ‘the culture of the feelings’, the nurturing of that most fully human set of capacities which, as Mill knew well, were apt to be stunted by devotion to utilitarian principles. This model of culture as a process ‘outside’ ordinary workaday reality finds a clear embodiment in the temporary separation of the tourist from home, a physical fact which since the early nineteenth century has invited interpretation as a psychic liberation from domestic social life and the self defined there. If the tour thus acts out the equation of domestic life with compromised social existence and of cultural ‘holiday life’ with self-actualization, then ‘the tourist’ becomes the figure who fails to employ objects of culture in the manner

appropriate to successful acculturation: scores of passages in nineteenthcentury travel-writing comment disdainfully on tourists’ conspicuous failures of taste. What is more, the tourist appears unable or unwilling to cast off the traces of a modernity which at home is all too much with us, clinging to domestic habits and amenities which destroy the foreignness of foreign places once they are introduced into them. As such the tourist is an

unwelcome reminder, to self-styled ‘travellers’, ofthe modern realitiesthat dog their fleeing footsteps. W. H. Mallock’s remark (in 1889) that ‘the true traveller seeks precisely what the excursionist dreads . . . a sense of escape from all that is homely and habitual’ is a classic anti-touristic statement in

this vein.** Abroad, the tourist is the relentless representative of home. A related model—Matthew Arnold’s, in Culture and Anarchy—stresses the socially affirmative character of ‘culture’ in building, through its promotion of the ‘best self’ latent in everyone, a national unity that transcends

class conflict and sectarian competitiveness. Here again a theoretical elaboration of culture was anticipated by discussions and debates surrounding the Continental tour. The eighteenth century had heard much of the patriotic function of the tour abroad, with some Englishmen asserting that they returned ‘better Englishmen’ than when they departed, having

seen by contrast with other societies the great qualities of their own.” This line of argument recurred frequently in the next century in remarks like that of J. R. Green, who found that ‘being far away makes one fairer _ to England than when one is at home and worried with all the pettiness and ignorance’.”” Augmenting this thesis was a convention of envious

British testimony about the ‘cultural consanguinity’ of other nations, 24 See Raymond Williams, Culture and Society, 1780-1950 (1958; New York: Columbia University Press, 1983); Pamela MacCallum, Literature and Method: Towards a Critique of I. A. Richards, T. S. Eliot, and F. R. Leavis (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1983), esp. 9-37. 25 In an Enchanted Island; or, A Winter's Retreat in Cyprus (London: Richard Bentley, 1889), 3.

26 See Ch. 2, Part II for a discussion. 27 Quoted in Pemble, Mediterranean Passion, 270.

, Introduction 9 particularly those of the pre-industrial South. In Italy, where one cultural whole seemed to unite flourishing folk traditions and the highest artistic achievements—and where the lowliest peasant seemed able to quote his moiety of Dante—many visitors found (because they wanted to find) acontentment with the status quo that contrasted pleasingly with the ‘spirit of envious levelling’ more than familiar enough to them back home.”* But an ideology of general acculturation for the national good may also find its

besetting contradiction awaiting it in the annals of tourism and antitourism: for the tourists’ competition for cultural goods mimics the very economic divisiveness which ‘culture’ exists to oppose; and the experiences garnered through tourism are moulded in the cultural market-place into ‘marketable’ forms (the reified forms of souvenir or memorable, captured experiencein journalentry, letter, sketch, or photograph). Acculturation has come to mean, in contexts beyond the narrowly touristic, ‘acquiring’, ‘displaying’, and ‘trading upon’ one’s accumulated experiences. MacCannell has argued that tourism is a means to social coherence in an otherwise fragmented modernity; but the record I investigate suggests that perhaps the anti-touristic component of tourism has been the provider of a modern solidarity of a highly paradoxical kind. ‘Tourism’, writes Culler on this issue, ‘brings out what may prove to be a crucial feature of modern capitalist culture: a cultural consensus that creates hostility rather than community among individuals.’” If we return to Williams’s other frame of reference for ‘culture’—the anthropological one of a ‘whole way of life-—we again find tourism to have staged pertinent issues and contradictions before the concept’s theoretical articulation. The salient fact that this meaning was, as Williams

says, ‘decisively introduced into English’ by Edward B. Tylor’s anthropological text Primitive Culture (1871) may occasion our suspicion about its putatively value-free application.*° For modern societies intellectually and emotionally aware of themselves as fragmented, the ‘whole’

in that ethnographic ‘whole way of life’ takes on a powerful positive charge. Edward Sapir’s ‘Culture, Genuine and Spurious’ (1924) is a classic formulation of such a counter-modern ideal: Sapir’s ‘genuine’ culture is

‘inherently harmonious, balanced, self-satisfactory’, a unity ‘in which nothing is spiritually meaningless’; it is comparable to ‘a sturdy plant growth, each remotest leaf and twig of which is organically fed by the sap at the core’; it ‘is not a spiritual hybrid of contradictory patches’, nor ‘does

it tolerate a thousand other spiritual maladjustments such as are patent enough in our American life of today’.*' If, as James Clifford has argued, 28 See ibid., 143~9. 29 Semiotics of Tourism’, 158. 30 Williams, Keywords, 80. 31 ‘Culture, Genuine and Spurious’, in Culture, Language and Personality: Selected Essays, ed. David G. Mandelbaum, (Berkeley, Calif.:; University of California Press, 1960), 90~3.

10. Introduction the nostalgic ‘theme of the vanishing primitive, of the end of traditional

society ... is pervasive in ethnographic writing’, it has been no less common to the development of modern tourism.” The apparently ‘organic’ fit between part and social totality, individual and role; the aesthetic effect of a foreign culture as a co-ordinated picture or mise-en-scéne: these were impressions of strong appeal to visitors from Britain and America who went in search of them in Europe. The ‘tourist’ in this context became the figure incapable of making meaningful contact

with, or of grasping signs of, an authentic, integrated ‘whole way of life’-—which came to be represented as a fugitive essence, hounded into hiding by encroaching modernity, driven ‘off the beaten track’ or, in a related metaphor, ‘beneath the surface’ which superficial tourists merely skimmed. Self-appointed travellers reached for symbols that would express the essence of ‘whole’ places—that would provide what Henry James called the ‘sublime synthesis’ —and in doing so they furnished a new

set of conventions for registering the authentic and the ‘whole’.* In the process, they borrowed and extended the concept of the picturesque: for them, moments of greatest value were to be found, as Coleridge said of picturesqueness, ‘where parts only are seen and distinguished, but the whole is felt’.°* Coleridge’s theory of the symbol—as participating in the whole for which it stands—underwrites the picturesque mode of perception I examine in this work. When visitors could say, ‘Yes, that’s Italy’ or ‘that’s Paris’ or even ‘that’s Europe’—when, in other words, valued signs of these entities gathered from books, pictures, conversation, and other means of cultural preparation matched with scenes before them—they could feel they had achieved meaningful contact with what these places essentially were; and if the visitors were writing their experiences, they could display the occurrence of that contact in their texts.>5 The valued moment was taken to be ‘pars totalis, immediately expressing the whole’;

: parts were seen to give evidence of the ‘totality that contain{ed] them,

32 ‘On Ethnographic Allegory’, in James Clifford and George E. Marcus, eds., Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1986), 112. The

centrality of this theme accounts for the preponderance of Italian examples in this work, for of the regions on the tourist’s ‘beaten track’ through Europe, Italy was prized for remaining most distinctly unmodern; its efforts towards modernization after the Risorgimento were vehemently opposed by many tourists. Clifford’s essay and some of his other writings have provided valuable guidance for my work at

many points. 33 See my remarks on the ‘authenticity effect’ in Ch. 3, Part Il. 34 Quoted in Martin Price, ‘The Picturesque Moment’, in Frederick W. Hilles and Harold Bloom, eds., From Sensibility to Romanticism: Essays Presented to Frederick A. Pottle (New York: Oxford University Press, 1965), 280. 35 See Culler, ‘Semiotics of Tourism’, 155; Urry, Tourist Gaze, 3 (and the comments on tourism’s ‘hermeneutic circle’, 140); Krippendorf, Holiday Makers, 33; and Donald Horne, The Great Museum: The Re-Presentation of History (London: Pluto Press, 1984), 28.

Introduction 11 because each in itself contain[ed] in the immediate form of its expression the essence of the totality itself’.** But it was not long before observers became aware of another kind of wholeness to be found on European tours: the wholeness of the wholly touristic place, inauthentic, trumped-up, corrupted, commodified. This was the quality envisioned in Auden’s poem of the 1950s ‘First Things First’, which unhappily glimpses

a world where every sacred location : Is a sand-buried site all cultured Texans do, Misinformed and thoroughly fleeced by their guides.*’

But visions of an engulfing ersatz cultural domain, totally administered or pre-packaged as spectacle, commenced neither with twentieth-century writers nor with modern theorists of the ‘culture industry’ or the ‘society of

the spectacle’ or the ‘simulacrum’—nor, for that matter, with Disneyland.** Uncomfortable impressions that tourism destroys the ‘sanctity’ or unity of culture, supplanting it with a discrete tourist world of cliché and confirmed expectations, flourished alongside the nineteenth century’s expansion of tourist institutions and services. What John Urry has called (drawing upon Michel Foucault) the ‘tourist gaze’, a way of seeing structured and sustained by institutions, came into focus aided by the instru-

ments of modern transport technology and administration (the latter supplied by Messrs Cook, Murray, Baedeker, and others): it looked out upon a realm of asterisked tourist attractions and standardized amenities. In the 1850s a character from a novel by Charles Lever speaks disparagingly of the special ‘Pictorial Europe’ fostered by Murray’s handbooks; in 1887 Frederic Harrison laments the ‘horrid sameness of one bad standard’ awaiting the traveller in the modern hotels ‘from Calais to Palermo’; many others sounded many similar chords.*? Nervous jesting about the global ‘imperial’ aspirations of the Thomas Cook Company, or about railways running to the top of the Himalayas, or about English or American dishes

being offered. at every table d’hdte on earth all expressed some of the century’s discomfiture concerning a cultural practice which, as it expanded, exercised a strange and unprecedented form of power over the character of places. Witnesses saw or suspected that tourism was capable

of both physically remaking places (by introducing railways, hotels, 36 Louis Althusser and Etienne Balibar, Reading Capital, trans. Ben Brewster (London: Verso, 1979),

757 “Auden, Collected Poems, ed. Edward Mendelson (New York: Random House, 1976), 445. 38 See Max Horkheimer and Theodor W. Adorno, Dialectic of Englightenment, trans. John Cumming (New York: Continuum, 1982); Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle (Detroit: Black & Red, 1983); and Jean Baudrillard, America, trans. Chris Turner (London: Verso, 1988). 39 Lever, The Dodd Family Abroad in The Novels of Charies Lever (Boston: Little, Brown, 1894), iii.

108; Harrison quoted in Pemble, Mediterranean Passion, 26s. |

12 Introduction restaurants, Thomas Cook offices, souvenir shops, crowds of tourists) and re-presenting them in a series of mnemonic stereotypes (symbols of Paris, Rome, Italy, the Rhine), and that it involved both material and ‘rhetorical’ coercion. By the latter I mean a tendentious construction of unity on the order of that described, in another modernist literary borrowing of

the ‘tourist’ vocabulary, in Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts (1941), which presents a Mrs Swithin in the course of pursuing a ‘circular tour of the imagination’ as she looks at acountry field. The procedure is also referred to as ‘one-making’: Sheep, cows, grass, trees, ourselves—all are one. If discordant, producing harmony—if not to us, to a gigantic ear attached to a gigantic head. And thus—she was smiling benignly—the agony of the particular sheep, cow, or human being is necessary; and so—she was beaming seraphically . .. we reach the conclusion that all is harmony, could we hear it.*°

In order to arrive at the resounding C major heard by that huge listener, one must suppress many specific tones of living and suffering: the totality is a selective construction that elides what challenges its definitions. In the period of the picturesque studied in this book, most commentators would

have cast the ideas in Woolf’s passage in visual terms, speaking of the necessity of omitting certain intrusive details in order to make a balanced pictorial whole. It was in recognition of tourism’s distorting material and interpretive power that tourists sometimes shrank back from the assertions of deep cultural contact to which their anti-tourism drove them. Anti-tourists wanted to show a uniquely meaningful relationship with visited places, but they were wary of exerting any of the transformative force so visibly and clumsily wielded by tourists and the industry they fostered. What resulted was a tense ambivalence, charged with the contradictory tendencies within and among the meanings of ‘culture’. The vocabularies for denigrating tourists wound up working at cross-purposes: tourists were alternately superficial surface-skimmers and the blundering agents of profound (and lamentable) social and cultural change. Ultimately, I would argue, the ambivalent position of the tourist poses an ethical dilemma for the liberal or individualist moral calculus in which bourgeois modernity has schooled itself—a dilemma I will refer to as the problem of indirection,

or the ‘meanwhile’ problem. No tourist ‘intends’ the transformation or

violation of visited places; yet, in complicity with powerful social, cultural, and economic forces, each tourist helps to effect such transformation. While tourists pursue their anti-touristic ends, they fuel tourism’s industry and its coercive constructions of the foreign. The fact that 40 Between the Acts (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, n.d.), 175.

Introduction 13 nineteenth-century responses to tourism tended to focus upon the imputed intentions and personal characteristics of ‘the tourist’ as a creature of the

modern crowd indicates the lack of any critical perspective capable of doing justice to the highly attenuated form of responsibility tourists bore towards the places affected by their presence and the institutions that enabled it. And the history of anti-tourism provides numerous instances of suspicion that rhetorical attempts to exempt oneself from such responsibility are futile. This work will close by returning to and extending these reflections. Tourism is now being studied in a variety of disciplines, but my belief that it fundamentally engages and tests cultural representations has made me approach it mainly from the direction of literary analysis. This work journeys within the boundaries of that conceptual country staked out by a

romantic tradition of thought on the mediation of experience through linguistic and other forms of representation—a tradition beset by the consciousness of distance or alienation from what it regards as wholeness

and immediacy. Many of the documents I examine exhibit recurrent uneasiness about the gap between themselves, as texts, and the objects of

their own value-laden depictions. The ‘tourist’, denizen of a world of expectation-building discourse, exemplifies the condition of mediatedness, embodies this textual self-consciousness; in contrast, the foreign

objects and scenes tourists prize are often figured as either pictorial or

dramatic works of art. Sometimes the tourists I pursue attempt to formulate strategies making a virtue of their necessary disengagement: only from a distance, they occasionally argue, can one ‘take in’ the whole picture, appreciate the drama. But the urge for deep and demonstrable contact, given force by the anti-touristic urge to show oneself distinct from the nemeses from home, militates against such efforts. The result is often a vacillation between celebrations of the privileged position of the detached

spectator and longings to take part in the integrated panorama or play. In another respect, like ‘tourist’ and ‘traveller’, tourism and writing have

been reciprocally related. In this work I attend, on the one hand, to tourism’s resourceful appropriation of literary texts and reputations to enhance its excitement and give shape to its new cultural aspirations: as a case-study, I give special attention to the early Victorian period’s reconstruction of Lord Byron as a model for tourists to emulate—a process traceable in the new authoritative and exhaustive guidebooks published by John Murray. On the other hand, I stress the embeddedness of many literary works in the situations and imagery of tourism, referring not only to the many satires of ‘vulgar tourists’ abroad but also to works attempting a more sustained and incisive treatment of tourist/traveller dynamics in plots that stage the problems of attaining ‘culture’ in its several guises. My

14 Introduction first three chapters situate writings by such authors as Wordsworth, Byron, Samuel Rogers, Anna Jameson, Frances Trollope, Dickens, and Ruskin in the context of the noisy topical discourse on tourism recorded in contemporary newspapers, periodicals, advertisements, and guidebooks.

After an opening discussion that investigates the interactions among the . _ issues of tourism, anti-tourism, culture, and modernity in the illustrative . case of Wordsworth, Chapter 1 recounts the emergence of the infrastructure (transportation facilities) and the elements of a bureaucratic admin-

istration (travel agencies, modern guidebooks, and others): which supported tourism in its growth and which observers saw as a tightening network of modern institutions. Of special concern to me in this chapter

are the Thomas Cook Company and the Murray and Baedeker handbooks, as well as the often anxious responses they elicited. Chapter 2 then

charts the emergence of anti-tourism, discussing its forms and implications as a modern cultural practice. Chapter 3 puts these observations to work in advancing an interpretation of travel-writing about Europe from - 1825 to 1875. Chapters 4 and 5 continue this emphasis on the writing of

tourism and anti-tourism, focusing on single literary careers—those of

Henry James and E. M. Forster—that grew out of an immersion in | tourist/anti-tourist rhetoric and employed and tested it in essays and fictions often dealing with the pursuit of authentic cultural experience through European travel. In their attention to the conflict of interests between tourists and the indigenous populations whose lands they visit, to

the implication of the well-meaning individual in far-reaching sociocultural change, and to the contradictory desires of the tourist / anti-tour-

ist, James’s and Forster’s travel texts offer perhaps the richest dramatizations of the tortuous ethics of tourism. I should at this point make some necessary clarifications. First, it is important to recognize that while the contrasting meanings associated with the notions of ‘travel’ and ‘tourism’ remain fairly stable, there is no absolute consistency in the use of the terms themselves. ‘Traveller’ and ‘tourist’ have been used interchangeably, as well as in opposition; but wherever the value-laden idea associated with one of the terms is to be found, one will almost always find the idea that opposes it, whether or not ‘traveller’ and ‘tourist’ are the precise words used. (I should add that the limited number of synonyms sometimes obliges me, too, to use the terms

in their neutral sense, and I trust that the contexts for such uses will prevent them from becoming confusing.) Next, while I intend to suggest

_ how deeply rooted tourism was, and is, in both social structure and cultural lexicon, I cannot hope to treat all of the various concerns connected with such a broad-ranging cultural practice. For the most part I will

not be discussing what some anthropologists distinguish as ‘environ-

Introduction 15 mental’ or ‘recreational’ tourism—that is, those types of tourism focused mainly on natural settings or on the pursuit of idleness for its own sake. *! The development of seaside resorts on the English coast and on the Continent, for example, though certainly important in the history of leisure, does not figure in my work. My emphasis will be on confrontations with cultural artefacts and social arrangements, mainly in foreign settings— though as some of my discussions will indicate, foreign and domestic experiences are often measured against each other in the minds of those who travel. And the domain of the ‘foreign’ with which I am concerned is mainly restricted to ‘the Continent’ (for Britons) or ‘Europe’ (for Americans). Such a limitation provides me with a field that was seen as both foreign and familiar: foreign to the first-time visitor, yet none the less familiar from the general cultural discourse ofhome, which shaped visitors’ expectations and experiences. Some comments on the historical scope of this project are also appropriate. It will be evident that the era I trace represents what I consider to be the early history of anti-tourism as both a crucial feature of tourism and a particularly significant modern cultural gesture. This specification enables me to acknowledge the limitation that goes with such a focus, namely a prevailing concern with the habits of the educated middle classes. My interest in so focusing this project is to establish the main lines of the dominant version of culture-through-travel on offer in modern industrial societies—a segment of what Donald Horne calls, in his work on modern sightseeing

and museums, the modern ‘public culture’.** Horne’s term refers to a society’s ‘dominant version of reality’, a concept which he derives from Antonio Gramsci’s notion of hegemony. Fullerinvestigation into workingclass forms of travel—limited in time and cost to local or brief and highly structured foreign trips—would require another book. Another way of characterizing the period studied here is by reference to thelifespan ofthe picturesque, aconvention of much greater longevity than isoften recognized. My emphasis on this influential way of seeing draws and

comments upon the attention given by several other writers to particular visual modes associated with tourism or with the nineteenth century: Iam thinking of Dolf Sternberger’s concept of the ‘panoramic’, of Urry’s ‘tourist

gaze’, of Judith Adler’s work on ‘The Origins of Sightseeing’, of Christopher Mulvey’s periodization of nineteenth-century Anglo-American travel-writing as the era between Claude glass and Kodak.* With this 41 See ValeneL. Smith, ed., Hosts and Guests: The Anthropology of Tourism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977), 2-3. 42 Great Museum, 1-2, 256.

43 In addition to Urry, I refer to Dolf Sternberger, Panorama of the Nineteenth Century, trans. Joachim Neugroschel (New York: Urizen Books, 1977); Judith Adler, ‘The Origins of Sightseeing’, Annals of Tourism Research, 16 (1989), 7-29; Christopher Mulvey, Anglo-American Landscapes: A

16 Introduction way of describing the field covered here, I should mention another limitation. The picturesque manner of viewing has been, from its inception, a

practice culturally coded ‘male’—and so, for that matter, has the Continental tour and the whole process of acculturation it represents. My

work reflects and studies that coding. The picturesque retained the assumptions of gender given to it by its founders, who imagined a male art of seeing that could correct and complete what a feminized landscape held forth. ‘Nature’, wrote William Gilpin, ‘is always great in design; but un-

equal in composition. She is an admirable colourist; and can harmonize her tints with infinite variety, and inimitable beauty; but is seldom so

correct in composition, as to produce an harmonious whole.’ When, almost a century later, Anthony Trollope wrote that ‘A landscape should always be partly veiled and display only half its charms’, he was sustaining the ideas of male gaze and female landscape, in spite of his neuter pronoun.** Women did participate influentially in the picturesque convention, necessitating adjustments in the original patterns of representation and evaluation, but they were also treated according to that convention as a problem for male travellers (or travel professionals) to cope with; and men’s images of the female supplied an important resource for depicting the male acculturating encounter with foreign places.“

. In addition, the historical scope taken in this book roughly corresponds with an ‘inter-war’ period between two European conflicts, though it is the Napoleonic and the First World Wars I am using as markers here, rather

than the two world wars of the twentieth century. In this period we may detect a general continuity in what Judith Adler has called ‘the underlying narrative structures, or story lines, on which the meanings of travel perfor-

mances are founded’:** nineteenth-century travel and tourism were shaped by story-lines that differed in vital ways from those informing prior

or subsequent practices (though of course some larger continuities may still be traced). Contemporaries considered the Napoleonic Wars to have put an end to one form of leisure travel, the Grand Tour; and after the Great War, the development of national ministries or boards of tourism (beginning with Italy’s Ente Nazionale per le Industrie Turistiche, in 1919) Study of Nineteenth-Century Anglo-American Travel Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University

Press, 1983). On the Claude glass, see Ch. 1, Part I. On the emergence and characteristics of the picturesque convention in Britain, see Malcolm Andrews, The Search for the Picturesque: Landscape Aesthetics and Tourism in Britain, 1760-1800 (Stanford, Calif.; Stanford University Press, 1989), and Ann Bermingham, Landscape and Ideology: The English Rustic Tradition, 1740-1860 (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1986), esp. 57-85. 44 Gilpin, Observations on the River Wye and Several Parts of South Wales, & Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty; Made in the Summer of the Year 1770 (Richmond, Surrey: Richmond, 1973), 18; Trollope, North America, ed. Donald Smalley and Bradford Allen Booth (New York: Knopf, 1951), 144-5. See Mulvey, Anglo-American Landscapes, 262-3.

45 See the discussion in Ch. 2, Part IV. 46 Adjler, ‘Travel as Performed Art’, 1375.

Introduction 17 and the eventual predominance of social-scientific methods of studying tourism (the first statistical study appeared in 1933) ushered in a newera, in which the unsystematic observations made by novelists, poets, and travel-

writers took second place to the rational administration of knowledge about tourism and ‘the tourist’. ”’ 47 See F. W. Ogilvie, The Tourist Movement: An Economic Study (London: P. S. King, 1933), 55-6.

1 Tourist and Traveller in the Network of Nineteenth-Century

Travel :

FAREWELL, oh farewell to the Holiday Season!

(Thus murmured a Minstrel just back from the sea.) I’m glad to return unto rhyme and to reason; In London once more I’m delighted to be!

Nor did cook and his coupons a moment forget me; My passeport was visé the length of my flight; While Murray and Bradshaw did aid and abet me, And couTTs with the circular notes was all right. (Punch, 8 Sept. 1883)

: (Athenaeum, 1894) It has importance from another than the touristic point of view.

I. Tourist and Brother In asserting that ‘travel’ acquires its special value by virtue of its differential relationship with ‘tourism’, I intend to suggest that the two together make

up a binary opposition fundamental to and characteristic of modern culture. In the pages that follow I shall trace the emergence of the opposition—and in so doing trace the origins of tourism as a modern cultural practice—in light of some social, technological, and bureaucratic-admin-

istrative developments beginning in the late eighteenth century and extending through the nineteenth. The general historical context for my

investigations is that of industrialization, with its consequent shift of population towards the cities and towns, emergence of new urban middle classes, and appearance of a discourse responding to what was felt to be the violation of traditional rural communities. It was from these factors,

as a by-product of them, that modern tourism arose, represented as a broadly accessible form of leisure travel no longer based in the overt class

- and gender prerogatives of the Grand Tour. Historians have argued that the rapid growth and rising per capita income of the British towns of the North and the Midlands may account

Tourist and Traveller 19 for the fact that modern tourist excursions (making use of the new railways) originated in these regions rather than in the South: the first railways in Britain connected Stockton and Darlington, Manchester and Liverpool, not London and Brighton; and the urban populations of the North and Midlands made up a large part of British railway traffic from the first. Other circumstances helped to create the conditions for tourism’s

development abroad. By effectively closing the Continent to British travellers for twenty years, the Napoleonic Wars both frustrated and nourished a demand for foreign travel; after 1815 Britons seemed to explode across the Channel, heading abroad in greater numbers than ever before, and jokes and complaints about the ‘British invasion of Europe’

began to make regular appearances in the periodicals. The wars also fostered a new British clientele for tourism, creating ‘a large body of “fund-holders”’ who had helped to defray the national debt, ‘a rentier class whose wealth for the first time was not locked up in land’.! As much as did these economic, demographic, and political influences,

the intellectual currents of Romanticism played an important part in shaping the development of tourism, both in England and abroad. Tourism quickly became embroiled in the issue of how modernity itself might be characterized and confronted. An examination of a work written on the verge of the nineteenth century will show how the term ‘tourist’ had made its way into representations of social and cultural change before modern tourism had come into its own; it also provides a means of entry into the illuminatingly ambivalent responses of William Wordsworth to tourism. The work is Wordsworth’s Lakeland poem ‘The Brothers’ (1799), which pre-dated Samuel Pegge’s Anecdotes by perhaps a few months and which uses ‘tourist’ in a manner that suggests that its derogatory connotations were already established. Wordsworth begins his narrative poem with the dismayed cry uttered by the ‘homely Priest of Ennerdale’ when he sees a

stranger lingering over the graves in the village churchyard: “These Tourists, heaven preserve us!’ The clergyman immediately generalizes about the group to which he assumes his visitor belongs. The tourist, he avers, needs must live, A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,

: Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,

- See A, J. Burkart and S. Medlik, Tourisom: Past, Present, and Future (London: Heinemann, 1974), 5-5.

20 Tourist and Traveller Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.*

The priest measures the tourist’s activities against worthier forms of travel and labour. The tourist in motion (flitting irresponsibly like a butterfly) and the tourist at rest (sitting and scribbling in view of a fine vista) are both contrasted with the purposeful traveller of ‘twelve stout miles’ (perhaps

the farmer taking his produce to market); while whatever self-centred ‘profit’ the tourist may reap from his passing and looking pales in comparison to the gainful employment—and the traditional communal activity—of harvesting one’s neighbour’s corn. As tourists detachedly wander and watch, the inhabitants of toured regions continue their customs: at the beginning of the poem the vicar and his family are employed in the usual ‘winter’s work’ of ‘teasing matted wool’ and winding it on a spindle (Il.

20—I).

We should first appreciate what it means for Wordsworth’s vicar to begin the poem in this way. The quick characterization of the stranger

reveals an ingrained habit of reference, the result of some fifty-odd years of the Lake District’s popularity as a tourist attraction. The second half of the eighteenth century had witnessed a burgeoning interest in Wordsworth’s

native region, spurred by a variety of depictions and written accounts. William Bellers and Thomas Smith both published prints of the lake and mountain scenery they had seen on their travels in the area; two clergymen, John Dalton of Oxford and John Brown of Cambridge, circulated descriptions of the landscape in poetry and prose. The region offered rustic charms and an art-like natural beauty; many of the early celebrations were composed from a deliberately ‘Italian’ viewpoint, draughtsmen and writers basing their work on the paintings associated with the Italian scenery of the Grand Tour—especially those of Poussin, Claude Lorrain, and Salvator Rosa. Starting in the 1770s, William Gilpin systematized the approach to rural scenery with his several Observations Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty, instructing nature-lovers how, when, and in what order to view various sights for maximum aesthetic effect. Thomas West arranged his Guide to the Lakes of 1778 so that ‘the changes of scenes is [sic] from what is pleasing, to what is surprising, from the delicate and elegant touches of Claude to the noble scenes of Poussin, and from these to

the stupendous romantic ideas of Salvator Rosa’; the book’s subtitle indicated that it was Dedicated to the Lovers of Landscape Studies, and to All Who Have Visited, or Intend to Visit the Lakes in Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire. West also counselled the use of the landscape 2 Wordsworth, The Poems, ed. John O. Hayden, 2 vols. (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press,

- r98r), i. 402, ll. r~r0o. Subsequent references cited in the text by line numbers.

Tourist and Traveller 21 mirror, or ‘Claude glass’, a tinted portable mirror in which ‘the tourist could see the prospect condensed and framed, and suffused with the mellow glow of Claude’s visions of Elysium’. Satires aimed at the avid seekers of the picturesque, such as the Reverend James Plumptre’s The Lakers

(1797) and Combe and Rowlandson’s The Tour of Doctor Syntax in Search of the Picturesque (1809), helped to hold the stereotypical image of

the tourist still more steadily in the British public eye. Tourists were determined to make rural landscape and life take artistic form and seemed almost equally bent on exploiting their tours in countless volumes of travel

memoirs. Doctor Syntax utters the tourist’s evident motto: ‘I'll make a TouR—and then I'll write tr | ...T'll prose it here, Pll verse it there. | And picturesque it ev’ry where.” The assumptions of Wordsworth’s homely priest in “The Brothers’ were thus backed by years of experience with, and response to, the tourist of the Lakes: Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world’s business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields,

. Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead.

(ll. 104-12)

: But rather than simply casting this passing aspersion on the tourist's activities, “The Brothers’ extends the priest’s interpretation of his visitor in unexpected ways, making use of the figure of the tourist as a central image. Reading on, we learn that the unrecognized stranger is really a native of the village, Leonard Ewbank, who has returned after twelve years at sea

‘toresume | Thelifehehad lived there; both forthesake | Ofmany darling pleasures, andthelove | Whichtoan only brother hehasborne | In all his hardships’ (Il. 69~73). Having had no communication with his home for so

long, Leonard has come to fear—through fraternal intuition?—that his brother James may have died in his absence. He has made his way straight

to the village churchyard to check for recent tombstones, but the graves will not speak to him: he has forgotten that Ennerdale custom is to leave 3. The Tour of Doctor Syntax in Search of the Picturesque: A Poem (London: R. Ackerman, 1812), 5. Quoted in The Illustrated Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes, intro. Peter Bicknell (New York: Congdon & Weed, 1984), 12-15. Subsequent references cited in the text and identified as IWG. On Lake District tourism, see also: Malcolm Andrews, The Search for the Picturesque: Landscape Aesthetics and Tour-

ism in Britain, 1760-1800 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1989), chs. 3, 4, 7; Alan Liu, Wordsworth: The Sense of History (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1989), ch. 3.

22 Tourist and Traveller all graves unmarked. ‘We have no need of names and epitaphs’, the clergyman tells him; the local inhabitants maintain the continuity of local life by communal story-telling, ‘talk[ing] about the dead by our fire-sides’ (Il. 178-9). When the churchman comes down to speak with him, Leonard is standing perplexed by the side of a grave he does not remember having seen before. He withholds his true identity, hoping the priest will offer details of its occupant before he commits himself to identification with the place.

This strange decision to remain anonymous contributes to the poem’s exposition by making Leonard ask questions on behalf of the reader about local funerary arrangements, and it allows the priest to persist in his initial assumption about the young man, answering him as he would answer any other member of the touring confraternity—as yet another tourist interested in stimulating his tears or solitary smiles by gathering touching rustic

tales. The poem is thus able to sustain two opposing identities for Leonard, true and false. At the level of the priest’s mistaken assumption,

Leonard is a passing stranger whose detachment from the scenes he regards protects him from any painful involvement with local events, rendering them a matter of mere curiosity or emotive opportunity. Though readers know Leonard for a brother whose own history is bound up with the place to which he has returned and with the fate of the younger sibling, the poem keeps the false ‘touristic’ identity in play through the | priest’s narration. As he tells the sad story of the Ewbanks’ fall and of the brothers’ separation, the clergyman continually reminds his listener of the outsider’s status he ascribes to him, remarking at Leonard’s reactions to the tale: ‘If you weep, Sir, | To hear a stranger talking about strangers, | Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!’ (Il. 235-7). Throughout the poem, Wordsworth manipulates the tension between the false/true, tourist /brother alternatives to produce a series of poignant illuminations, with the homely priest’s words repeatedly taking on significances of which their speaker remains unaware. As we read, the impli-

cations of Leonard’s homecoming broaden, and the question of the stranger’s identity assumes larger cultural proportions. Returning from years at sea, incognito, to the land of his birth, Leonard quietly emerges as

a Wordsworthian avatar of Odysseus—a shepherd, not a king, in Wordsworth’s humble setting, but still a local hero and a central figure in the life of his community. ‘If there were one among us’, the vicar says, ‘who

had heard | That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, | ... The day would be a joyous festival’ (Il. 308-12). Like that of Homer’s wanderer, Leonard’s absence has invited havoc in his domain. Leonard has left no grieving queen and heir behind and no storm of suitors eager to usurp him, but he has left his younger brother James in a situation that is no less

Tourist and Traveller 23 perilous in his smaller scheme of things: going off to sea in hopes of earning

money to send home, he has left the sickly James to manage the family farm and to suffer the consequences of its failure. We learn that James, put

out of his property, had taken to living as a ward of the whole town, boarding happily enough with all its families in turn but inwardly tormented by longings for his brother. His incessant yearnings had fuelled troubled dreams until, at last, seeking Leonard in somnambulistic wanderings, James plunged off the cliff of Pillar Rock to his death. A reunion of the Ewbanks might have given Wordsworth’s poem a rustic version of Odysseus’ restoration in Ithaca, but James’s death has precluded this epic closure. Instead, the poem uses the story of the Ewbanks (and the story of how Leonard hears that story, much as Odysseus hears his own tale among the Phaiacians) to investigate the effects of social change upon an individual’s

relationship-to the culture in which he has been raised. In this respect Wordsworth is striking the same chord that sounds in the better-known ‘Michael’. Both poems work within a set of conventions established by such poets as Oliver Goldsmith, whose ‘The Deserted Village’ looks back

to an idealized village life in the days before the Enclosure Acts. Goldsmith’s ‘The Traveller’ contains lines that might have been in Leonard Ewbank’s mind as he set off to sea: Where’er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee, Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.‘

In ‘The Brothers’, the changes besetting the way of life of the whole rural community are recorded in the fates of Leonard and James Ewbank, ‘the last of all their race’ (1. 76). Before the disintegration of his family, Leonard

had belonged to his culture the way he had belonged to his brother— through the intimate bonds of blood and custom, tradition and nature. The priest tells his unknown listener that the young man’s ‘soul [was] knit

‘to this his native soil’ up to the time when he tore himself away from Ennerdale (1. 298)—and we might recall the poem’s early image of winding teased wool upon a spindle as an emblem for the ‘bound’ or ‘knit’ manner

of cultural belonging which Wordsworth’s vicar describes. The village itself features an array of economic and cultural processes that have been ‘naturalized’ by being grounded in the processes of their natural setting, while the surrounding nature seems correspondingly transformed by the continuity of co-operative human labour (such as reaping one’s neigh4 In The Collected Works of Oliver Goldsmith, ed. Arthur Friedman (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), iv. 249.

24 Tourist and Traveller bour’s corn) in its midst. The Ewbanks had ‘toiled and wrought’ in the same fields ‘from sire to son’ over the generations (1. 208); the two brothers

were the fruit of this unbroken heritage, and they are remembered by the priest in a variety of terms evoking the best of nature and of civilization combined—they are compared to young roe-bucks and ravens at play, while they are also recalled as adept writers and speakers (Il. 277-80).

Because of the traditional harmony between natural and cultural processes in Ennerdale, the brothers’ relationship seems even to have earned a

commemorative symbol in the surrounding hills, where, the vicar tells Leonard and us, ‘There were two springs which bubbled side by side, | As if they had been made that they might be | Companions for each other’ (Il.

141-3). Once the actual brotherly connection has been broken by Leonard’s departure and James’s death, the landscape changes shape in

order to record the rupture. Telling the priest that he had travelled through Ennerdale many years earlier, Leonard recalls that

: There was a foot-way all along the fields By the brook-side—’tis gone—and that dark cleft? To me it does not seem to wear the face

Which it had then! (Il. 133-6) In explaining the change, the storyteller once again insists on the listener’s

distance from all local concerns by assuming that Leonard’s interest is limited to the pursuit of the touristically quaint or the geologically picturesque. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend That does not play you false...

, the huge crag

Was rent with lightning—one [spring] hath disappeared; The other, left behind, is flowing still. For accidents and changes such as these, We want not a score of them;—a waterspout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast

For folks that wander up and down like you (Il. 138-49) Through the pathos of the younger brother’s death and the older’s loss, -Wordsworth’s poem moves towards an end that suggests a reversal of the

irony with which the work began. After establishing the true brotherly connection that remains unknown to the story-telling priest, Wordsworth twists the metaphorical opposition on which his original irony rests and demonstrates a deeper truth hidden in the vicar’s original mistaken interpretation of Leonard. Cut off from the roots of his own identity in the village, Leonard has become to all intents and purposes an outsider, a mere tourist, in the place of his birth, and he leaves Ennerdale by tacitly

Tourist and Traveller 25 accepting the role the vicar has cast for him, Invited by the latter to share

his homely supper, Leonard ‘thanked him with an earnest voice; | But added, that, the evening being calm, | He would pursue his journey’ (Il. 415-17). As he reflects on the clergyman’s tale, the village comes to seem ‘a place in which he could not bear to live’ (1. 426). The paradigm of Odysseus’ homecoming seems finally to give way to that of Cain’s wanderings. Though the brother subsequently reveals himself to the priest in a letter, he

returns to sea and to a life of alienation, belonging nowhere. The dialectical play of cultural ‘belonging’ and ‘homelessness’; the resonances of Homeric and biblical paradigms; the allegory about the decay of traditional communities: Wordsworth has led us to a level of meanings far deeper than we might have expected to encounter in connection with ‘the

typical tourist’, that familiar target of much modern satire. Two critical perspectives may illuminate aspects of the problematic relationship of tourist and modernity. First, ‘The Brothers’, like ‘Michael’, operates within the tradition of country-and-city poems in which, as Raymond Williams has shown, ‘the transition from a rural to an urban industrial society is seen as a kind of fall’; it partakes of what Williams identifies as ‘a very powerful myth of modern England’, a myth that forms ‘a main source for the structure of feeling’ that perpetually looks back ‘to an “organic” or “natural” society’.* The poems in this tradition do not often present urban

industrial society directly; rather, they tally the effects of that society on what they take to be an originally harmonious countryside. An attenuated but real connection thus obtains, in Wordsworth’s poem, between the familiar, banal Lakeland tourist and the larger transformations of British society. The tourist appears as a by-product of those transformations: in ‘The Brothers’ he stands in for the social forces that have begun to change, or ruin, the integral rural communities and to impel the rather heartless fashion (heartless in its taking poignant pleasure at local sufferings) of

picturesque tourism. Underlying the poem is the story of economic pressures being brought to bear on Ennerdale, and, as is usual in the poetry that laments the destruction of rural life, these pressures are treated

as an alien force exerted mysteriously from outside the hitherto selfsufficient community. The Ewbanks’ farm was ‘buffeted with bond, | Interest, and mortgages’ until it sank under the weight of debt (ll. 214-15). ‘The estate and house were sold’, tells the priest, ‘and all their sheep, | A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, | Had clothed the Ewbanks for

a thousand years’ (Il. 301-3). Caught within a network of capital that ranges throughout city and country alike, Ennerdale fell prey to financial exigencies having nothing to do with its own needs and interests. Once again it is important to regard this facet of ‘The Brothers’ in light of the 5 The Country and the City (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973), 96.

26 Tourist and Traveller literature describing the ‘fall’ into modern life: Goldsmith’s ‘Deserted Village’ had similarly decried the invasion of ‘Trade’s unfeeling train’,

which ‘Usurp[ed] the land and dispossess[ed] the swain’.® In Wordsworth’s treatment, the tourist becomes the visible representative of these alien economic forces, a synecdoche for the power with which they displace traditional cultures; the expected satire of his absurd behaviour takes on a sharper edge. In the homely priest’s explanations of local history, touristic interests are shown to be opposed to brotherly ones: for the tourist, the Ewbank saga makes a memorable tale of pleasing tristesse, suitable for ‘prosing’ in a notebook; for the brother, it signifies the end of

brotherhood and of belonging, the beginning of an era of exile and | Unheimlichkeit. It signifies, in other words, the beginning of modernity, characterized alternately as a time when formerly integral cultures fall within the reach of encroaching impersonal networks of influence, or as a time when one stops belonging to a culture and can only tour it. A second perspective on ‘The Brothers’ and its account of the Ewbanks’ broken filial-cultural bond may be found in Edward Said’s description of

modernity as marking ‘the transition from a failed idea or possibility of filiation to a kind of compensatory order that, whether it is a party, an institution, a culture, a set of beliefs, or even a world-vision, provides men and women with a new form of relationship ...’.” If we frame the problem this way, we need to ask what new form of relationship ‘The Brothers’ holds out as affiliative replacement for the vanished bliss of filiation. The answer, it seems to me, is twofold. On the one hand, the financial web that forces the Ewbanks off their land after so many generations constitutes a

modern affiliative system creating a relationship—albeit a disastrous one—between town and country, between centre and periphery, such that

the pressures built up in one region work their way around by indirect means to wield power in the other. In the bygone era Ennerdale had been an integral unit, its parts knit together in one fabric; in modernity it is one strand in a tightening web. This indirect and ‘impersonal’ or ‘artificial’

affiliation is the attenuated but real connection for which ‘the tourist’ stands, aloof from or aesthetically pleased by the sufferings Ennerdale’s

native sons endure.

The other form of affiliation offered by ‘The Brothers’ is extended only as a hope, an ideal, in the possible relationship of poet and audience. By recounting the Ewbanks’ tale, Wordsworth seeks to establish ties of sym-

pathy with duly appreciative readers, an aggregate not known to him personally but one which may, fortuitously, feel as deeply and sincerely 6 ‘The Deserted Village’, in The Collected Works of Oliver Goldsmith, iv. 289. ? ‘Introduction: Secular Criticism’, in The World, the Text, and the Critic (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), 19.

Tourist and Traveller 27 about the Ewbanks’ plight as does the auditor of the Ennerdale priest’s story. The prelapsarian cultural integrity of Ennerdale may—it is a tentative proposition—be commemorated and recapitulated in the meeting of

like minds over the Ewbank saga. In such goodly company will Wordsworth and his implied readers be recompensed for modernity. But Wordsworth’s position in telling the tale is immediately and lastingly

problematic. He may mistake his audience, for one thing, finding for readers only the kind of heartless aesthetes the priest initially assumed Leonard to be. Is the audience made up of sympathetic visitors or supercilious ‘tourists’? How can one distinguish? Both Wordsworth’s poem and the historical processes it describes are rife with ambiguity and irony: like other poems of its kind ‘The Brothers’ seems to mourn the passing of a way of life, but the threnody derives its poetic power from the irrevocable pastness of that organic society. Once there is no question of going back to the conditions nostalgically cele-

brated in the poem, the compact between poet and readers becomes morally troubling: for their community of feeling and their imaginative profit appear to depend on the very circumstance they decry, the fall of a traditional culture. Despite its criticisms of the social forces that are transforming Ennerdale from a viable working community into an aestheticized tourist attraction, and despite its evident distaste for the tourists of the new dispensation, the poem does not itself escape the lure of aestheticization, bearing an unmistakable likeness to standard and satirizable touristic views of rural settings. Like the priest, who for all he knows is simply offering a nugget of Ennerdale lore to a tourist, Wordsworth may only be serving a slice of quaint rusticity to the passing sightseers—those who have visited the Lakes or those who may yet do so—who are his readers. And, looking beyond the poem, there also seems no clear criteria behind the approvals and excoriations Wordsworth variously metes out to others’ descriptions of the picturesque and arcadian Lakes. For example, Wordsworth champions Thomas Gray’s account of Grasmere, which praised that ‘little unsuspected paradise’ for its decidedly unmodern air of ‘peace, rusticity, and happy poverty, in its neatest and most becoming attire’ (quoted in [WG 112); but today’s reader finds little to distinguish this version from the gush of stereotypical tourists who were the target of satire and censure. To isolate the poetical remembrances of a sympathetic genius from the prosings of ‘mere tourists’, observers such as Wordsworth needed to infer a ‘tourist consciousness’ against which valid sensibilities could be exalted. Not so much the content of their responses to the stimuli of travel, but the

imputed imagination informing those responses was to be the decisive factor in separating sheep from goats. Tourists came to be regarded as

28 Tourist and Traveller depending unquestioningly on the conventions that guided their tours; ‘the traveller’ possessed an originality and self-sufficiency in judgement. But tourists were also seen astheunwitting harbingers of unwelcomemoderniz-

ation, the insidious agents of transformative power. While they passed ‘superficially’ through districts they little knew nor long remembered, they none the less profoundly altered those districts by virtue of their numbers, their dissemination of cliché responses, and their patronage of new, obtrusive institutions—like hotels, railway lines, and ‘macadamized’ roads—

which irrevocably altered the landscape. In contrast, the traveller was to seek the double goal of attaining a distinctly meaningful and lasting contact

with the visited place that would none the less make no constitutive

changes, leave no imprint of force behind. ,

_ The record of Wordsworth’s other responses to travel and tourism evinces this double focus, and his own foreign journeys offer a mirror image of the inland concerns that found voice in poems such as ‘Michael’ and ‘The Brothers’. When in 1844 the poet waged an unsuccessful campaign in the

pages of the Morning Post to prevent the installation of a Kendal-toWindermere railway line (which was promoted as rendering the Lake District more accessible to humbler classes of tourists), he sought an analogy in his experience of Switzerland for the kind of destruction the railway would

bring. In the second of his two lengthy letters to the newspaper, Wordsworth recalled his first impressions of the Simplon Pass, printing, among several poems in the letter, the 1799 work ‘Brook and road’, which related the sentiments of a journey made ‘before the military roadhad taken the place of the old muleteer track with its primitive simplicities’ ([WG 196~7).° ‘Thirty years afterwards’, he writes to the editors of the Morning Post, ‘crossed the Alps by thesame Pass: and whathad become of the forms and powers to which I had been indebted for [the emotions recorded in the poem]?’ Thebond between nature and human production had been severed

by the imposition of Napoleon’s ‘triumph’ of engineering: though theroad and torrent continued torun parallel toeach other, their fellowship was put an end to. The stream had dwindled into comparative insignificance, so much had Artinterfered with and taken the lead of Nature; and although the utility of the new work, as facilitating the intercourse of great nations, was readily acquiesced in, and the workmanship, in some places, could not but excite admiration, it

_ was impossible to suppress regret for what had vanished for ever.

Road and torrent recall the twin springs of ‘The Brothers’: modernity has spliteach pairapart. Notonly hashumanconstruction overpowered nature intheSimplon Pass; thenewroad facilitates mindless tourism atthe expense 8 ‘Brook and road’ was included in Book VI of The Prelude (Il. 621-40); see The Prelude: A Parallel

Text, ed. J. C. Maxwell (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1971), 239-40.

Tourist and Traveller 29 of authentic travel. Now, ‘instead of travellers proceeding, with leisure to observe and feel’, one would find ‘pilgrims of fashion hurried along in their carriages, not a few of them perhaps discussing the merits of “the last new Novel”, or poring over their Guide-books, or fast asleep’ (IWG 197). Wordsworth promoted an ideal of sincere, independent travel against the degraded tourism that so often seemed to follow in its footsteps and to make it increasingly difficult to practise. The memory of his own youthful rambles in the Alps provided him with a positive image to contrast with the tourists’ ‘lolling in a post-chaise’ through regions they were conventionally required to see; Wordsworth had gone ‘plodding slowly along the road’ with his companion Robert Jones in careful search of the greater rewards of travelling.° The earnest traveller—true in heart and seeking

the authentic stimuli of nature and traditional communities—could be rewarded in ways never available to the intrusive tourist: he could find a ‘home’ anywhere. A passage in ‘Descriptive Sketches’, the poem commemorating the Swiss tour Wordsworth took with Jones in 1791, recalls the welcome the two men received in the remote Alpine towns into which they wandered. In terms of special significance for later works such as “The Brothers’, the poet dwells with pleasure on the memory of his not disrupting local routines, his being accepted as if a member of the family: Back from his sight no bashful children steal; He sits a brother at the cottage-meal; His humble looks no shy restraint impart; Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels the village dance’®

‘Descriptive Sketches’ characterizes Wordsworth and Jones as honorary brothers to the village folk living in their pristine authenticity. Into the measured dance of village life, the travellers introduce no clumsy-footed false step.

It was just such independent and unobtrusive travellers whom Wordsworth sought to address in his own Guide to the Lakes (published in several versions between 1810 and 1842)—a work that at first sight must

seem an anomalous document from an author otherwise so critical of tourists and the changes that accompanied them. The Guide would seem

to fit neatly into the series of Lake District vade-mecums of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, like them ‘supplying the Tourist with directions how to approach the several scenes [of the Lakes] in their best, or most convenient, order’ (IWG 34). Yet Wordsworth’s Guide represents an attempt to confront the influx of tourists with an alternative to ? Dedication to ‘Descriptive Sketches Taken During a Pedestrian Tour Among the Alps’, in Poems, i.

Mo Poems, i. 96, Il. 35-9.

30 Tourist and Traveller what its author considered the superficial and exploitive approach to the Lakes taken by many other works, which treated landscape and village as aesthetic spectacles offering tourists the chance to display their suitably passionate responses. We need to see the Guide, at least in initial intention, as ‘an anti-guidebook’.'' Peter Bicknell writes that the Guide ‘differed fundamentally from any of the previous literature of the Lakes’ since most of Wordsworth’s predecessors ‘had written after a somewhat cursory acquaintance with the district’, while ‘Wordsworth’s writing was based on a profound and intimate knowledge of the country and the people who

lived in it.’ Furthermore, ‘the ‘Lakers’ did not depart from well worn tracks, and viewed nature from prescribed stations,’ but ‘Wordsworth wandered freely over a countryside which he perceived, not as convention demanded he should, but as he actually saw it’ (IWG 15-16). This may overpraise Wordsworth’s originality, but it does characterize his effort: to produce a guidebook from the cultural ‘brother’s’ point of view. Recognizing that outsiders would come, Wordsworth hoped to force them out of the accepted frames of reference for their experience of the Lakes and tq

: show them the countryside stripped (relatively) free of cliché, calling upon them to answer with unfettered imaginations. In so doing, he sought readers who would live up to the calling of true travellers. ‘It was the Author’s principal wish’, he writes, ‘to furnish a Guide or Companion for the Minds of Persons of taste, and feeling for Landscape, who might be inclined to explore the District of the Lakes with that degree of attention to which its beauty may fairly lay claim’ (IWG 34). Wordsworth assumed that the Vales of Grasmere and Keswick could accommodate visitors of

this kind—visitors with the spirit of a Thomas Gray—without inviting desecration. ‘It was well for the undisturbed pleasure of [Gray]’, however, ‘that. he had no forebodings of the change which was soon to take place;

and it might have been hoped that [his] words ... would of themselves have preserved the ancient franchises of this and other kindred mountain retirements from trespass; or (shall I dare to say?) would have secured scenes so consecrated from profanation’ (IWG 112). Wordsworth’s several reactions to tourism’s threat to treasured precincts exhibit tendencies we can also observe in many nineteenth- and twentieth-century records. The motif of protecting sacred ground from the profanation of tourists would be much repeated, often carrying a strong message of class privilege. In his opposition to the Kendal and Windermere line, Wordsworth urged that ‘artisans and labourers, and the humbler classes of shopkeepers should not be tempted to visit particular spots which they had not been educated to appreciate’ (IWG 22). Of 11 Jack Simmons, intro., Murray’s Handbook for Travellers in Switzerland, 1838 (New York: Humanities Press, 1970), 9.

Tourist and Traveller 31 - course the railway came, and the Lake District became ever more firmly established as a tourist attraction—Wordsworth’s own fame adding greatly to its allure. The poet’s attempt to exert independent authority as an ‘anti-guide’ was eventually absorbed and adapted by the nineteenth century’s new institutions of tourism. When Hudson and Nicholson republished the Guide to the Lakes in 1842, incorporating it into a compre-

hensive Complete Guide of their own, the time for purely individual initiative in tourists’ (travellers’?) guidebooks was passing; the 1840s saw the new publications of Baedeker and Murray set a style of bureaucratic efficiency that would render individually produced guidebooks idiosyn-

cratic and obsolete. As these and the many other technological and bureaucratic aids to tourism evolved during the century, self-styled ‘travellers’ were left to look for their privileged experiences of authenticity

in the interstices of that ever-tightening network.

II. Getting Somewhere The case of Wordsworth presents two different ways of looking at the tourist: one can begin with a ‘subjective’ view, characterizing the motives and imaginative faculties (and mainly the limitations) of the stereotypical tourist; or One can situate the tourist in relation to what appear as ‘objective’ phenomena ‘external’ to the individual—social, economic, and tech-

nological developments—and infer a corresponding ‘touristic consciousness’. In this as in many another area of enquiry, each option will tend to yield over-simplifications. '* We should look neither for a psychological profile that predisposes individuals to act ‘touristically’ nor for a unilateral process by which ‘tourist consciousness’ is produced as an epiphenomenon of structures or changes in society. We ought to acknowledge the capacity of even the most apparently ‘typical’ tourists to strain any reductive psycho-social categories we may be tempted to formulate for them; in view of the concerted stereotyping that has been a staple of

both the tourist industry and its detractors, the untheorizable nature of individual tourists’ minds needs to be stressed. And yet attempts to understand modern tourism have customarily relied on generalizations about the motives of tourists. Paul Fussell confidently asserts that ‘what distinguishes the tourist [from the traveller] is [his or her] motives, few of which are ever openly revealed . . .’.’° For the tourist industry, it has seemed corporate good sense to typecast tourists so 12 See Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, trans. Richard Nice

(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1984) 482-4; also Rogers Brubaker, ‘Rethinking Classical Theory: The Sociological Vision of Pierre Bourdieu’, Theory and Society, 14 (1985), 750. 13 Abroad: British Literary Traveling between the Wars (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980), 42.

32 Tourist and Traveller as more efficiently and more profitably to administer their vacations for

them; for critics, it has seemed natural to ascribe unworthy aims and insensitivity to those who rely upon the methods and infrastructure of the

tourist industry. In the nineteenth century, long before any coherent tourist industry was in place, critics tended to hold the tangible evidence of

modernization in travel (improved roads, carriages, steamboats, railways) responsible for destroying the true character of travel. These

transport ‘improvements’ were charged not only with material offences—altering landscape and inviting obtrusive crowds—but with crimes against the imagination as well: they allegedly laid waste the selfimproving potential of valid travel. The negative model of the tourist’s attenuated but real connection to places and cultures (which we have seen described and resisted by Wordsworth) gained currency as the infrastructure and institutions of tourism grew in number, in sophistication, and in extent of interconnection. In Wordsworth, ‘the tourist’ was the creature of modernity’s creeping network of impersonal institutions; later observers

saw the tourist as the particular creature of a transport and tourist network. As such, tourists were assumed to display their origins in touristic

conditions of mind. Yet if we stop to consider the thought process by which Wordsworth associated, for example, an improved Simplon Pass road with the lazy and complacent mental habits of the ‘pilgrims of fashion’ he imagines riding over it in their carriages, we may wonder: how

are the material, technological changes wrought on the Simplon Pass related to the mental attitude of those who are now using that route? On what basis does Wordsworth assume he can see into the minds of those people in the carriages? Wordsworth’s assumption is but one instance of a very widespread way of thinking about the relationship between technology and the inner lives

of those who make use of it. Throughout the nineteenth century, the voices raised against ‘mere tourism’ were often those raised also against the spread of technology and machinery, and it took relatively little in the

way of accessible, technologically facilitated travel to elicit harsh responses. Like Wordsworth, Thomas Carlyle associated technological ‘advances’ with imaginative regression, lambasting the ‘touring expeditions

which are now blinder than ever, and done by steam, without even eyesight, not to say intelligence’.'* So passive did steam power seem to _ render the voyager that, as Wolfgang Schivelbusch writes, ‘the traveler

who sat inside [the steam-driven vehicle] ceased to be a traveler and became, as noted in a popular metaphor of the century, a mere parcel’. !5 14 Carlyle, The History of Friedrich I of Prussia, Called Frederick the Great (3rd edn., London: Chapman & Hall, 1859), ii. 182. 15 The Railway Journey: The Industrialization of Time and Space in the roth Century (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1986), 54.

Tourist and Traveller 33

‘The whole system of railroad travelling’, wrote John Ruskin, ‘is addressed to people who, being in a hurry, are therefore, for the time being, miserable. No one would travel in that manner who could help it .. Lhe railroad is in all its relations a matter of earnest business, to be got through as soon as possible. It transmutes a man from a traveller into a living parcel.’'® For parcels, the quickest route between Buxton and Bakewell (and vice versa) is all very well; but a true traveller should resist

self-parcelization. One should work (travail) for the pleasures of travel, not seek to gather them up at a mechanically aided pace and in a correspondingly mechanical fashion. Travellers could find a motto to adhere to in those lines of Wordsworth’s ‘Descriptive Sketches’ which counsel that

not recompensed the man shall roam, : Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some wide realm o’er vale and height Though seeking only holiday delight No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, Though every passing zephyr whispers joy; Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. '”

One result of this view was a rather prideful revelling—common in writers’ retrospective accounts—in the practical difficulties involved in independent travel. In an essay of 1889, John Murray III looked back to the researches he had made for his famous Handbooks; it is hard not to note the tone of. pleasure with which he recalls roughing it in Europe: I began my travels not only before a single railway had been begun, but while North Germany was yet ignorant of Macadam. The high road from Hamburg to Berlin, except the first 16 miles ... was a mere wheel track in the deep sand of Brandenburg. The postilion who drove the mis-called Schnell-post had to choose for himself a devious course amidst the multitude of ruts and big boulders of which

the sand was full, and he consumed two days and a night on the dreary journey.

... | was among the first to descend the Danube from Pesth to Orsova below Belgrade .. . In a timber barge I swept over the reefs and whirlpools in its bed, not yet fit for steamers to pass. '®

And so forth. Murray’s variety of self-celebration—ironic in a man who was one of the century’s great facilitators of tourism—is also to be found

among the growing number of Alpine enthusiasts in the nineteenth 16 The Seven Lamps of Architecture, in The Works of John Ruskin, ed. E. T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn (London: George Allen, 1903), viii. 159. 17 Poems, i. 96. 18 ‘The Origin and History of Murray’s Handbooks for Travellers’, Murray’s Magazine, 6 (Nov. 1889), 625~6. Emphasis on the difficulty of real travel persists; see Fussell, Abroad, 37—50.

34 Tourist and Traveller century. Arguments and ‘apologies’ for Swiss walking tours and mountaineering expeditions stressed that their practitioners were a breed apart

from the common run of tourists: the climbers of the Alpine Club (founded 1858) strove in search of ‘a region of eternal liberty ... where those who will never be slaves find themselves at home’.'? High in the mountains, the traveller, like Byron’s Manfred, could flee the ordinary herd. And because mountaineering necessitated the slowest pace and closest attention to detail, steam power’s speed seemed its very opposite

and enemy. By the 1890s, the Alpine enthusiast Leslie Stephen was bemoaning the ‘railways [that] creep to the foot of Monte Rosa and the

summit of the Wengern Alp and threaten even the summit of the Jungfrau’: they enabled the tourist to ‘[dispatch] Switzerland ... rapidly and thoughtlessly’ and helped make ‘the very name of the Alps, so musical

in the ears of those who enjoyed their mysterious charm, [suggest] little more than the hurry and jostling of an average sight-seeing trip’.*° The connection many writers drew between tourism and the new forms of transport impinges on the notion of what a ‘place’ is. We know that there are no metaphysical boundaries delineating one self-contained entity called, say, Geneva, from another one called Milan; the land between them is marked off by convention and history into many smaller indepen-

dent units, identified as towns, villages, farms, and so on. The road stretching between Geneva and Milan, or, totake Wordsworth’s example, the twenty-eight mile route between Brieg and Isella through the Simplon Pass, is every bit as real, as much of a ‘place’ as the towns it connects. But when we think of geography, particularly in the context of tourism, we tend to impose fixed limits on accustomed attractions and stops, and to

imagine the areas between them as somehow ‘empty’, as unworthy of attention (thus do the ‘pilgrims of fashion’ consider the Simplon Pass). In the dichotomy of tourist and traveller, true travellers know this assumption to be false. They travel every step of the way—that is why walking and climbing are particularly imbued with the travelling spirit—so that

everything they pass is fully ‘a place’ to them, for they are alive to the stimuli offered to their finely-tuned sensibilities in every location. Karl Baedeker liked to use the phrase ‘sich [etwas] erwandern’—‘to get [something] out of walking’—to describe the enriched sense of experience walk-

ing gave the traveller.*’ Such enrichment was what John Ruskin had in mind when, in Modern Painters, he prescribed the ten-to-twelve-mile walk down ‘a country road, with a cottage beside it, which we have not 19 ‘Mountaineering—The Alpine Club’, Blackwood’s Magazine, 86/528 (Oct. 1859), 457. 20 ‘A Substitute for the Alps’ (1894), in Men, Books, and Mountains: Essays by Leslie Stephen, ed. S. O. A. Ullman (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1956), 204. 41 Quoted in Herbert Warren Wind, ‘Profiles: The House of Baedeker’, New Yorker (22 Sept. 1975), 5374.

Tourist and Traveller 35 seen before’ as ‘as much as we need for refreshment [of the spirit]; if we hurry past it, and take two cottages at a time, it is already too much... All travelling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity.’ If we follow his advice, Ruskin says, every yard of the changeful ground becomes precious and piquant; and the con-

tinual increase of hope, and of surrounding beauty, affords one of the most exquisite enjoyments possible to the healthy mind; besides that real knowledge is acquired of whatever it is the object of travelling to learn, and a certain sublimity given to all places, so attained, by the true sense of the spaces of earth that separate them. A man who really loves travelling would as soon consent to pack a day of such happiness into an hour of railroad, as one who loved eating would agree...

to concentrate his dinner into a pill.”

Furthermore, the traveller, roaming free of imposed borders and limitations, can veer into those fertile fields for the imagination which lie to one side or the other of the tourist’s usual path, there to discover secret significances and unsuspected spurs to deep feeling—cultural treasures such as Wordsworth’s ‘violet by a mossy stone | Half hidden from the eye,’ or that ‘straggling heap of unhewn stones’ which is to be found only ‘If from the public way you turn your steps’ and which touches off the pathetic tale of ‘Michael’. In The Playground of Europe, his collection of articles about the Alps, Leslie Stephen adverted to just such rewards in arguing that ‘the

charm of Alpine life [was not] really so extinct’ as many believed that , tourism had made it. ‘There are innumerable valleys’, Stephen claimed, ‘which have not yet bowed the knee to Baal, in the shape of Mr. Cook and his tourists; and within a few hours of one of the most frequented routes in Europe there are retired valleys where Swiss peasants—I mention a fact— will refuse money in exchange for their hospitality .’*? Content to whisk by in carriage or train, taking well-marked routes from one accredited ‘place’ to the next and ignoring all the rest, ‘the tourist’ would never find such a counter-touristic welcome. Of course, there was no necessity to associate means of transport with mental laziness: it was surely possible that the passengers making use of the newer methods might simply be speeding towards some desired desti-

nation, where they would slow to a connoisseur’s craw! in savouring details. Even Ruskin acquiesced to riding (with his wife) by train from London to Folkestone, by steamer to Boulogne, and by train again from Boulogne to Abbeville in 1848, in order to reach his beloved Abbeville more swiftly; but such concessions to facility received no comment. Instead, Ruskin and others habitually associated speed, and its concomitant

Wedderburn (1904), v. 370—1. .

22 Modern Painters, iii, pt. 4 (‘(Of Many Things’), in The Works of John Ruskin, ed. Cook and 23 The Playground of Europe (new edn., London: Longmans, Green, 1894), 49.

36 Tourist and Traveller . lower cost, with superficiality. ‘The view through the window’—at first

the window of a rattling carriage, later that of the railway car—became a staple of critical observations on tourism. When in 1843 the Dublin Review wanted to fault the travel books of Dickens and Frances Trollope, it accused their authors of belonging ‘to one very common class of travellers;

of travellers who skim over the surface of the land, who see it out of carriage windows ...’.”4 Drawing upon Dolf Sternberger’s theories of the ‘panoramic’ mode of perception prevalent in the nineteenth century—that ‘tendency to see the discrete indiscriminately’"— Wolfgang Schivelbusch has argued that, for the passenger looking out, the railway’s velocity blurs all foreground objects, which means that there no longer is a foreground— exactly the range in which most of the experience of pre-industrial travel was located. The foreground enabled the traveler to relate to the landscape through which he was moving. He saw himself as part of the foreground, and that perception joined him to the landscape . .. Now velocity dissolved the foreground, and

the traveler lost that aspect.”

The detached perspective and the imprecise panoramic vision ascribed to passengers of the new means of transport became vital ingredients of the ‘touristic frame of mind’. So too did passengers’ boredom, augmented by the blurred landscape and assuaged less by looking out the window than by ignoring that passing panorama in favour of some diverting reading matter. (Pointing out that ‘the idea of reading while traveling on trains is as

old as the railroad itself,’ Schivelbusch recounts the development of station booksellers, lending libraries, and newspaper stalls from the late 1840s.7*) Wordsworth imagined his pilgrims of fashion crossing the

Simplon on the modern road more concerned with their novels and guidebooks than with what they were passing; Ruskin, in Praeterita, turned his attention to ‘the modern fashionable traveller’ who, thanks to steam, was then able to make the trip from London to Paris in a single day. About the moment in the forenoon when the modern fashionable traveller, intent

on Paris, Nice, and Monaco, and started by the morning mail from Charing Cross, has a little recovered himself from the qualms of his crossing, and the irritation of fighting for seats at Boulogne, and begins to look at his watch to see how near he is to the buffet of Amiens, he is apt to be baulked and worried by the train’s useless stop at one inconsiderable station, lettered ABBEVILLE. As the carriage gets in motion again, he may see, if he cares to lift his eyes for an instant from his newspaper, two square towers, with a curiously attached bit of traceried 24 ‘Superficial Travelling’, Dublin Review, 14 (Feb. 1843), 257. 25 See Dolf Sternberger, Panorama of the Nineteenth Century, trans. Joachim Neugroschel (New York: Urizen Books, 1977), 46; Schivelbusch, Railway Journey, 61, 63.

26 Railway Journey, 64-9.

: Tourist and Traveller 37 arch, dominant over the poplars and osiers of the marshy level he is traversing. Such a glimpse is probably all he will ever wish to get of them; and I scarcely know how far Ican make even the most sympathetic reader understand their power over

my own life.

Ruskin, scrupulous examiner of lesser-known spots, found in Abbeville

‘art (of its local kind), religion, and present human life ... in perfect harmony’;”’ but no railroad tourist would more than glance in passing. Whole regions might be in danger of losing their power over the imagination because steam removed the necessity for anyone to pay attention to them. In 1853 an anonymous writer in Blackwood’s commented that Switzerland was then being ‘visited (for its own sake) only by persons who are stinted for time—who cannot afford a tour, but merely “a run”, and who accordingly scamper off to the Alps ... the journey there being perform-

able, thanks to steam, in somewhere about thirty hours from London Bridge’.?* By the early 1850s, the prospect of reaching Switzerland had already been facilitated by steam; crossing it was still slow going, since the

railway was just beginning to make significant inroads there. But the Blackwood’s commentator looks forward to reflect that ‘if a railway were accomplished, people would dart through [Switzerland] in a day, as they do through monotonous Belgium on their way to the Rhine—caring to see no more of it than they can spy from the carriage windows’.””

It should be clear that for the rhetorical purposes involved in distinguishing tourists and travellers, negative value did not attach so much to any particular form of transport, but rather to whichever form seemed at that moment to threaten the older ways, which then retroactively assumed positive value. We can certainly find this kind of value at work in the many idealizations of the railroad (‘the romance of the great trains’) still current.

As railways became ever more firmly established, the habit of waxing nostalgic about the horse-drawn carriage (especially the private coach) came as naturally as Wordsworth’s fond memories of his foot-wanderings

in the years before Napoleon’s pass had opened the Simplon to the pilgrims of fashion. In Praeterita, Ruskin looked back wistfully to the family tours of the past, pitying those ‘poor modern slaves and simpletons who let themselves be dragged like cattle, or felled timber, through the countries they imagine themselves visiting’ and who had missed out on the superior pleasures of the carriage. Though comfortable, the Ruskin carriage, we are told, did not render its passengers passive or subject to impersonal 27 Praeterita: The Autobiography of John Ruskin (1889; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983),

et “Srate Life in the Alpine Regions’, Blackwood’s Magazine, 74/462. (Nov. 1853), 539. 29 Ibid. 539. Two years later, Richard Doyle depicted the protagonists of his The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones, and Robinson (London, 1855; New York: D. Appleton, 1860) in a cartoon captioned ‘How They Saw Belgium’, which shows the three men sound asleep in a train compartment.

38 Tourist and Traveller schedules. The combination of independence and leisurely pace made carriage-travel real travel. To all of its other ‘conditions of luxury and felicity’, writes Ruskin, ‘can the modern steam-puffed tourist conceive the added ruling and culminating one—that we were never in a hurry? coupled with the correlative power of always starting at the hour we chose, and that if we weren’t ready, the horses would wait?”° So far I have been describing some of the reactions to the nineteenth century’s new forms of transport mainly in terms of the assumptions critics made about the inner lives of the tourists who used them. But apart from any concern which the critics of the new transport systems may have felt for tourists’ souls, we must consider the concern such critics certainly felt over the threat posed by increasing access to hitherto exclusive precincts. Even those impressed by the new speed and affordability of travelling could be troubled by the thought of a new travelling clientele whose low and lazy manners would only be reinforced by the unchallenging ease of modern transport. And the uplifting experiences ‘true travellers’ expected to have would only be more difficult to achieve in settings to which better roads, spreading railway systems and steamer lines, and the businesslike management of itineraries were bringing scores of other visitors from their native shores. ‘The merits of the rail-

road and the steamboat have been prodigiously vaunted,’ wrote a Blackwood’s reviewer in August 1848, ‘and we have no desire to depreci-

ate the advantages of either. ... But they have afflicted our generation -_ with one desperate evil; they have covered Europe with Tourists .. .’.3! To their critics, the promoters of modern travel methods were engaged in a dangerously self-contradictory effort. In Wordsworth’s letters to the Morning Post protesting against the Kendal-and-Windermere line, the poet argued that he was contending ‘not against Railways but against the abuse of them’ (to argue against railways as such was a futile gesture by 1844): he attacked the proposed line because others already existed that could bring the tourist to within four miles of Ullswater and within eight or nine of Windermere. Why penetrate the Lake District with tracks and

is? ,

trains and stations, Wordsworth asked, when other routes would approach close enough for anyone truly interested in seeing the area as it What can, in truth, be more absurd than that either rich or poor should be spared the trouble of travelling by the high roads over so short a space, according to their respective means, if the unavoidable consequence must be a great disturbance of the retirement, and in many places a destruction of the beauty of the country, which the parties are come in search of? (IWG 192) 30 Praeterita, 95,99. 31 ‘Modern Tourism’, Blackwood’s Magazine, 64/394 (Aug. 1848), 185.

Tourist and Traveller 39 Wordsworth’s struggle failing, the line was built in 1847. Bradshaw’s first

railway and steamer timetable for the Lakes appeared a year later, out-

lining ‘round trips ... from Liverpool, Fleetwood, and Southport to Ambleside, by ship, coach, and train’ (IWG 186). For his pains, the aged

poet earned a ‘torrent of abuse’ from the local interests backing the railway plan (IWG 22).

The Wordsworthian sense of modernity as an expanding network gathering hitherto isolated and self-sufficient regions into its grasp found

apt expression, for many observers, in the spreading web of railway lines. An article in Blackwood’s of 1867 included observations on the changes that had overcome the southern German town of Rosenheim after it had been established as a ‘junction station’ for a number of Continental lines. A junction station, the author writes, is a far more formidable institution in the centre of Europe than it is in our island empire, because it is liable to greater pulsations of traffic from the wider area connected with it. Some rush of human beings backwards or forwards, at Paris, or Madrid, or St Petersburg, or Vienna, may at any time flood such a junction

... In the touring season even the normal traffic is a powerful strain on the capacities of the place.

Like Ennerdale in ‘The Brothers’, Rosenheim is a once-remote town now

susceptible to the ‘pulsations’ of an alien and impersonal system. The visitor finds that the town ‘had doubled in size since I last saw it three years ago’, losing much of its original character in the process. ‘From the

old picturesque village with colonnaded houses, every one of which looked at least two centuries old, it has become a sort of small city with suburban mansions scattered around it.’>? A more indignant awareness

of the changes wrought by technology and tourism is to be found in Matthew Arnold’s poem ‘Obermann Once More’ (1865), which remarks on the new appearance of Glion, the little Swiss village (famous from Rousseau’s and Byron’s visits there) which Arnold had first visited twenty years earlier: GLION?—Ah, twenty years, it cuts

All meaning from a name! White houses prank where once were huts. Glion, but not the same!

A potent charge of disdain lurks in that verb ‘prank’: Arnold resents the gaudy new houses, evidence of the prosperity Glion has earned through

tourism. To the poem, he adds a mournful footnote to the effect that ‘Glion now has hotels, pensions, and villas; but twenty years ago it was 32 ‘At the Alps Again’, Blackwood’s Magazine, 102./625 (Nov. 1867), 546.

40 Tourist and Traveller hardly more than the huts of Avant opposite to it .. .’.2? And:it was not only the remotest, smallest towns that might be transformed by the contact tourism and the railways gave them with the larger world outside. Frances Trollope wondered about the fate of Venice in her travel book A Visit to Italy (1842): How much of the oddly-mysterious charm, which somewhat beyond reason perhaps still hangs about this ‘ocean queen’, may disappear when the railroad that is about to link her to terra firma is completed; it may not be easy to prophesy ... but

~ I must confess that I think she owes much of her perfection as a picture to her : having remained so perfectly untouched by the hand of modern improvement. **

The line from Wordsworth to Trollope and Arnold is clear: the place that is endangered by ease of access is a sacred precinct in danger of violation; its vanishing or soon-to-vanish quality of being ‘untouched’ becomes a subject for elegiac travellers’ reveries. ‘The shrill whistle of the “express”’, says a character in Charles Lever’s novel The Dodd Family Abroad (1854), ‘is the death-note to all the romance of life.’** At Chillon in 1872, Henry

James watched as ‘the railway train whizzed by ... and the genius loci seemed to flee howling in the shriek of its signal’.** These valued ideas of

‘romance’ and ‘genius loci’ gained their fullest value only in reaction— indeed, in overreaction—to perceived peril. It bears remarking that the European transition to steam power was by

no means as suddenly uniform as the large amount of controversy it prompted might lead us to think. For the proponents of steam, the changes it promised could not occur fast enough. Murray’s handbook for France berated that country in 1844 for having ‘allowed herself to be outstripped

... not only by England, but also by Belgium, Prussia, and Austria, in these means [the railways] of extending national resources and civilisation, which the country more especially stands in need of’.2” Some refinements and extensions progressed steadily, some more haphazardly,

and while the new transport infrastructure was being consolidated, travellers continued to rely on older methods like the post coach, diligence (public stage-coach), or privately hired carriage and courier. It isa mistake to overstate the speed with which steam rendered these other forms obsolete; and in presenting the following information on the development of steamers and railways, I mean to keep in mind the fragmentary nature of much of that network until relatively late in the nineteenth century. What 33, Poetry and Criticism of Matthew Arnold, ed. A. Dwight Culler (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1961),

734 oY Visit to Italy (London: Richard Bentley, 1842), ii. 144-5. 35. The Dodd Family Abroad, in The Novels of Charles Lever (Boston: Little, Brown, 1894-5), iv. 22.

Subsequent references cited in the text and identified as NCL. 36 Henry James, Transatlantic Sketches (1875; Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1893), 66. 3? Handbook for Travellers in France (London: John Murray, 1844), pp. xxviii-xxix.

Tourist and Traveller 41 struck some observers as a dramatic shift was in fact a lengthy process of working out connections among separate systems that had sprung up here and there in Britain and on the Continent during the same general period. On water, the first cross-Channel passenger service had begun in 1816 (between Brighton and Le Havre), but steam-driven vessels began regular

operation between Dover and Calais in 1821, soon cutting the transit down to about three hours at a fare of 8 to 10 shillings; it has been estimated that by 1840 a hundred thousand people were crossing the Channel annually. The same year Cunard’s Britannia traversed the Atlantic in fourteen days, the company holding the royal commission to carry mail between England and North America; Dickens journeyed to America aboard this vessel in 1842. Rhine steamers began working the river in 1828; there were also steamers regularly operating on the Rhéne and Danube in the 1830s, and numerous river steamers in France as well—although Murray observed that ‘in almost all cases the engineers employed on these vessels are Englishmen, [for] the French do not seem to have aptitude for

this duty’.** Steamships ran to the established ports throughout the Mediterranean: Thackeray’s Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand

Cairo describes a trip made by steam on the Lady Mary Wood from Southampton to the Eastern Mediterranean in 1844, including a change on to a Nile steamer for the leg from Alexandria to Cairo. The trip from the English to the Egyptian port commonly took about two and a half weeks.

On land, railways made their first appearances (as more than experiments) in several European countries in the years between 1825 (England)

and 1844 (Switzerland), but development was unequal from country to country and from one line to another. Even in stable and unified nations such as England and France, there was at first no central authority to guarantee standard rail service throughout the country, so that firms staked out different regions with varying degrees of efficiency, and rail travel across large distances was apt to be very complicated. In 1842, when there were already over 1,300 miles of track in Britain, a Railway Clearing House was established tc cope with traffic that needed to move from one local system to another. It was not until 1875, when Thomas Cook negoti-

ated an agreement with French railway authorities, that passengers through France no longer had to stop and reclaim baggage at each point of

transfer between regional lines. In Europe there were other obstacles to the smooth interaction or unification of lines. Germany managed to circumvent most of the logistical problems arising from its political division in order to increase its track from four miles in 1835 to close to four thousand by 1850; Italy, the other divided nation and the ultimate goal of many Continental travellers, was 38 Tbid., p. xxx.

42 Tourist and Traveller much slower to progress. Murray’s handbook for Northern Italy of 1846

described the various Italian lines then operating or in the process of construction: one could ride between Pisa and Leghorn, between Naples and Castellammare, but Milan and Venice were not yet connected, nor were Turin and Genoa or Florence and Rome.” By 1860 Italy had built only 1,118 miles of track, most of it split by the Apennines into Ligurian or Tyrrhenian and Adriatic branches and further divided into small regional lines like the first Italian railway, the five-mile Naples-to-Portici route. Furthermore, co-ordination between steam transport on land and water _ took some time to develop. London-to-Paris travel until the late 1840s still usually required a combination of train, steamer, and diligence, with the last leg of the trip naturally taking a disproportionate amount of the time. | have already mentioned Murray’s dissatisfaction with the French progress in railway-building; Murray went on to enumerate eight alternative routes from London to Paris, taking between 2417 and 39 hours and costing from 58 to 76 shillings; all of them relied primarily on horsepower once inside

France. In 1848 Ruskin and his wife travelled the new Folkestone-toBoulogne route in their voyage from Denmark Hill to Abbeville. Once in France, they could ride the new railway that connected Boulogne with

Paris (there was still no train from Calais).4° The English South East Railway, which had purchased Folkestone Harbour in 1843 and had provided financial backing for the Boulogne and Amiens Railway, opened Folkestone to passenger trains on 1 January 1849, adding the final link in the London—Paris chain: because the ‘boat train’ arrangement meant that they did not need to change vehicles more than twice in the entire journey, passengers were now seen to enjoy an ease and speed—and a degree of passivity—beyond anything previously experienced. The combination could have disorienting effects, as the records of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

and Charles Dickens indicate.

Rossetti made a month-long tour of Paris and Belgium in the autumn of 1849 and assembled A Trip to Paris and Belgium, a poetic diary made up of various short verse forms, to register his sights and reflections. The loosely _ organized collection exhibits an uneasy fascination with rail travel’s fragmentation of perception, which Rossetti felt himself unable to master in verse, The poet watches brick walls whisk past the window ‘so at once | That for the suddenness [he] cannot know | Or what, or where begun, or where at end’. Poeticizing his journey as he made it, Rossetti attempted to capture the odd combination of movement and dormancy which railway

| passengers have been feeling ever since. He spoke of 39 Handbook for Travellers in Northern Italy (London: John Murray, 1846), p. xv. 40 See J. G. Links, The Ruskins in Normandy: A Tour in 1848 with Murray's Hand-book (London: John Murray, 1968), 12~14.

Tourist and Traveller 43 A heavy clamour that fills up the brain Like thought grown burdensome; and in the ears Speed that seems striving to o’ertake itself; And in the pulses torpid life, which shakes As water to a stir of wind beneath.

At one point, awakening after fitful sleep in the train compartment, Rossetti vented his frustration and spleen with this quintessential cry of the bored and tired modern passenger: Curse the big mounds of sand-weed! curse the miles Of barren chill,—the twentyfold relays! Curse every beastly Station on the road!*!

Charles Dickens’s essay ‘A Flight’ also describes a London-to-Paris tran-

sit, which Dickens undertook in much better humour about a year after Rossetti. Like Rossetti and others, Dickens was aware of his complete passivity: I have but to sit here thinking as idly as I please, and be whisked away. I am not accountable to anybody for the idleness of my thoughts in such an idle summer flight; my flight is provided for by the South-Eastern and is no business of mine. ... It does not require me to do so much as even to flap my wings; Something snorts for me, something shrieks for me, something proclaims to everything else

that it had better keep out of my way,—and away I go.

Like Rossetti’s, Dickens’s language reflects the speed of the train’s move-

ment and the confusion it brings on; Dickens plays with the problem of writing in the present tense when everything he sees is so quickly past: ‘Here we are—no, I mean there we were, for it has darted far into the rear—in Bermondsey where the tanners live . . .”. Across the Channel the

sensations, if not the objects, are the same: ‘Fields, windmills, low grounds, pollard-trees, windmills, fields, fortifications, Abbeville, soldiering and drumming. I wonder where England is, and when I was there last—about two years ago, I should say.’ And the end result for Dickens, with his sudden arrival at Paris after an eleven-hour journey, is a lingering ‘pleasant doubt of the reality of everything about me’, a doubt he

will not bother to probe but which he will permit to colour his idlygathered impressions of the city. ‘When can it have been that I left home?’

he asks himself; ‘When was it that I paid “through to Paris” at London Bridge and discharged myself of all responsibility, except the preservation of a voucher ruled into three divisions, of which the first was snipped off at 41 ‘A Trip to Paris and Belgium’, in The Essential Rossetti,ed. John Hollander (New York: The Ecco Press, 1985), 117, 128, 129. am indebted to James Swafford, ‘Steam, Speed, and Hans Memlinc: D. G. Rossetti’s “Trip to Paris and Belgium” as Rite of Passage’, read at Interdisciplinary Nineteenth-Century Studies’ Third Annual Colloquium, ‘Transport, Transition, and Rites of Passage’, Boston, Apr. 1988.

44 Tourist and Traveller Folkestone, the second aboard the boat, and the third taken at my jour-

ney’s end?’*? :

The criticism and resistance directed at modern transport were those of a vociferous minority, which more or less knew it was fighting a losing battle. The majority watched the installation of railways with optimistic

hopes ranging from the mild to the millennial. In Pictures from Italy (1846), Dickens was able to take only two short trips by rail, but he championed the exemplary efficiency of the Leghorn-to-Pisa line, making it the subject of special comment about the reactionary forces that were resisting further development: the railroad between Leghorn and Pisa ... is a good one, and [it] has recently begun to astonish Italy with a precedent of punctuality, order, plain dealing, and improvement—the most dangerous and heretical astonisher of all. There must have been a slight sensation, as of earthquake, surely, in the Vatican, when the

: first Italian railroad was thrown open. *? The founders of great tourist businesses, of course, relished the opportunities that steam power gave them, but they also seem to have enjoyed the railways and steamers for simpler reasons. Karl Baedeker, as great a

defender of the physical and moral benefits of walking tours as Wordsworth ever was, still loved the excitement of travelling by train: ‘A bell indicates the start and the locomotive begins to groan and the wheels revolve first slowly and then faster and faster, and then the train flies with its twenty-three to thirty coaches. What fun travelling is now!’** Other

positive responses were based on an appreciation for engineering triumphs. Murray’s handbook reported that travellers in 1846 could now

approach Venice directly by rail from Padua or Vicenza, the railroad having ‘superceded the passage from the mainland in a gondola’ which had been the subject of innumerable poetical ‘first views’ of the city. Murray speaks glowingly of the Austrians’ ‘great work’ in constructing the railway bridge that crossed the lagoon from St Giuliano to St Lucia, offering a detailed account of the materials and ingenuity that went into the bridge’s

construction.* The emphasis which was given, in attacks on the material advances in

transport, to the deleterious effects that the new forms would have on individual sensibility and on the cultural value and physical shape of the

districts through which tourists passed had implicit, and sometimes openly stated, political ramifications. Piers Brendon reminds us that ‘the

word “mob” stemmed from “mobile”, and British rulers had always 42 Dickens, Reprinted Pieces (London: J. M. Dent, n.d.), 113-14, 119, 121. 43 Charles Dickens, Pictures from Italy (New York: The Ecco Press, 1988), ror. 44 Quoted in Wind, ‘Profiles: The House of Baedeker’, 53. 45 Handbook for Travellers in Northern ltaly, 311, 315.

Tourist and Traveller 45 regarded lower-class mobility as a threat’.** Wellington worried that the railways would encourage ‘the lower orders to go uselessly wandering about the country’; Lord de Mowbray, in Disraeli’s Sybil, thought train

travel fostered a ‘dangerous tendency to equality’ (this in spite of the railways’ quick adoption of separate classes for passengers).*” Supporters of the new mobility would agree that steam, as George Rose put it (writing as ‘Arthur Sketchley’) was ‘a great leveller, not only of roads, but of social

rank’, but they would characteristically speak of it, as Dickens did, in reformist terms.** Thomas Cook, whose tourist empire was built upon the web of new technology (‘We always felt the difficulty’, he wrote, ‘of

attempting to conduct anything like large parties where there were no complete links of railway or steamboat communication’”’), saw his entrepreneurship and his ethical convictions in complete agreement, and regarded himself as offering his clients ‘an educational course—a system of

practical teaching of the highest value’.°° Though there might be ‘purse-proud younglings’ or ‘contemptuous old lad|[ies]’ disdainful of those lower in the social hierarchy and committed to the principle ‘that places of rare interest should be excluded from the gaze of the common people, and be kept only for the interest of the “select” of society’, Cook maintained that it is too late in this day of progress to talk such exclusive nonsense; God’s earth, with all its fulness and beauty, is for the people; and railways and steamboats are the results of the common light of science, and are for the people also. Those who wish to live for themselves only, and to have the exclusive enjoyment of earth’s

provisions, had better make a tour to Timbuctoo, or to any other uninviting regions, where the people will not think it worth their time and money to follow them. The best of men, and the noblest of minds, rejoice to see the people follow in their foretrod routes of pleasure ... *!

Proponents like Cook could point to an increasing number of regions actively seeking the economic benefits which his clients (and the railways

and steamers that carried them) could bring. Swiss authorities and hoteliers were particularly willing to co-operate—in marked contrast to the Scottish railway officials whose conservative business methods had stymied Cook’s efforts. Within a year of his first Swiss tours, Cook was proclaiming that the kind of mutually profitable agreements ‘which took teens of years in Scotland to achieve’ had been 46 Thomas Cook: 150 Years of Popular Tourism (London: Secker & Warburg, 1992), 15. 47 Quoted in ibid. 15.

48 Out for a Holiday with Cook’s Excursion through Switzerland and Italy (London: George Routledge, 1870), ro. 49 Cook’s Excursionistand International Tourist Advertiser(6 June 1863), 4. Thomas Cook Archive,

London. Subsequent citations will refer to this variously-titled publication as Cook’s Excursionist.

50 tbid. (18 Sept. 1865), 4. 51 Ibid. (6 June 1864), 5-6.

46 Tourist and Traveller acquired at a single bound in Switzerland, where ‘Cook’s Tours’ already rank among the Institutions of the Confederation of mountains, valleys, lakes, rivers, and travelling arrangements. Betwixt tourists, hotel proprietors, and officials of every grade, there seems to have been suddenly developed a feeling of mutual sympathy and friendly interest, the binding links of which are enclosed within the folds of the tourist ticket case.

Flushed with his Swiss accomplishments, Cook added the hope that ‘if the

Italian Companies and Administrations will give us free and confiding facilities, we will soon give another practical illustration of “Travelling Made Easy,” even amongst strange people, and in strange countries’. © Critics of modern transport and its effects could thus find themselves arguing, as many vanguard intellectuals have done, against the manifest will of those in whose name they claimed to speak: the inhabitants of places once outside the reach of the modern tourist’s network. Such critics

were liable to the ‘torrent of abuse’ that befell Wordsworth when he opposed the coming of the railway (and its attendant benefits and drawbacks) to the Lakes. (Harriet Martineau, another resident of the Lake District, strongly supported the railway plan because of the revenue it promised to an impoverished region; her Complete Guide to the Lakes [1855] was intended to attract more paying visitors.)

Detractors agreed with supporters in principle on one result of the advent of steam: it put a strange new kind of force behind the tourist, it empowered the tourist with greater freedom of movement in less time and at a lower cost; but tourists did not control the great power they were empowered by. In the debates that have continued since the early nineteenth century, the arguments about facilitated travel have usually mirrored each other in addressing two central concerns: the psychological

(and indirectly social and political) effects of this activity for the tourists themselves; and the economic, social, and cultural effects on the places tourists visit. Both sides of the argument rest on ideals of personal acculturation and socio-cultural integrity. From the start, the question of the new technology tended to generate extreme positions. On the one hand, it was said, technology would enable the common tourist to receive a due

_ share of experience of the world’s natural and cultural treasures, thus contributing to the spread of the greatest good for all; on the other, speed

and lower cost would foster the bad mental habits of the ‘pilgrims of fashion’ who could not sufficiently appreciate what they went to see, and whose presence ruined what they saw for those others who could appreciate it. Tourist destinations would either prosper unproblematically from the introduction of improved roads, railways, and steamers that brought tourists to them, or they would become incurably corrupted. The truth lay 52 Thid. (2 Aug. 1864), 1.

Tourist and Traveller 47 between, in a complex middle ground. The greater freedom to travel, offered to a greater number, was real, but it was gained only by reconstructing ‘freedom’ within an infrastructural and cultural network that limited the actual field of choices. By the same token, the benefits of tourism to its favoured places were also real ones; but they were frequently to be had only at the cost of substantial changes in culture and society—

changes spurred and symbolized by steam power and the tourists who rode it.

III. Enabling Institutions If the years 1820-50 saw the expansion and consolidation of the new means of transport, they also saw the establishment of numerous institutions either indirectly enabling tourism or designed expressly to facilitate

it. As an interlocking system of these institutions came together, the tourist became ever more firmly identified as their creature, as the product

and client of commercial structures that administered leisure travel according to the exigencies of business and bureaucracy. The privileged notion of ‘the traveller’ was concurrently redefined in opposition to these

new tourist-serving institutions, and it became an expected feature of much travel-writing for authors to set themselves apart from such structures by refuting their assertions of authority, by self-consciously demonstrating independence from them.* As was true of the polemics about

steam power in transport, the reactions to these institutions tended to outstrip actual development. That is, the proponents and critics of Cook’s

tours, of the Murray and Baedeker handbooks, and of other new presences in the tourist’s world often characterized their effects in sweeping terms of cultural gain or loss even when the businesses had barely begun to exert authority over travel experience.** The new tourist businesses ap-

peared on a scene already prepared for them by the cultural anxieties of tourist-watchers like Wordsworth and his descendants. And yet the new firms grew at a strange angle to the evolving tourist/ traveller dichotomy. A central irony in the histories of the Baedeker and Murray handbooks and of the Thomas Cook company is that all three began with nearly heroic efforts of individual initiative and discovery, undertaken by men who saw themselves as helping to make travel both more accessible amd more independent; but the way to achieve this goal was ultimately to put those efforts and that desire to work in an increas53 For discussion, see Ch. 3. 54 Of the three companies | focus on in this section, only the firm of John Murray was established before it entered the tourist business; it was the well-known publishing house associated with the works of Scott and Byron and with the Quarterly Review. The Murray tourist handbooks were the creation of

the third John Murray (1808-92).

48 Tourist and Traveller ingly organized, bureaucratic framework. More than did their:numerous competitors, Baedeker, Murray, and Cook came to embody the power of rational administration over the many disparate elements that come into play in tourism—railways, custom houses, inns and hotels, currency exchange regulations, and so forth, not to mention the diversity of interests and temperaments among the clientele they served. But this was rational administration with a human face: the authority of these companies was sustained rather than threatened by the fact that each projected a personal image—those of the identifiable Mr Baedeker, Mr Murray, and Mr Cook, who stood behind the firms’ activities. Murray, Baedeker, and Cook ap-

peared to be the personal advocates of individual tourists, standing between them and the intimidating array of details that needed to be co-ordinated for a successful tour. Unlike the privileged travellers of a bygone age, modern tourists were in neither the position nor the humour to squander their resources; they needed the guidance, the advice, the solicitude offered them by the new firms. Cook helped them through the morass of transport, accommodation, and currency exchange; Murray and Baedeker appeared to put everything the tourists needed to know for the efficient fulfilment of their itineraries between the covers of their handbooks. This image of a benevolent guiding personality at the heart of the corporate endeavours—at first based in fact, later consciously cultivated as part of the companies’ promotional efforts—would remain before the public even if the firms developed elaborate corporate structures and pro-

cedures. The result was a formidable compound offering the cachet of both personal ‘charisma’ and institutional efficiency. The Art of Management Thinking back, in Praeterita, on an Italian tour of 1846, John Ruskin rather guiltily recalled a brief exchange with his father on a particular ‘sunny afternoon at Pisa’. ‘Just as we were driving past my pet La Spina chapel,’ Ruskin wrote, ‘my father, waking out of a reverie, asked me suddenly, “John, what shall I give the coachman?” Whereupon I, instead of telling him what he asked me ... took upon me with impatience to reprove, and lament over, my father’s hardness of heart, in thinking at that moment of sublunary affairs.°5 The anecdote, showing Ruskin’s resent-

" ment at the intrusion of the mundane details of the tour into one of its prized moments of aesthetic splendour, can serve us as an entry into a discussion of Thomas Cook. Ruskin regretted his lapse of filial piety, and he seems also to have acknowledged that during a tour, someone at some

time or other needs to be thinking of such sublunary affairs as tipping, procuring tickets, changing money, and so forth, in order to make the real 55 Praeterita, 388.

Tourist and Traveller 49 purpose ofthetour—the achieving of those prized moments—possible. For thousands of tourists in the years following Ruskin’s trip with his father, that person was Thomas Cook or his son, John Mason Cook. ‘How many Napoleons do youthinkI shall spendin a month, Mr Cook?’ one might ask; or ‘Ts this suit of clothes good enough for Florence, Mr Cook?’ A Punch cartoon of the 1890s depicted a woman besieging a ticket clerk with the inquiries Could you inform me if the 1.55 train from Calais to Basle stops long enough for refreshments anywhere, and when they examine the luggage, and can I leave my handbag in the carriage, and whether there is an English service at Yodeldorf, andis it held in the hotel, and Evangelical or High Church, and are the sittings free, and what Hymn Book they use?*®

In many aspects of his work, Cook was neither without precedent nor without competition; but Thomas Cook, not Henry Gaze or H. R. Marcus or Florian & Company, has been the pre-eminent name for tourist services

since the mid-nineteenth century. |

In this survey of Cook’s career and reputation, I shall stress two themes that recur in the record of Cook’s practice and ideology. First is another version of that motif of the network I have been tracing: the evolution of a

| co-ordinated, interlocking system of institutions and conventions extending out into the wide world to enable and shape tourist experience. This theme will raise two related issues which I will address here and later in

this book: the question of how individual freedom and originality is to be reconciled with the impersonal and standardizing web that contains it; and the special place of women in modern tourism. The second large theme is that of the progressivist ideals Thomas Cook repeatedly voiced in characterizing his efforts, ideals aimed at a ‘levelling-upwards’ of the social classes

into a condition of national (ultimately universal) cultural brotherhood. From the start, Cook’s mercurial efforts in arranging and conducting holiday tours were informed by this broad vision of social and spiritual reform.

A Nonconformist and dedicated Temperance advocate, Cook saw his work as opening up unprecedented opportunities for ordinary people culturally to enrich and morally to uplift themselves through excursions. In 1860, writingon The Physical, Moral, and Social Aspects of Excursionsand

Tours, he laid out a wide prospect of the benefits he had seen in nearly twenty years asatour operator. ‘Itis delightful to see, as wetravel on,’ Cook exulted, the breaking down of partition walls of prejudice, the subduing of evil passions and unhappy tempers, the expansion of the intellect, the grasping for information, the

desire for books and the eagerness of their perusal, the benevolent sympathies 56 For this and the previous quotations, see Brendon, Thomas Cook, 83, 97-8.

50 Tourist and Traveller excited by a more extended knowledge of the circumstances and sufferings of fellow-creatures, the improvement in health and prospects, the endurance of fatigue and perseverance under difficulties ... [as well as] numerous other inde_ scribable influences of a happy and beneficial nature.°’

Cook’s enthusiastic expectations as well as his business were fuelled by steam power—it is impossible to imagine Thomas Cook before the railways—and his ideas on the social benefits of facilitated travel harmonized with those of the great Whig theorists and historians (though the Noncon-

formist Cook went further in evangelism). The aspirations of Arnold’s | Culture and Anarchy are not far removed from Cook’s; Macaulay would claim that ‘every improvement in the means of locomotion ... tends to remove national and provincial antipathies’; Henry Thomas Buckle would argue that the peace between France and England, ‘the two most civilised nations of the earth’, was strengthened with ‘every new railroad which is laid down, and every fresh steamer which crosses the Channel’. In a passage that brings together the themes of interconnection and social levelling, Cook would write that railway travelling is travelling for the Million; the humble may travel, the rich may , travel. Taste and Genius may look out of third-class windows, meekly rebuking Vice and Ignorance, directly opposite them . . . Railway time is London time, and London time is the sun’s time, and the sun’s time is common time, and Railway

time all must keep ... °?

This passage’s progression from the language of open access (‘for the Million’) to that of an institutionalized standard to be obeyed (‘all must keep’) admirably illustrates the dilemma of freedom and networkconfront-

ing the Victorian tourist entrepreneur. Greater freedom of opportunity (through lower prices) seems to imply standardization and the subordination of individual prerogative to the discipline of a central authority. We should also note that though Cook’s cultural egalitarianism enables his appeal to the image of passengers of taste and genius riding in a third-class compartment, Cook did not generally arrange third-class transport for his

tours; he did, however, offer first- and second-class rates. Cook’s first foray into the excursion business, in 1841, involved both his social ideals and his interest in the new technology: he escorted 570 people

from Leicester to a Temperance rally at Loughborough and back on a specially chartered train, at a price of one shilling per person. In later years, the tourist impresario would recall how he had been struck by his 5? Quoted in John Pudney, The Thomas Cook Story (London: Michael Joseph, 1953), 74.

. 58 Quoted in John Pemble, The Mediterranean Passion: Victorians and Edwardians in the South (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 259. Cook’s common ground with Macaulay and Buckle is particularly apparent in ‘Why Should the English Go To Paris?’, Cook’s Excursionist (7 May 1863), 1~2.

59 Cook’s Excursionist (July 1854); quoted in Brendon, Thomas Cook, 16,

Tourist and Traveller 51 inspiration, like a modern Saul, as he walked the fifteen miles from Harborough to Leicester for a meeting of Temperance delegates on 9 June 1841. ‘About midway between Harborough and Leicester—my mind’s eye has often reverted to the spot—a thought flashed through my brain—what a glorious thing it would be if the newly-developed powers of railways and locomotion could be made subservient to the promotion of temperance.’ Cook approached his colleagues and John Fox Bell, resident secretary of the new (founded in 1840) Midland Counties Railway, with his plan for the Loughborough excursion and was met with enthusiasm. Though not the first to arrange group railway trips at specially reduced fares, Cook personally undertook an unprecedented degree of responsibility for con-

ducting the excursionists and for arranging every aspect of the day’s events, from transport to food and entertainment. Though for those in attendance the outing probably held more worldly pleasures than Cook had in mind, the organizer’s indefatigable energies impressed one and all. A passenger wrote, in terms that would be repeated of many later Cook’s tours, ‘Mr. Cook... was a great man to-day. Crowds obeyed his instruc-

tions implicitly and certainly regarded him as an infallible authority.” From the time of the Loughborough Temperance trip until 1845 Cook arranged several similar ‘amateur’ excursions founded on the temperance goal of providing workers with an alternative form of leisure to that of drink. Eventually, though, he would turn his attention to holiday travel as his means of livelihood, realizing that he could exploit the gaps between lines of the spreading railways. Since the process of travelling among the lines was often bewilderingly complicated, a niche had appeared ‘for a specialist travel organizer who could assemble the traveller’s more complex journeys on his behalf, issuing tickets to cover the whole journey as an agent for the transport companies’. * While guaranteeing smooth connec-

tions and lower fares for his customers, Cook would also work to maximize the cost-efficiency of the railways he patronized, persuading company directors to let him fill their trains at specially reduced fares rather than risk leaving them half-empty or worse at regular prices. What is more, Cook helped to form links between rail and steamer services, and between these and the hotels and inns that would receive his tourists upon arrival. In the summer of 1845 he put together an excursion from Leicester,

Nottingham, and Derby to Liverpool and back at fourteen shillings for first- and ten for second-class passengers; this trip necessitated corresponding arrangements among four rail lines and offered a supplementary connection by steamer to Caernarvon and a further opportunity for those who wished to climb Mount Snowdon. Cook had personally scouted the 69 Quoted in Pudney, Thomas Cook Story, 53. 61 Quoted in ibid. 58. 62 Burkart and Medlik, Tourism, x4.

52 Tourist and Traveller destinations for the voyage (as he would for his later tours), compiling a customers’ handbook which was ‘noteworthy for the minuteness of [its] information’, as a sample will indicate: The Train will leave Leicester at Five o’clock in the morning of Monday, August the 4th, reaching Syston at Ten minutes past five; Sileby at Twenty minutes past Five; Loughborough, Half-past Five; Kegworth, a Quarter before Six; arriving at Derby at Ten Minutes past Six. A train will leave Nottingham at Half-Past Five, uniting with the Leicester train at Derby. Parties will have to be ‘wide-awake’ at an early hour, or they will be disappointed. Promptitude on the part of the Railway Company calls for the same from passengers. ©

An enormous success, the personally-guided trip drew 350 customers and was repeated on demand two weeks later. It also gave its planner his next inspiration: ‘From the heights of Snowdon,’ he wrote, ‘my thoughts took

flight to Ben Lomond, and I determined to try to get to Scotland.” A Scottish tour called for all Cook’s ingenuity and demanded all his resilience. There were in 1846 no direct rail connections from England to Scotland, so, after several trying negotiations and two exploratory trips, Cook settled on a Western route that proceeded by rail from Leicester to Fleetwood, and from there by steamer to Ardrossan, where another train

/ was arranged for Glasgow and Edinburgh. Again, an accompanying handbook was printed, containing ‘such information [as] ... will be found useful for those who avail themselves of a privilege which no previous generation ever had offered to them—an opportunity of riding from

Leicester to Glasgow and back, a distance of about 800 miles, for a guinea!’® But in the event, the excursion was Cook’s first fiasco—perhaps

his last, at least of such magnitude. Passengers were not permitted to disembark at stations en route to use the lavatory (the train had none); a prearranged tea was not provided (there was no food on board); the steamer did not have enough cabins, so many travellers slept on deck—in the rain. Hope was revived, however, when both of Scotland’s major cities welcomed Cook’s party—another 350, an unprecedented group arrival of

tourists—with gala festivities; in Edinburgh the excursion was commemorated in a presentation volume called The Strangers’ Visit to Edinburgh. From there, the tour continued on to Stirling, Loch Lomond, and

Ayrshire. Later groups would be able to ride by train straight through from Manchester to Edinburgh, via the Newcastle—Berwick line; their routes would also extend to follow the Highland holiday route of the Queen and Prince Albert—whose initial visit in 1842 had stirred great interest in Scottish tours. Scotland provided the first staple of Cook’s 63 Quoted in W. Fraser Rae, The Business of Travel: A Fifty Years’ Record of Progress (London: Thomas Cook, 1891), 29.

: 64 Quoted in Pudney, Thomas Cook Story, 78. 65 Ibid. 79.

Tourist and Traveller 53 business, and the tours were quick to evoke wonder at Cook’s ability to

command the multiplicity of factors in travel, to bring them under bureaucratic control as part of a structured system. As early as 1853 Cham-

bers’s Edinburgh Journal was musing on the midland excursions to the north, under Mr. Cook’s management, [which] are really very curious, and deserving of attention; for an attempt is made to gather up tourists from a number of tributary streams, then carry them in a body along a trunk-line of railway, and then distribute them over the north, to catch pleasure wherever it is to be found. Then, the pleasure being over, the wanderers are picked up from far and wide, they are brought back along the trunk-line of railway, and

they are distributed over the whole of the south, almost to their own doors...

That he was not deterred by the difficulties of the first Scottish trip— particularly since he almost immediately afterwards went bankrupt— must be taken as a sign of Cook’s determination. Within a year he was back in business, leading groups to Scotland, the Lakes, the Isle of Man, and Northern Ireland. By mid-century , Cook’s imagination had turned to further fields, in part because some of the railway firms in England and Scotland were attempting to shoulder him out of cheap-fare ventures. ‘Though circumscribed in plans of local operation,’ he would recall, ‘I had

become so thoroughly imbued with the Tourist spirit, that I began to contemplate Foreign Trips, including the Continent of Europe, the United States, and the Eastern Lands of the Bible.’*’ One more great challenge remained at home, however—one that would occupy all his energies and gain him national attention. In the midst of his plans for an American trip, Cook was offered the job of running special excursion trains of the Midland Counties Railway to the Great Exhibition at the Crystal Palace, and

he seized upon the opportunity with characteristic zeal. In the months prior to the Exhibition, he showed as never before his talents as an excursion-inciter, riding the railways almost constantly on his quest to bring the message of the Exhibition to provincial towns and to form ‘Exhibition Clubs’—group savings plans, in effect—for workers eager to attend. Cook joined with others in the effort to persuade employers to provide workers

with time off to attend the exhibition; he printed a small newspaper, Cook’s Exhibition Herald and Excursion Advertiser, devoting its few issues to an intensive campaign to stimulate interest in the Hyde Park spectacle (the paper later evolved into Cook’s Excursionist, his primary means of reaching customers). Factory owners and managers owed it to their employees, Cook reasoned, to give them the chance to witness the marvellous productions of the industries in which they were engaged; 66 Quoted in Cook’s Excursionist (June 1854), 3. 67 Quoted in Pudney, Thomas Cook Story, 95.

54 Tourist and Traveller those owners and managers could also expect to benefit from the renewed devotion with which employees would return to their labours. The first issue contained such items as a piece called ‘Why Should Working Men

Visit the Exhibition?’, which reasoned that they should go ‘not as to a show or place of amusement, but a great School of Science, of Art, of - Industry, of Peace and Universal Brotherhood’. Cook also printed an essay called ‘To the Working Men of England’, composed, it seems, by an anonymous weaver from Bolton who had won a £5 prize from his local Mechanics’ Institute for writing it. The author’s appeal to participants in the textile industry is an instance of Cook’s own position on excursions in general: The particular advantage to be derived from visiting the Exhibition by all those employed in preparing and manufacturing cotton goods will be, that Bolton, Manchester, Glasgow, Carlisle and Dundalk, will each and all be in friendly competition in workmanship, raw material and variety of patterns, and will also be found in rivalship with the foreign producers of such goods. ©

Taking a broad look at his whole industry, the worker could recognize the importance of his work in the larger scheme, while the view of a multitude

of cotton-goods producers (or carpet-makers, or iron manufacturers) joined in ‘friendly competition’ would presumably foster a feeling of econ-

omic partnership and common interest rather than destructive rivalry. The Exhibition also offered Cook an opportunity to spread the Temperance message among the many visitors housed in London Temperance Hotels and boarding houses during their stay. No alcohol was served on

the Exhibition grounds, and leaflets were distributed widely. To ensure peak attendance at this eminently worthwhile event, Cook investigated all avenues. He wrote (in vain) to Prince Albert, requesting ‘that in the interests of visitors from the regions the one shilling Exhibition

ticket should be valid for four days instead of one’; he acted as a pawnbroker ‘accepting watches, gold chains and other objects of value as col-

lateral for [his reduced-fare] tickets’.©’ And, of course, he exhorted railway companies to make special arrangements for rendering the Exhibition accessible to the greatest number: If ever there was a time when the great power and astonishing facilities of the Railways should be most fully exerted on behalf of the population generally, surely 1851 is that time; and without recklessly jeopardizing the property of share-

holders, every right-minded Director and Manager will feel that the uttermost possible inducement should be held out for the millions to travel to London.” 68 Cook’s Excursionist (31 May 1851), 2.

69 Edmund Swinglehurst, Cook’s Tours: The Story of Popular Travel (Poole, Dorset: Blandford Press, 1982), 25.

7 Quoted in ibid. 22.

Tourist and Traveller 55 Cook’s London package was not especially cheap; visitors could be housed for only a shilling per night, but railway tickets were originally set at fifteen shillings (this at a time when workers might be earning perhaps a

pound a week). Fierce, not ‘friendly’ competition from other railways drove ticket prices down, and Cook ultimately slashed his fares to below five shillings to undercut the Great Northern line’s price. In the end, Cook had brought 165,000 visitors to London and had solidified his reputation for almost magically controlling the many disparate elements involved in transporting and accommodating large numbers of tourists. He repeated his London successes on a smaller scale by arranging traffic for visitors to the Dublin Exhibition of 1853, and was to play similar roles in many of the other grand cultural spectacles of the next two

decades. In spite of his worthy labours, however, Cook found when he resumed normal excursion activities in 1854 that his business remained on precarious financial ground. He had taken only small profits or even lost money on all his outings, and now several railway firms, having noted his

success, were planning to develop their own excursion departments by imitating his methods. With ‘most of his eggs . . . in the Scottish basket’, Cook was vulnerable to the companies’ attempts to oust the independent middleman.” Jealous railway control over Channel traffic prevented

Cook from creating a full excursion package for Louis Napoleon’s Champs Elysées Exhibition of May 1855; he settled for selling cheap return tickets between Leicester and Calais at thirty-one shillings. He continually explored other options in the British Isles as well, such as the very popular

West Country tours he began in 1859. In 1855, as another alternative to Scotland, Cook took his professional first steps across the Channel, staging a ‘grand circular tour’, which, starting on 4 July, made its way from Harwich to Antwerp, Brussels (taking in

the field of Waterloo), Cologne, Mainz, Frankfurt, Heidelberg, BadenBaden, Strasburg, and Paris. Refused permission to operate on a direct route to Paris, Cook made a virtue of necessity, extolling in the Excursionist the greater beauty and interest of the more circuitous journey (he would do the same in the early 1860s when, still unable to win concessions direct

to Paris, he adopted the Newhaven-to-Dieppe approach). Popular demand necessitated a second trip over this route starting on 16 August—but Cook still wound up a financial loser on both tours, and he would not try

the Continent again for several years. When the Midland and Great Northern railways took over the running of excursion traffic to the 1862 International Exhibition at Brompton, Cook concentrated his efforts on arranging lodgings in Fulham for working-class visitors (he bought and furnished two tenement blocks for the purpose). When in the same year 71 Brendon, Thomas Cook, 72.

56 Tourist and Traveller the Scottish rail firms also decided to save themselves the cost of Cook’s agency (a decision Cook bitterly and repeatedly lamented in the pages of

the Excursionist), he devoted himself to arranging further Continental travel, coming to terms with a number of European railways and hotel proprietors in France and Switzerland. This time the Continental option worked, saving Cook from being . driven out of business by the Scottish companies’ actions. As W. Fraser Rae put it on the occasion of Cook’s fiftieth anniversary in 1891, ‘the Scottish companies were made to feel their mistake in having withdrawn confidence from him,’ for ‘many of those who used to follow Mr. Thomas

Cook in his excursions through Scotland [now went] to the Continent

under his guidance’.”* Five hundred people responded to Cook’s adver- | tisement for a personally conducted three-week tour of Switzerland in the summer of 1863; Cook organized his customers into two parties, one of which would precede the other by a day over the same route. Cook wrote from Paris, full of the excitement of facing dizzying new possibilities: France and Switzerland now present to me new and almost unlimited fields of Tourist labour. At this moment I am surrounded in Paris with some 500 or 600 enterprising Tourists, and am expecting an addition of 400 or 500 more to-night. Already a party of roo has started for Switzerland, and I expect to follow them to-morrow with 260 to 300 more. ... This is, I believe, the largest party that ever left England for a tour in Switzerland; and to myself it is an event of unbounded satisfaction, attesting as it does the undeviating attachment and confidence of old tourist friends from every part of England and Scotland.”

Cook’s momentum next drove him on across the great physical and sym(Fig. 1] bolic divide of the Alps to initiate a tour extending as far as Northern Italy. ‘FRANCE, SWITZERLAND, and ITALY are now open to a series of plans, such

as never before were arranged in those countries,’ Cook could write in the summer of 1864, adding, ‘It seems like the dawning of a new era in the great work of nearly a quarter of a century ...’”* Once again, Cook had

gone ahead to negotiate agreements for transport and accommodation, and once again, public response was overwhelming; Cook was forced to turn away many applicants for tickets. The route was by diligence across Mont Cenis to Turin (the railway tunnel that would connect Switzerland and Italy was not finished until 1871), to pick up Italian rail lines there. Cook’s party took in Milan, Piacenza, Parma, Modena, and Bologna, and then travelled again by diligence across the Apennines into Tuscany and towards the culmination of the journey, Florence; return was made by steamer from Leghorn to Marseilles, where an express train was available for Paris. Later trips would widen the circuit to include Rome and Naples, 72 Rae, Business of Travel, 64. 73 Cook's Excursionist (6 Aug. 1863), 1. 74 Ibid. (6 June 1864), 1.

Tourist and Traveller 57 the month-long trip as far as Naples costing about £32 for second-class passengers and £37 for those in first class. It was alongside these bold new steps of the early 1860s, the result of Cook’s jockeying for position and possibilities amidst the transport companies’ changing fancies, that a significant change began in Cook’s career.

This was the gradual embourgeoisement of the business, as its director looked further afield and mounted longer and more elaborate excursions. Anearly watershed in this process may be marked by the entry of the doggedly businesslike John Mason Cook into full-time work for the firm and the opening of new offices in Fleet Street in 1865, where, along with tickets, tourists could procure ‘guide books and other publications’ as well

as ‘tourist requisites’ such as ‘carpet and leather bags, hat-cases, telescopes, and Alpine slippers’.’5 (Cook also ran a parcel delivery service, a small advertising agency, and a temperance boarding house.) In addition

to Thomas Cook’s usual negotiations with railway firms and hotel keepers, the company would now find itself increasingly involved in such

tasks as handling passports and foreign-exchange transactions for its clients. Thomas Cook’s future as an indispensable part of the tourist industry was to be guaranteed only by his allowing the business to develop beyond the scope of those few projects he could personally control. The

more tickets, tours, and commodities Cook offered, the less he could manage all his commitments alone: his business needed to become more bureaucratic, more of a network of officials and sub-officials, and also to foster a permanent network of reliable contacts in the field. Thus began the expansion of the system of tourist tickets (or ‘circular tickets’) which Cook had established in England. Rather than relying on a few personally escorted tours, Cook would sell customers all the tickets needed for a given itinerary (drawn up by Cook), leaving it up to them how and when to use the tickets (which could be redeemed or traded for others if not used). A similar scheme for hotel coupons, covering room, board, and numerous amenities, was also instituted: this system of trust Cook built up by personal agreements with hoteliers throughout Europe, whose establishments were listed for customers’ convenience in the Excursionist. In the early 1870s Cook’s circular notes made their first appearance, a precursor of the modern traveller’s cheques. As the profile of a Cook’s client rose in class standing and spending power, the firm went to ever greater lengths to combine the advantages of structured tourism with the liberty to choose among options, realizing that many clients of the middle classes might not relish the thought of cheap voyages if such were only obtainable by joining a tightly bunched group led through a tightly organized schedule. Describing his Swiss tour plans (which included several branch-off options), Cook 75 Pudney, Thomas Cook Story, 136.

58 Tourist and Traveller asserted that ‘our aim has been to provide the easiest, simplest, and cheapest method of getting into Switzerland, and then offering the most perfect freedom compatible with a combined arrangement’.’® By the mid-1860s Thomas Cook had become a highly visible tourist authority. The Cooks were entrenched in Fleet Street (later to move to larger offices in Ludgate Circus), and the firm’s activities had begun to

stimulate the theoretical speculations of both favourable and disapproving observers. What sort of phenomenon did Cook’s enterprise represent? From the start of the Excursionist, its founder had been pleased to

print or advert to testimonials from eminent figures and satisfied customers. Word sometimes came from women tourists, who thanked Cook

: for providing the male ‘protection’ their society demanded. Writing for ‘my sister, my mother, and myself’, a certain Jane Dewing commended Cook glowingly in the summer of 1865 for ‘the numerous places of interest we visited under your supervision and care, the beautiful Swiss and Italian scenery through which we passed, more lovely than anything we had ever

imagined!—the presence of pleasant companions and kind friends, together with a total absence of anxiety on our parts (thanks to your admirable arrangements,) ...’.”” To contemporaries, women, who did indeed make up animportant part of Cook’s clientele, represented a major variety of the ‘typical Cook’s tourist’, since the tours were seen as ‘protecting’ the tourist against all possible intrusions—even against eventualities demanding a ‘traveller’s’ independence and resourcefulness. Arthur Sketchley’s Cockney heroine Mrs Brown, who appeared in a handful of short fictions dealing with Cook’s tours (Mrs Brown in the Highlands, Mrs Brown on [Fig. 2] the Grand Tour, Mrs Brown Up the Nile, and a few others), advised that ‘as to fieldmales as is on the look out for a protector, there can’t be nothink

like [Cook] ...’.78 This was the sort of advertisement that could be of value as long as clients still found the association of Cook’s, women, and Cockneyism amusing rather than dismaying. In fact it was just as the firm was moving outward from Britain and upward in social tone that its operations became the subject of general

cultural comment. The year of the first Italian tour, Dickens commissioned Edmund Yates to interview Cook for All the Year Round, and Yates’s article ‘My Excursion Agent’—extensively quoted in the Excursionist—reached a verdict very congenial to the reformist tour operator. Yates characterized the different classes among Cook’s clientele and their different attitudes: The trips to Edinburgh, and the excursions in England, attract tradesmen and their wives, merchants’ clerks away for a week’s holiday .. . [and] swart mechan76 Cook’s Excursionist (18 June 1863), 4. 77 Ibid. (11 July 1865), 1. 78 Mrs Brown in the Highlands (London: George Routledge, n.d.), 127.

Tourist and Traveller 59 ics, who seem never to be able entirely to free themselves from traces of their

life-long labour, but who ... are by no means the worse informed, and are generally the most interested about the places they visit. ... As to Swiss excursions, the company is of a very different order; the Whitsuntide trip has a good deal of the Cockney element in it .. . [who] carry London everywhere about them in dress, habits, and conversation, and rush back, convinced that they are great travellers. From these roysterers the July and September excursionists differ greatly; ushers and governesses, practical people from the provinces, and representatives of the better style of the London mercantile community, who form their component parts, all travel as if impressed with the notion that they are engaged in fulfilling the wishes of a lifetime, in a pleasant duty never to be repeated.

Hearing Cook’s account and judging the character of the man behind the company image, Yates concluded that ‘surely this kind of thing .. . ought to be encouraged’. Cook’s democratizing of travel had earned him, Yates

said, ‘a position, modest but useful, in that great army of civilisation which is marching throughout the world’.” But another kind of testimonial was also becoming valuable to Cook at about the same time. This was the sort provided by J. C. Parkinson, who flew in the face of his derisive genteel acquaintances by taking a circular ticket for Cook’s Swiss and Italian tour in the summer of 1864. He discovered that, contrary to gossip, Cook did not enforce temperance principles and did not require ticket-holders to remain with the party. In the end, Parkinson was able to declare to the readers of Temple Bar ‘that I have “tripped” it as “lightly” as cheaply, that many of my stay-at-home friends will hear with regret of the facilities they have neglected, and that the thanks of his constituents were worthily rendered to Mr. Cook’. ®° The concern of the polite classes, however, was not easily assuaged. Many observers objected to Cook’s expanding reach, his gathering-up of cherished places into a touristic net cast ever wider across Europe and the globe. Cook was castigated for the absurd overestimation of his tourists’ capacity to better themselves on brief jaunts sold by a tourist organizer and facilitated by the new transport. ‘Tourism can probably help the masses acquire a new culture,’ the sociologist Joffre Dumazedier has written, ‘but what will it be like?’*! Detractors from the 1860s on thought they knew the

, answer. The Pall Mall Gazette compared the travel experience procurable on a Cook’s tour to the ‘ingenious deceptions of the cheap haberdasher and tailor’ that are sold ‘to the gent. who wants to make himself look like a gentleman at the lowest possible figure. By availing himself of the facilities offered by Mr Cook [the tourist] can get up a kind of Continental experi79 Quoted in Cook’s Excursionist (6 June 1864), 6. 80 ‘Tripping it Lightly’, Temple Bar, 12. (Nov. 1864), 599. Published anonymously. 81 Toward a Society of Leisure, trans. Stewart E. McClure (New York: Free Press, 1967), 138.

60 Tourist and Traveller ence which is to that obtained in the regular way precisely what a “dicky” is to a shirt.’*? In spite of their affection for Thomas Cook, Sketchley’s Mrs Brown books could also be seen to lend weight to the proposition that the

Cockney could never be de-cocknified by tourism. The Times thought concerted effort had to be expended if travel was to pay moral dividends—

the kind of effort that organizers and technology were making unnecessary: The world is not to be altogether reformed by cheap tours, nor is the inherent vulgarity of the British Philistine going to be eradicated by sending him with a through ticket and a bundle of hotel coupons to Egypt and the Holy Land. There will remain persons who ask themselves whether the good experienced by the many compensates for the harm which they inevitably do; whether railways up Pilatus and Bengal lights at the Giesbach are not an unpardonable offence. If only Messrs. Cook could guarantee a benefit to mind and manners as easily as they can guarantee a comfortable journey!®?

The journalistic assault on Cook resembled those criticisms of ‘mechanically facilitated’ travel I have discussed above. Tourists were seen as surrendering their own initiative to an organized power that directed and propelled them on their way; their presumed passivity, obtrusiveness, and obeisance before steam and cicerone threatened both the places and the paradigm of independent travel. The best-known attack on Cook is probably that begun in February of 1865 by the novelist Charles Lever, who then lived in Italy as the British vice-consul at La Spezia. Lever launched his mean-spirited campaign in one of his regular ‘Cornelius O’Dowd’ pieces for Blackwooa’s. ‘It seems’, he wrote, that some enterprising and unscrupulous man has devised the project of conducting some forty or fifty persons, irrespective of age or sex, from London to Naples and back for a fixed sum. He contracts to carry them, feed them, lodge

them, and amuse them. ... In a word, they are to be ‘done for’ in the most ~ complete manner, and nothing called for on their part but a payment of so many

pounds sterling, and all the details of the road or the inn, the playhouse, the gallery, or the museum, will be carefully attended to by this providential personage, whose name assuredly ought to be Barnum!**

In his four-page essay—a disorganized, scatter-shot performance—Lever discounted any arguments, like Yates’s, that stressed the advantages to be

gained from Cook’s tourism. As a representative of the nation, Lever writes as one who has seen many English people on tour and who has 82 Pall Mall Gazette (11 Feb. 1865); quoted in Brendon, Thomas Cook, 90. 83 Quoted in Jon Evans, ed., Abroad: A Book of Travels (London: Victor Gollancz, 1968), 23. 84 ‘Continental Excursionists’, Blackwood's Magazine, 97/594 (Feb. 1865), 230. Subsequent refer-

ences cited in the text.

Tourist and Traveller 61 come ‘to deplore the unfair estimate of England that must be made by commenting on the singular specimens of man and woman-hood that fill the railroad trains, crowd the steamboats, and deluge the hotels of the Continent’ (p. 230). Asa resident of Italy, and as an Irishman using an Irish narrator, Lever exempts himself from what he describes as an English problem. A docile ‘herd’ or ‘flock’, Cook’s parties none the less constitute an ‘invasion’ bearing the unmistakable taint of inferior social class. They exhibit an ‘absurd pretension to be in a place abroad that they had never

dreamed of aspiring to at home ...’ (p. 233). But the tourists’ social fantasies are not the worst of their sins; more disturbing to Lever is the distorted and commercialized view of Europe itself that they propagate. it is not merely that England swamps us with everything that is low-bred, vulgar, and ridiculous, but that these people, from the hour they set out, regard all foreign countries and their inhabitants as something in which they have a vested right. They have paid for the Continent. . . and they will have the worth of their money. ... Europe, in their eyes, is a great spectacle, like a show-piece at Covent Garden; and it is theirs to criticise the performance and laugh at the performers at will. (pp. 231-2)

Against this false conception of Europe, Lever counters with an appeal

to what is best for the Continent belonging to Continentals, the Italy belonging to Italians—and, incidentally, to him as well. Lever/O’Dowd will have us know that he speaks the Italian language, has a number of Italian acquaintances, and understands and respects Italian customs. The rhetorical position from which he attacks the tourist is that established in previous works published in Britain such as Italy as It Is: Or, a Narrative of an English Family’s Residence for Three Years in that Country (1828), whose anonymous author distinguished his book from the many Italiantour accounts by asserting that prolonged experience of the country had given him a true perception of its character. If the public was sated with the subject of Italy, that was only because it had been exposed again and again to the same collection of superficial tourist clichés; the real Italy was ‘yet

unknown to the English public’.** But this real Italy alluded to by the writer of Italy as It Is and by Lever/O’Dowd is every bit as much a rhetorical construction as Lever’s narratorial persona. Lever attacks Cook’s tourists for acting as though the Continent is theirs to use as they will; but he certainly lays claim to an Italy of his own, allocating to himself, for example, the task of speaking on its behalf. He includes a quotation from an imaginary group of ‘foreigners’ who, distressed by the tourists’ interference in their everyday lives, concur whole-heartedly with Lever’s objections: 85 Italy as It Is: Or, a Narrative of an English Family's Residence for Three Years in that Country (London: Henry Colburn, 1828), p. i.

62 Tourist and Traveller Foreigners may say, ‘We desire to be able to pray in our churches, to:hear in our theatres, to dine in our restaurants, but your people will not permit us: They come over, not in twos and threes, but in scores and hundreds, to stare and to laugh at us. They deride our church ceremonies, they ridicule our cookery, they criticise our dress, and they barbarise our language. How long are we to be patient under these endurances?’ (p. 233)

But Lever is not really interested in the responses of Italians or of any other ‘foreigners’, or in the ways in which tourists disturb the processes of life in

European countries. Whatever complex reactions actual Europeans may have to the influx of British tourists are less significant for Lever’s debate than what these fictional foreigners can be made to say in support of his anti-touristic satire. Cook took up the gauntlet. The identity behind Lever’s pseudonym was no secret; Cook met his adversary head-on in his own editorials, which exhibit an interesting mixture of Cook’s older and newer forms of appeal,

as egalitarianism shaded over into bourgeois respectability and exclusivity. His tourists in Italy, he points out, are not of the lower classes; they come from a higher social plane than that of his excursion-parties at home: MR. LEVER is an Irish gentleman of the precise class to which the English clergymen, physicians, bankers, civil engineers and merchants, who honoured me by

accepting my escort to Italy last year, indisputably belong. By what right, then, does he constitute himself their censor? By what right does he assume them incapable of properly enjoying and intelligently appreciating the wonders of nature, and

the treasures of art, brought before them by travel?®* But the old philanthropic chord was still sounding as well. Cook pro-

claimed his work had earned him the sanction of ‘hundreds of the Nobility, Clergy, men of science and of the highest social distinction, who have been delighted to see arrangements carried out effectively for pro-

moting the visits of the middle and industrial classes to places of great 7 historical interest and natural beauty’.*” Cook attempted to add sting to , - his counter-offensive by writing to the Foreign Secretary to ask ‘whether it was fit for a member of the Consular Service’, whose tasks included being

of service to compatriot travellers, ‘to arouse antagonism towards his fellow countrymen in foreign lands’.** In fact Lever was protected by his

pseudonym, but the episode did not redound to his credit. The Eclectic Review came to Cook’s defence—and was quoted doing so at length in the

Excursionist—assailing Lever’s snobbery as ‘the true vulgarity ... [and 86 Cook's Excursionist (6 Apr. 1865), 5. Quoted in Rae, Business of Travel, 156; Pudney, Thomas Cook Story, 166.

87 Cook’s Excursionist (x May 1865), 5. 88 Pudney, Thomas Cook Story, 166-7.

Tourist and Traveller 63 as] exactly the thing Mr. Thackeray impaled in his Book of Snobs’.® By 1891 Fraser Rae could look back on the incident with gratification. The loser was Lever; the gainer was Mr. Thomas Cook. The ungentlemanly conduct of the former predisposed many in favour of the latter, and tours through Italy and other countries continued to be more popular than before Lever execrated them; nor has England lost her place among the nations, as Lever foretold she must do, owing to these tours continuing and Mr. Thomas Cook’s business

flourishing.”

Over the next decade or so, Cook was to have several more skirmishes with the critics and satirists who found fault with his enterprise, but by this

time his position was practically unassailable. The business had undeniably changed from the days of the short one-shilling excursion. Thomas Cook had made a few gestures to enable members of the working classes to visit the Continent: he arranged transport for sixteen hundred to a working-men’s demonstration in Paris in 1861—an undertaking he later referred to as ‘one of love, minus profit”!—and he ran a £5 week’s excursion to the Paris Exhibition of 1867, housing visitors in buildings he had

: leased at Passy. But though his achievement had entailed the relative democratization of travel (as the great Reform bills of the nineteenth century entailed the relative democratization of British political culture), the sweeping liberal spirit with which Cook had begun faded in the light of that aura of privilege which the firm shone on its new clients from higher levels of society. The record of the Cooks in the last three decades of the century—including trips to America, to Palestine and Egypt, and around the world, as well as ventures of many other varieties—is a tale of entrepreneurial conquest, in spite of bitter differences between father and son. The coupon schemes enjoyed such spectacular success—120,000 had been sold by 1872, worth £20,000 and incorporating 150 European hotels— that they seemed to Thomas Cook to have ‘done away with the necessity of any personally conducted tourist parties’.?* While ‘cheap trips’ came to earn the company thousands of pounds each year, John Cook pushed the firm towards a more exalted image: under his leadership a business of the tourist industry learned to become anti-touristic, refunctioning the original ‘conducted tour’ into something altogether grander. Piers Brendon points out that ‘[John’s] advertisements reflected the new policy: “Select First-class Party of Limited Numbers”. So did his brochures: parties were “select and private”; they were conducted by “gentlemen of experience and culture”; members were “uniformly of the most intelligent, refined, and 89 Quoted in Cook's Excursionist (22 May 1865), 5. 99 Rae, Business of Travel, 157-8. 91 Cook's Excursionist (7 May 1863), 1. 92 Ibid. (3 May 1869); quoted in Brendon, Thomas Cook, 114.

64 Tourist and Traveller cultured class” and they enjoyed “practically the freedom of an individual

traveller without the responsibility”. For Thomas Cook & Son and for its new preferred clients, there seemed

no end to the possibilities, technological or geographical. In the 1870s Arthur Sketchley joked that ‘at no very distant period Mr. Cook’s demands on the railway companies will be on such a colossal scale, that men of science will be forced to exert themselves to discover some new avail-

able motive power which will supersede steam, and meet his requirements.’** When the father and founder made a highly publicized trip around the world in 1872-3 (possibly inspiring Jules Verne’s Phileas Fogg

in the process), the global prospects of organized tourism seemed, for better or worse, guaranteed.» The London Echo called Cook Grand Courier Extraordinary to the human race. Prince—we may, perhaps, more correctly say Emperor—of Tourists, he rules a Kingdom . . . which is ever on the move. Like a comet, he flies through infinite space with his tail—of sight-seers—

behind him. He is building a mansion in Fleet Street, but he has, in truth, no particular place of residence. He is domiciled in ubiquity, he is the incarnation of perpetual motion. *°

In 1875 the company launched All the World Over, a short-lived annual

jointly published by Cook’s and Hodder & Stoughton, which offered pieces of fiction set to romantic itineraries (‘Birds of Passage; or a Six Weeks’ Romance’; ‘A Love Chase; or, Autumn Manceuvres’) along with articles about travellers’ haunts in Europe and in far-flung places around the globe (‘The Tourist in Ceylon’). Cook’s favoured imagery by the turn of the century stressed customers’ access to a whole world of choices. A 1906 advertisement reading ‘A Cook’s Ticket Brings the World to You’ shows an earth-hefting Atlas in Thomas Cook & Son uniform. When in [Figs. 3,4] 1903 the Excursionist was refashioned as the Traveller’s Gazette: An Illustrated Journal Devoted to Travel (a glossy production betraying nothing of its origins in shilling day-trips), the new cover depicted one female and two male tourists striding confidently across a globe about the size of a child’s backyard climbing toy; a ‘Notice to Travellers’ at the bottom announced that ‘Cook’s Interpreters in Uniform meet the Principal Trains and Steamers at the chief cities and ports of Europe and the East, and all holders of Cook’s Tickets are entitled to their assistance free of charge.’ But for the self-styled ‘world traveller’ descending from one of those trains

| on to one of those many platforms, the fact of being met by one of Cook’s representatives implied that one was met by a question as well, as to how 93 Brendon, Thomas Cook, 183. 94 Out for a Holiday with Cook’s Excursion through Switzerland and Italy, 137-8. 95 See Brendon, Thomas Cook, 150. 96 London Echo (25 Jan. 1873); quoted in Brendon, Thomas Cook, 152.

Tourist and Traveller 65 the traveller’s free spirit was to flourish within such an apparently universal mesh of prearranged contacts, facilities, and services as Thomas Cook & Son now provided. By the Book Charles Lever often returned to the subject of tourism in his journalistic and literary works, turning his attention on several occasions to another

prominent feature of the emerging tourist industry. In the picaresque Arthur O’Leary: His Wanderings and Ponderings in Many Lands (1844), the narrator pauses to reflect on the reputation that the travellers’ handbooks of John Murray have gained, and Lever produces this remarkable passage: And now, in sober seriousness, what literary fame equals John Murray’s? What portmanteau, with two shirts and a nightcap, hasn’t got one Handbook? What Englishman issues forth at morn without one beneath his arm? How naturally does he compare the voluble statement of his valet-de-place with the testimony of the book. Does he not carry it with him to church, where, if the sermon be slow, he can read a description of the building? Is it not his guide at table d’héte, teaching him when to eat, and where to abstain? Does he look upon a building, a statue, a picture, an old cabinet, or a manuscript, with whose eyes does he see it? With John Murray’s, to be sure!?’

Lever is playfully satirizing, in a manner practised by many popular Vic-

torian writers, the extraordinary authority vested in the nineteenth century’s new guidebooks, the most famous of which were without doubt those published in London by the House of Murray and those produced in Koblenz, later in Leipzig, by Karl Baedeker & Sons. Almost exact contemporaries—eventually bitter rivals—the Murray and Baedeker handbooks gained a fame that was nearly as widespread as

Arthur O’Leary describes, and they struck readers from the start as a wholly new phenomenon in the literature of travel. Murray and Baedeker brought an inspired diligence and thoroughness to the guidebook; they standardized it, from outer covers to inner organization; they relentlessly updated it, making it not the record of someone’s tours but a description of

what current tourists could anticipate. To their clients, Murray and Baedeker were both men (approachable, human—they urged users to write in with suggestions) and institutions (awesome, unswayable in their

pursuit of truth). They took a hitherto unthinkable degree of responsibility for the information they conveyed, and were rewarded with reputations of infallibility. ‘I cannot conceive anything more frightful’, Lever’s O’Leary went on, 97 1844; repr. in NCL xx. 46.

66 Tourist and Traveller than the sudden appearance of a work which should contradict everything in the Handbook, and convince English-people that John Murray was wrong. National bankruptcy, a defeat at sea, the loss of the colonies, might all be borne up against;

but if we awoke one morning to hear that the ‘Continent’ was no longer the Continent we have been accustomed to believe it, what a terrific shock it would prove. (NCL xx. 46)

No less than did his English counterpart, Baedeker passed into the cultural vocabulary (and enjoyed a greater longevity) as a symbol of inerrant efficiency in the myriad details of guiding tourists to, and preparing them for,

the sights they journeyed to see. As A. P. Herbert put it in the 1920s musical comedy La Vie Parisienne, ‘Kings and governments may err | But never Mr. Baedeker.’ So great was their control over facts taken to be that the new guides could apparently make life follow the dictates of their art. It is said that Kaiser Wilhelm I made a point of standing, precisely at noon, in a particular window of his palace on Unter den Linden to. watch the changing of the guard because, as he explained, ‘It’s written in Baedeker

that I watch the changing of the guard from that window, and the people have come to expect it.” German bombing attacks on British cultural institutions in 1942 earned the name ‘Baedeker raids’ because the bombs

appeared to be aimed at all the guidebook’s starred attractions.”

To account for the unique authority widely attributed to Murray and 7 Baedeker it is necessary to understand the element of novelty that was expressed in the very word ‘handbook’ at the time Murray and Baedeker made their first appearance. The term was invented by John Murray II, the well-known London publisher of Byron and Scott, in an attempt to ‘name the first such work offered to him, in 1836, by his son, John Murray

III. ‘Guidebook’ had been coined a few years earlier—in Byron’s Don Juan, of all places—but ‘guide’ had long been used to refer to those helpful

compendia of information, advice, and warning that travellers could carry | along with them on their journeys.*? When the elder Murray called his son’s production a handbook, he was creating a new generic distinction for a work that seemed to require one; and when Karl Baedeker adopted Murray’s term, at first subtitling each of his guides Handbichlein and later

Handbiich fur Reisende, he was consciously contributing to the new genre.’ As their name suggested, the books were to fit easily into the tourist’s hand (and pocket): a Murray measures7 x 4% inches, a Baedeker an even more portable 6% x 4% inches. They were also to be ‘ready to

hand’, a less quantifiable attribute connoting accessibility, reliability, and . standardization. After some early variation, both Murrays and Baedekers 98 Wind, ‘Profiles: The House of Baedeker’, 44, 49, 49-50. 99 See John Vaughan, The English Guide Book, c.1780-1870: An Illustrated History (London: David & Charles, 1974). 100 See Edward Mendelson, ‘Baedeker's Universe’, Yale Review (Spring 1985), 389.

Tourist and Traveller 67 settled into a regular outward appearance—John Murray III acceding to his father’s insistence that his books all have red covers, and Karl Baedeker

(perhaps in imitation of the Murrays) adopting a similar red cover in 1854.'°! Though the contents could sometimes swell to nearly seven hundred pages (as in Murray’s guide for France of 1870 and in Baedeker’s renowned Egypt of 1929), the new handbooks always seemed compact and light in comparison to more traditional travel guides, such as J. C. Eustace’s ponderous Classical Tour, which was often reprinted, in from two to four weighty volumes, between 1813 and 1841. To keep them from becoming cumbersome as they accommodated more and more material, Murray’s texts were printed in double columns of extremely fine print; the Baedeker firm introduced the extra-thin paper used for Bibles (Dumnn-

druckpapier) for all its handbooks after 1872. Their compactness and lightness made them all the more appealing to travellers riding the railways, who needed to move in and out of train compartments and did not have room for an extensive travelling library. Partly as a result of the efforts of Murray and Baedeker, we today perceive a fairly fixed distinction in the field of travel literature between the objective, informative ‘guidebook’ on the one hand and the impressionistic ‘travel book’ (or the more tentative ‘travel sketch’) on the other. In the

days before the modern handbook, however, this separation of functions was barely established. Many works had for many years presented themselves as aids to the traveller; the Grand Tourist had had dozens of such volumes to choose from, including Thomas Nugent’s Grand Tour (1749) and the Gentleman’s Pocket Companion for Travelling Into Foreign Parts (1722). But compared with their nineteenth-century descendants, these early guidebooks—in addition to addressing a privileged audience and prescribing practices and protocol appropriate to such—were apt to be the

rather hybrid, discursive productions of an individual, rambling from accounts of the author’s own travels to facts and opinions on manners and customs, to commentary on the classical texts germane to the tour. As the guidebook historian John Vaughan describes them, ‘the early guides were fairly personal in their approach, and it was only after almost a century of

experience of the form that the features associated with Murray [and] Baedeker .. . appear. These [later] guides are impersonal, systematic, and designed for a single overriding purpose.’!°2 Guidebooks of the early nine-

teenth century continued to exhibit a variety of contents and forms of address. When John Murray III made his first Continental trip in 1829, he found a paucity of works truly ‘deserving the name’ of Guide; looking 101 See John Murray IV, John Murray HI, 1808-1892: A Brief Memoir (London: John Murray,

iy The English Guide Book, 64.

68 Tourist and Traveller back in an essay of 1889, he remembered the material that had been available, capturing in his description the particular quality of one exem- plary specimen, Mariana Starke’s Travels in Italy (1802): Hers was a work of real utility, because, amidst a singular medley of classical lore,

borrowed from Lempriére’s Dictionary, interwoven with details regulating the charges in washing-bills at Sorrento and Naples, and an elabourate theory on the

origin of Devonshire Cream, in which she proves that it was brought by Phoenician colonists from Asia Minor into the West of England, it contained much practical information gathered on the spot.!”

Starke’s several works were an important precedent for the handbooks of the mid-nineteenth century. Travels was felt by many before the rise of the Murray and Baedeker guides to be the best available vade-mecum for Italy: Frances Trollope paid a passing compliment to Starke by having a character in her novel The Robertses on their Travels (1846) purchase ‘the voluminous guide-book of the admirable Madame Starkay, as she is called by more than one of the nations whose hidden treasures she has so industriously laid bare’. '!°* As Murray’s description of Travels to Italy suggests, however, the work was by no means single-mindedly devoted to the role of ‘handbook’, It has the appearance, when we look back at it with generic presuppositions founded on Murray and Baedeker, of an impressionistic ‘travel book’ serving as a makeshift ‘handbook’ in the absence of any

alternative. The two-volume Travels employs a convention of much earlier travel literature in being presented as a series of letters—Addison’s Letters from Italy (1701) and Smollett’s Travels through France and Italy (1766) are only two famous precursors structured in this way. In twenty-

five letters and an appendix and supplement, Starke gives a personal record of Italian tours taken between 1792 and 1798, taking up in their turn political and military concerns—she writes of ‘having witnessed the first

entrance of the French into Italy’—as well as medical, topographic, and aesthetic matters. Her numerous subjects are suggested by the book’s generous title and subtitle: Travels in Italy Between the Years 1792 and 1798; Containing A View of the Late Revolutions in that Country. Likewise Pointing Out the Matchless Works of Art which still embellish Pisa, Florence, Siena, Rome, Naples, Bologna, Venice, @&c. With Instructions For the Use of Invalids and Families, Who may not chuse to incur the Expence attendant upon Travelling with a Courier. Also A Supplement, Comprising Instructions for Travelling in France, With Descriptions of all the principal Roads and Cities in That Republic. A personal narrator, Starke writes directly to a correspondent in a familiar epistolary style. 103 ‘The Origin and History of Murray’s Handbooks for Travellers’, 624. 104 The Robertses on their Travels (London: Henry Colburn, 1846), i. 254.

Tourist and Traveller 69 Starting at Nice in September 1792, the Travels begins, ‘As you wish for a

description of that chain of Alps which seems designed by Nature to protect Italy from the invasions of her Gallic neighbours, I will send you a

short account of our late excursion over the mountains to Geneva.’ Furthermore, Starke does not balk from editorializing in the manner of many another ‘travel book’ writer—a manner usually shunned by the later handbooks. In January 1794 she writes of ‘Republican troops [who] were

gradually stealing upon Genoa, and republican Missionaries, whose power is still more formidable, gradually introducing themselves into her

councils; while the false assertion, that all Men were originally equal,

flattered the pride of the Many, and inclined them to shake off the authority of the Few’. '% It is not only that Starke’s polemics would mar the understated prose of the later handbooks; more than that, such passages indicate a fundamental difference in purpose between Starke and her followers. Among its many other functions, the Travels has a journalistic

role to play, and it is intended at least in part to provide information about, and reflections on, recent momentous political events. The thirty or so years between Starke’s Travels and the first of the Murrays and Baedekers saw a number of travel books similarly combining some of the tasks that were later assumed as the speciality of the modern

handbooks with other interests ranging from contemporary politics to classical antiquity. Such works proliferated in the period immediately following the end of the Napoleonic Wars, when the Continent offered an open field for roaming ambitions thwarted during the great conflict. The antiquarian interests of some eighteenth-century Grand Tourists survived most visibly in Eustace’s erudite Classical Tour, though the classics were losing their power as a stimulus for Continental travel. The years immediately following the peace saw a small boom in travel literature: no fewer than thirteen new Italian tour-books emanated from English publishers in

1820. ' It was also a time in which numerous works of fiction—most famous among them was Madame de Staél’s Corinne (1807)—began incorporating details actually gathered on tours into their stories; earlier gothic novels such as Ann Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpbo had drawn upon travel books for descriptions of settings and costume. Meanwhile, Mariana Starke broadened her scope, moving closer to the kind of guide that Murray and Baedeker would systematically produce, in Travels on the Continent, first published in 1820 (by Murray); it had run through seven editions by 1829. A composite of Starke’s earlier books, called Information and Directions for Travellers on the Continent, was also pub105 Travels in Italy (London: R. Phillips, 1802), pp. iii, 1, 49-50. 106 See C. P. Brand, Italy and the English Romantics: The Italianate Fashion in Early NineteenthCentury England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957), 16.

70 6Tourist and Traveller lished by Galignani (6th edition 1828); this work physically resembles the

later handbooks—slim, portable, printed in double columns—and pre- | cedes them in attempting to ‘comprise, within the compass of One Port-

. able Volume, all the information necessary for Travellers on the Continent of Europe, and the Island of Sicily’. The personal style of the Travels had now largely (though not entirely) given way to a straightforward exposition presented in chapters structured less according to the events of Starke’s own tours than according to recommended routes for future tourists. Starke’s Information and Directions also prepared the way for Murray and Baedeker in its effort to cover its field as no previous guide

had done, to become the one guide needed for an entire tour. To accom- 7 plish this purpose, Starke realized that ‘it was requisite to examine with exactness, and give a detail, calculated to be read upon the spot’ by tourists visiting ancient buildings, museums, and galleries; it was also necessary ‘to copy all the most frequented routes from the post-books lately published

Guides’, !” | by Royal authority’. She spent three years on this project that would

‘exonerate Travellers from the necessity of encumbering themselves, in every metropolis of the Continent, with books published to serve them as When in 1889 he looked back to his early travels, John Murray III may not have remembered this work of Starke’s, which anticipated some of his

Own innovations; in any case, the Information and Directions was weighted heavily in favour of France and Italy, containing only brief entries on the German and other Northern European regions with which Murray began. Like Starke, though, Murray stressed ‘the value of practical information gathered on the spot’, and he strove, as Baedeker was ~ also to do, to provide a text that would be at once more accessible, more practical, and more exhaustive than any previous ones. The problem with his handbook’s precursors, Murray noted, was that they were for the most part either general descriptions compiled by persons not acquainted

with the spots, and therefore imperfect and erroneous, or are local histories, written by residents who do not sufficiently discriminate between what is peculiar to a place, and what is not worth seeing, or may be seen equally well or to a greater advantage somewhere else. The latter overwhelm their readers with minute details of its history ... the former confine themselves to a mere catalogue of buildings, institutions, and the like; after reading which, the stranger is as much as ever in the

dark as to what really are the curiosities of the place. '!°

107 ‘Advertisement’, Information and Directions for Travellers on the Continent (Paris: A. and W. Galignani, 1828), n.p. 108 Preface, Handbook for Travellers on the Continent (roth edn. London: John Murray, 1854),

p.v.

Tourist and Traveller 71 In Northern Germany, therefore, Murray set to work ‘to collect for myself all the facts, information, statistics, &c., which an English tourist would

be likely to require or find useful’. In his retrospective article, Murray summarized the ‘principle and plan’ by which he had organized his copious notes. Unlike those local historians whose records were of little value for British tourists, Murray strove to produce a version of the visited place designed expressly for the use of those tourists. Having arranged his notes into a series of routes, ‘along with such other information as I could gather

on History, Architecture, Geology, and other subjects suited to a traveller’s need’, he resolved to consult the wants and convenience of travellers in the order and arrangement of my facts. Arriving at a city like Berlin, I had to find out what was really worth seeing there, to make a selection of such objects, and to tell how best to see them, avoiding the ordinary practice of local Guide-books, which, in inflated language, cram in everything that can possibly be said ... I made it my point to point out things peculiar to the spot, or which might be better seen there than elsewhere. '”

This principle of composition, according to which each spot on the tourist’s itinerary was set in place in a preferred route and treated in terms of its distinctive features and primary tourist attractions, was adopted as well by Karl Baedeker, who had bought out a small Koblenz publishing

firm in 1828 and set himself the task of revising one of its best-selling works, Professor Johann August Klein’s Rheinreise von Mainz bis Kéln. Baedeker updated and simplified Klein’s prose accounts, adding a good deal of the kind of practical information on transportation, accommodation, and customs that Murray was also to provide; the new edition appeared in 1835, a year before Murray’s Northern European guide, called Handbook for Travellers on the Continent, came out. By 1838, Murray had gone on to release handbooks for Southern Germany (1838) and Switzerland (1838), and ‘the first real Baedeker’, a thoroughly rewritten Rhine handbook published that year, made open and acknowledged use of Murray’s work as a model. This was a point John Murray III was unlikely to forget; in 1889 he reminded his readers that Baedeker had begun his 1839 Handbichlein with an acknowledgment of obligation to ‘the most distinguished (ausgezeichnetste) Guide-book ever published, “Murray’s Handbook for Travellers,” which has served as the foundation of Baedeker’s

little book’.!'° Their eventual rivalry notwithstanding, Baedeker and Murray were clearly of one mind in their aims for the modern tourist’s handbook. Both took pride in personally guaranteeing the accuracy of their works, disdaining any accounts they could not themselves vouch for. On this point there was some amount of disingenuousness, for as Murray 109 ‘Origin and History’, 624-5. 110 Ibid. 628.

72, Tourist and Traveller admitted in the preface to his first handbook, ‘the subject of this volume, and the purpose for which it is written, admit of little novelty, most of the information it contains being necessarily derived from books, modified by actual observation’. !'! Baedeker boldly announced in the sixth edition of

his Rheinreise (1849) that ‘The entire contents of the book are based exclusively on personal experience’; but as we have seen, he had borrowed

freely from Murray in inspiration and structure; what is more, Murray was able to demonstrate in his essay of 1889 that Baedeker had silently

: lifted whole passages from the British handbooks. '!” True or not, the appeal to individual authority and accountability remained an important factor in the handbooks’ success long after in-

dividual authorship had ceased to be practicable. Founded by great ‘independent travellers’, the Murray and Baedeker guides sought to retain

the flavour of independent travel while increasingly relying on. corporate endeavours. Towards the end of his life, John Murray III looked back with pride to. assert that the handbooks exhibited the ‘results of my private

reading, which stamp a special character on these books. My tastes, studies and predilections mark the originality of my writing’;'' nevertheless, he had written only the first two of his firm’s many handbooks in-

dependently. For his third, the 1838 Handbook for Travellers in Switzerland, he worked in collaboration with the celebrated Alpinist William Brockedon. Murray and Brockedon divided the Swiss territory between them, Murray producing the first half of the book and Brockedon | the second (Brockedon was credited anonymously in Murray’s preface to the work). One consequence of co-written projects was a levelling of style and tone, Murray’s ‘tastes, studies and predilections’ now sinking beneath

the placid surface of guidebook prose." By 1848 Murray was offering over sixty ‘Works for Travellers’, including handbooks for European and other countries as well as works ‘dealing with Travel Talk [tourists’ phrasebooks], Painting, The Sanative Influence of Climate and the Domestic Manners of the Russians’. ''5 It was |

clear that Murray’s plans for a whole series of handbooks would force , some perhaps unwelcome choices on him. Murray and his father wanted to produce easily recognizable works of a standard appearance and quality, yet they insisted on the air of integrity that would be guaranteed by personal inspection of the places they described—this meant, of course, making regular repeat visits in order to update the handbooks. The job was surely too taxing for one man, especially when he was already heir to 111 Preface, Handbook for Travellers on the Continent, p. vi.

112 Baedeker, quoted in Mendelson, ‘Baedeker’s Universe’, 391; for Murray’s accusation of

Baedeker’s plagiarism, see ‘Origin and History’, 628~9. . 113 ‘Origin and History’, 629. 114 Vaughan, English Guide Book, 42. 5S Links, Ruskins in Normandy, 7.

Tourist and Traveller 73 the responsibilities of running the other publishing work of the House of Murray (responsibilities which John Murray III assumed in 1843). As Jack Simmons points out, the younger Murray had three alternatives for continuing his handbooks: ‘he could employ assistants to provide him with

notes and drafts, which he could then work up into the finished text; he ! could commission another writer to make himself wholly responsible for a Handbook; or he could divide the work with a collaborator.’'!® Murray

rejected the first option outright as contrary to the handbooks’ basis in individual experience; for the volumes after 1839 he accepted, with mis-

givings, the other two options, attempting to hire the best possible authorities as his proxies. Richard Ford took charge of the Murray guide for Spain, Sir Francis Palgrave prepared the volume on Northern Italy, and a number of other specialists wrote additional handbooks, with Murray acting as chief editor for each project. On occasion Murray would also commission scholarly surveys on art and antiquities: a rising critic named John Ruskin provided information on Italian painting to the 1847 edition of Northern Italy (in spite of Murray’s refusal to publish the first volume of Modern Painters). None of these authors, however, received credit on the title-pages of their books, which always identified the work in question as Murray’s Handbook or as simply A Handbook for Travellers published

by John Murray & Son. Unwilling to establish a full-blown network of field researchers and editors, Murray relied on his hired specialists and on his own oftenrepeated travels to broaden the field covered by his guides and to keep old ones up to date. In time, the handbooks’ success reached global proportions, with ‘Murray handbooks available for all the counties of England as well as for most of the important countries of the world’ by the end of the

century.!!7 The guide to Switzerland alone had gone through eighteen editions by the time John Murray III died in 1892. But it may be that the Murray handbooks faded from the European scene because their creator had retained such personal control, resisting the kind of self-perpetuating bureaucracy that could have taken over their production and updating. The fourth John Murray found the series too difficult and expensive to

continue, finally selling the copyright to the London map publisher

Edward Stanford. _ | It was the Baedeker firm that successfully made the Weberian transition

from its founder’s charismatic ‘individual authority’ to a rational ‘bureaucracy of editors and agents’, thus assuring the company’s greater longevity in the tourist business and in the cultural vocabulary of Europe.''® Karl 116 Jack Simmons, intro., Murray's Handbook for Travellers in Switzerland, 1838, 13. 117 Wind, ‘Profiles: The House of Baedeker’, 51. 118 Mendelson, ‘Baedeker’s Universe’, 393.

74 Tourist and Traveller

Baedeker’s son Fritz managed this transition: taking control of the busi- , ness shortly after his father’s death in 1859, he soon set in place an institu-

tional structure for the production and maintenance of the ever-growing corpus of handbooks. In his system, each work was supervised by a senior editor, or Redakteur, who would oversee ‘the accepted authorities who furnished signed articles on their specialties in the introductory part of the book’, as well as ‘the writer or writers who went out into the field and supplied the copy for the body of the book’. If he was considered an

authority on the particular region to be covered, the Redakteur might , _ choose to write the copy himself. He would also make arrangements for the handbook’s maps, which achieved notice as a particular hallmark of Baedeker precision. In the essential work of revising past handbooks (the major guides were revised every two years), the chief editor could draw upon sources of information that reached beyond the boundaries of the company itself—the Redakteurs frequently relied on German consuls abroad to send them new data. In addition to initiating this hierarchical

system, Fritz Baedeker also contested the markets of his British counter- , parts by branching out into other languages; after 1861 most of the major = guides appeared in English and French as well as German. A sign of Baedeker perfectionism was that the foreign-language versions were never

mere translations of German originals; the firm ‘took pains to find out what especially interested the people who lived in France, Great Britain, and the United States, and to present this information in a manner that would appeal to them’,!'” Fritz Baedeker’s sons Hans, Ernst, and Dietrich all served :as Redakteurs, and though each set some mark of his interests on the work he edited, all strove for consistency and corporate identity in format and _ $tyle. Fritz’s personal tastes had set the new tone. Karl Baedeker had been

fond of lacing his descriptions with quotations from German poets (as Murray had dressed his with lines from Southey, Scott, and Byron), but under his son’s command the handbooks began to drop these poetic asides

in favour of ‘surveys of geology and religion, statistical summaries of ethnography and education, historical accounts of architecture and archaeology, plus annotated bibliographies, outlines of grammar and vo-

cabulary for languages ranging from Norwegian to Hindustani... ’.!2° | The tourist’s guidebook began to take on the appearance of ‘scientific exactitude’, and the prose style settled into a smooth, confident tone in keeping with the demeanour of an enterprise marshalling considerable resources and an enormous store of information. Yet the short prefaces to

the handbooks still bore the signature ‘Karl Baedeker’: the congenial 119 Wind, ‘Profiles: The House of Baedeker’, 64, 58. 120 Mendelson, ‘Baedeker’s Universe’, 396.

Tourist and Traveller 75 founder had become the company symbol, representing a human presence

behind the daunting professionalism of the product. The maintenance of this warm fatherly persona in an increasingly bureacratic milieu was one of the paradoxes that marked the new institutions of tourism. Another was that although they guided tourists with a truly unprecedented diligence and efficiency, the creators and managers of the new handbooks regarded their labours as enabling their readers to be more independent in their travels. Baedeker spoke glowingly of helping

the traveller break free of ‘the unpleasant, and often wholly invisible, tutelage of hired servants and guides (and in part from the aid of coachmen and hotelkeepers), to assist him in standing on his own feet, to render him independent, and to place him in a position from which he may receive his own impressions with clear eyes and lively heart’. '?1 The handbooks were

to be at once exhaustive and unobtrusive, to carry their power with a becoming modesty. They were also, like Thomas Cook, to be flexible. In the prefaces of his various handbooks, Murray listed several alternative itineraries, ranging, say, from two weeks’ duration to six months; this was a way of structuring tourists’ freedom of choice within the overall plan of the handbook. '!”

Murray and Baedeker had invented an imperious and apparently ubiquitous authority small enough to fit in the tourist’s pocket. They preceded the tourist, making the crooked straight and the rough places plain for the tourist’s hesitant footsteps; they accompanied the tourist on

the path they had beaten, directing gazes and prompting responses. Within a very few years of their appearances, the handbooks became the subject of extensive admiring and satirical comment. In 1844, the same year that Arthur O’Leary gave vent to his irony about Murray’s mastery over the European tour, Thackeray was satisfied and rather amazed by the Murray Handbook for Travellers on the Continent: Much delight and instruction have I had in the course of the journey from my guide, philosopher, and friend, the author of ‘Murray’s Handbook.’ He has gathered together, indeed, a store of information, and must, to make his single volume, have gutted many hundreds of guide-books. How the Continental ciceroni must hate him, whoever he is! Every English party I saw had this infallible red book in their hands, and gained a vast deal of historical and general informa-

tion from it.’

121 From Deutschland (8th edn., 1858); quoted in Mendelson, ‘Baedeker’s Universe’, 387-8. 122 See, for example, Murray’s Handbook for Travellers on the Continent, pp. xxx--xxxv, which gives 15 different routes and schedules for tours through the Northern European countries. 123 ‘Little Travels and Roadside Sketches’ (1844-5), in The Works of William Makepeace Thackeray

(New York: Scribner's, 1911), xxii. 470.

76 Tourist and Traveller Countless nineteenth- and twentieth-century -works made sport with a recurrent set of attributes for Murray’s and Baedeker’s products, Indispen-

sable: the protagonist of Lever’s The Dodd Family Abroad is always finding himself ‘opening my “John” [Murray], for I find there’s no doing without him’(NCL iii. 255). Authoritative and Exhaustive: Dickens, like many later travel-writers, defers to the handbook while describing parts of his own European tour, writing of Lyons Cathedral that ‘If you would

know all about the architecture of this church, or any other; its dates, dimensions, endowments, and history, is it not written in Mr. Murray’s Guide-Book, and may you not read it there, with thanks to him, as I did!’'!** Peremptory and Exacting: in Thackeray’s slight satire The Kickleburys on the Rhine, tourists’ obedience of their Murrays is automatic

and unthinking. Michael Angelo Titmarsh is interrupted in his wooing of | young Fanny Kicklebury when ‘her mamma calls her away to look at the ruins of Wigginstein’; ‘Everybody looks at Wigginstein,’ Titmarsh adds ruefully, for ‘You are told in Murray to look at Wigginstein.’'% Limiting as well as enabling: in Lever’s The Dodd Family Abroad the reaction of Caroline Dodd to her Murray handbook captures the ambivalence with which many tourists received the instruction of the new guides. While recognizing that Murray enables her to travel more knowledgeably and

ficialities: , , 7 confidently, Caroline still senses the handbook’s constraints and arti- :

In fact we are ‘handbooking’ this part of our tour in the most orthodox fashion; and from the tame, half-effaced impressions objects suggest, of which you come primed with previous description, I can almost fancy that reading ‘John Murray’ at your fireside at home might compensate for the fatigue and cost of a journey. It would be worse than ungrateful to deny the aid one derives from guide-books; but there is unquestionably this disadvantage in them, that they limit your faculty of admiration or disapproval. They set down rules for your liking and disliking, and

' far from contributing to form and educate your taste, they cramp its development |

by substituting criticism for instinct. (NCL iv. 202) , , In due time, tourists in all the handbooks’ territories appeared to have taken up the practice which James Bryce noted in Italy in 1865: they seemed ‘to see the sights for no purpose but that of verifying their Murray

....'76 (Bryce later confessed to the habit himself.) There was no disputing that the handbooks had contributed to the spread of tourism by coaxing timid potential tourists on to the field and

easing their way across it. When in 1919 John Murray IV wrote about his | father’s path-breaking labours, he admitted that ‘the districts visited by my ,

124 Pictures from Italy, 12. 125 The Kickleburys on the Rhine (3rd edn., London: Smith, Elder, 185r),:41. 126 Quoted in Pemble, Mediterranean Passion, 72.

Tourist and Traveller 77 father nearly ninety years ago are now in the familiar track of all tourists and are described in a score of Guide-books . . .’. But to what extent were the handbooks responsible for the new conditions of tourism that they had

helped to bring about? The fourth Murray saw his father’s works as outmoded in the time ‘when cheap travel introduced the vast horde of travellers who cared little for intellectual information, and required a totally different class of vade mecum—travellers to whom where to feed was a more important question than what to see’. !2” Like Thomas Cook

& Son, Murray and Baedeker absorbed anti-touristic attitudes as they grew, laying blame for lamentable changes in travel either on other facil-

itating institutions (the expansion of railways; Cook’s tours) or on the deficient sensibilities of the new brand of tourist. Yet it was Murray and Baedeker who had most influentially assembled a ‘tourist’s Europe’ between the covers of their volumes, holding out the promise of a kind of

cultural mastery that could be gained through ritual contact with the , places and artefacts recounted in the guidebook. The ‘France’ and ‘Switzerland’ and ‘Northern Italy’ and even ‘the Continent’ that emerge from the handbooks’ pages are collections of culturally valuable objects, items

which appear to be up for symbolic sale to the user of the guide. The handbooks encouraged acts of imaginary appropriation, the gesture of ‘verifying [one’s] Murray’ resembling a stock-taking of cultural possessions. '8 As many contemporaries were aware, sneering at tourists who wanted to know only ‘where to feed’ did not really alter the strange and ambiguous nature of the activity sponsored by Murray and Baedeker. Was the ‘acquiring’ of ‘culture’ through travel—the chief desideratum of the Continental tour—comparable to the acquiring of property? Could acculturation be described in the language of the ‘cash nexus’ of which Carlyle so bitterly spoke; or was it violated in the process, since it represented modern life’s most positive alternative to the cash nexus? Such

questions lurked around every corner navigated through the tourist’s Europe with the help of Messrs Murray’s and Baedeker’s little red books. In this chapter I have attempted to describe some of the technological and organizational developments surrounding and enabling the rise of modern tourism, as well as some contemporary reactions to those developments.

A full account of the support structure beneath tourism would have to include elements I can mention only in passing. One material effort was the improvement of European roads, inspired in part by Napoleon’s great Alpine passes and by the work of John Loudon McAdam, and spreading from the Northern European countries southward. Though the railways

came to establish new ‘beaten tracks’ during the nineteenth century, 127 Jobn Murray III, 808-1892: A Brief Memoir, 50, 8. 128 For further discussion, see Ch. 4.

78 Tourist and Traveller drawing tourists away from the older carriage routes, road maintenance and rebuilding was still of fundamental importance. Without these advances as well as the steam-transport expansion, the question of a democratic form of leisure travel would never have arisen; movement would have remained slow, thus prohibitively expensive. This chapter’s epigraph from Punch of 1883 alludes to a variety to institutions facilitating and giving form to the holiday tour. One vital and highly visible element named there is the series of Railway Timetables published by the printer and map-maker George Bradshaw—a group of works which, beginning in 1839 and expanding to include Continental railway information in 1847, became another of the tourist’s ‘indispensables’ and contributed every bit as much as the handbooks of Murray and Baedeker to the sense that Europe was coming increasingly under the control of rational, standardizing administration. It was Bradshaw’s Con-

tinental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide which that quintessential tourist, Phileas Fogg, reached for first after he had agreed to make Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingt jours; it was of Bradshaw that Arthur Hugh Clough was thinking when he described the contemporary tourist in his poem Dipsychus as ‘the modern Hotspur’, who Shrills not his trumpet of ‘To Horse, To Horse!’ But consults the columns in a Railway Guide: A demigod of figures; an Achilles Of computation; A verier Mercury, express come down To do the world with swift arithmetic. }”?

Also worth recalling are the growth and reforms in the Consular Service from the beginning of the nineteenth century; not until then did anything

like a professional and universal system of consulates exist either in Europe or elsewhere. Canning’s Consular Act of 1825 represented ‘a genuine attempt to convert a group of individual state servants overseas, into a single governmental service of full-time officials, paid and pensioned

by the state’;'*° and the professionalized British consulates served as centres (as did the Anglican churches) for the English tourists passing

| through. Officials stationed abroad, like Charles Lever, would find their professional duties often revolving, as they do today, around the needs and crises of their visiting compatriots (Nathaniel Hawthorne, as American consul in Liverpool from 1853 to 1857, found much the same). From 129 Jules Verne, Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingt jours (1873; Paris: Librairie générale francaise, n.d.), 26; Arthur Hugh Clough, Dipsychus, in The Poems of Arthur Hugh Clough, ed. H. F. Lowry, A. L. P. Norrington, and F. L. Mulhauser (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951), 272. 130 PD, C. M. Platt, The Cinderella Service: British Consuls since 1825 (Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1971), 13.

Tourist and Traveller 79 about mid-century, the intricacies of obtaining and using passports began

to be untangled and the irregularities regularized; Palmerston at the Foreign Office reformed the system and lowered the cost.'3! Abroad, of course, the passport holder was still subject to foreign practices or fancies: travel among the German states or among the various segments of Italy involved a dizzying array of visas, tariffs, and intrusive douaniers at least until German and Italian unification. (In 1845 John Ruskin counted eleven ‘Passport & pay’ stops on his journey from Bologna to Parma.'**) The easing of restrictions across Europe, which depended upon the loosening of Austrian control, was another prerequisite to anything remotely like an ‘open’ Continental tourism. No less important were the refinements made in instruments of finance, enabling tourists to change currency and replenish their purses while on tour. Thomas Cook and many other tour organizers would handle such transactions, but banks and other specialists in the transfer of currency were also involving themselves in them, and on a much larger scale; the poet in Punch referred to Coutts’s ‘circular notes’, a forerunner of the modern traveller’s cheque created by the American Express Company in 1871 (as we have seen, Cook’s had its own version), which were redeemable at correspondents’ offices around the Continent. Nor should we overlook the movement towards guaranteed leisure time for all. The Bank Holiday Act of 1871 defined secular days of leisure across Britain; it was in

the 1880s and 1890s that momentum gathered for longer paid holidays, which finally gained the Parliamentary imprimatur in 1938.'% By no means were all the developments discussed in this chapter undertaken for the purpose of enabling tourism; neither, as we must emphasize,

did they make tourism universally accessible. But together they constituted the physical and administrative network gradually being fitted into place both to serve and to steer the tourist, that controversial creature of

European modernization, wherever he or she might choose—or be guided—to go. 131 See Pemble, Mediterranean Passion, 33-5. 132 Ruskin in Italy: Letters to his Parents, 1845, ed. Harold 1. Shapiro (Oxford: Clarendon Press,

ides See J. A. R. Pimlott, The Englishman’s Holiday: A Social History (London: Faber & Faber, 1947), chs. 8, 9.

2 Tourism and Anti-Tourism: Conventions and Strategies When peace came, after many long years of war, when our island prison was opened to us, and our watery exit from it was declared practicable, it was the paramount wish of every English heart, ever addicted to vagabondizing, to hasten to the Continent, and to imitate our forefathers in their almost forgotten custom, of spending the greater part of their lives and fortunes in their carriages on the .post-

| roads of the Continent. With the brief and luckless exception of the peace of Amiens, the Continent had not been open for the space of more than one-and-twenty years; a new generation had sprung up, and the whole of this, who had money and time at command, poured, in one vast stream, across the Pas de Calais into France.

(Westminster Review, 1826) |

: in the crowd

They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts

, (Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, ut)

I. In the Crowd The British, it is often said, are a travelling people, ‘ever addicted to vagabondizing’. But the epigraph above speaks of unprecedented crowds of tourists, rushing in rather less than dignified fashion to ‘occupy’ the Continent Wellington had liberated. The new travel scene of the postNapoleonic years was regularly portrayed in such terms: all at once the cultural practice of Continental travel seemed radically ‘open’ (to abso-

lutely ‘every English heart’), and though certainly overreactions, these | depictions had effects. They fuelled a need for some means of distinguishing the ‘traveller’ from the mass of tourists; they impelled, in other

words, the elaboration of forms of distinction between genuine and spurious cultural experience. The sociologist John Urry writes that the ‘extensive development of

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 81 mass travel by train’ in the second half of the nineteenth century meant that ‘status distinctions then came to be drawn between different classes of traveller, but less between those who could and those who could not

travel’.' But conventions for distinguishing true travellers from mere tourists had already begun to establish themselves by the time that the Victorian transport technologies and bureaucracies appeared on the scene, and the conventions helped to shape reactions to the new technologies and bureaucracies. The real or the perceived encroachment of ‘tourism’ on districts that had been the preserves of a privileged few nourished the urge to delineate. Increased ease of access to the Continent was held to have invited ‘a flood’ of tourists into the havens of European

travel. From the start, this movement looked like a ‘second wave’ of British invasion—an army of tourists following the lead of an actual army—and it called into question the motives and ideals traditionally associated with Continental travel. After seeing a Cook’s party in Italy, Charles Lever opined that ‘nothing short of another war and another Wellington’ would restore the English reputation abroad, which the first war and its hero had unwittingly helped put in jeopardy.? Thus began the efforts—still discernible—to establish the purposes and behaviour that make for ‘genuine’ European travel, constructing the

genuine on a foundation of denunciation, evasion, and putative transcendence of merely ‘touristic’ purposes and behaviour. The controversies over tourism and the search for a ‘travel’ or ‘anti-tourism’ that can thrive even in its midst have together formed a set of conventions in

which the relationship between culture and society, in the context of

modern democratizing nations, has been influentially articulated. Temporarily removing one from domestic society, the tour abroad presents an image in high relief of culture’s potential function in modern industrial democracies: the cultural is conceived of as ‘outside’ ordinary social life, comprising a compensatory domain of autonomy and creativity to which utilitarian capitalist social arrangements pay no heed.? Travel, like culture, offers an imaginative freedom not as a rule available in modern social life; it encourages the fashioning of special identities, good for the duration of the journey and afterwards—identities privately and intensely possessed, which are congruent with that freedom. And though self-designated ‘travellers’ may tell themselves that they are truly the people they become while on tour, the tour, like culture, fosters this belief inside well-marked boundaries: one must always return home, go 1 The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies (London: Sage, 1990), 16. 2 ‘Continental Excursionists’, Blackwood's Magazine, 97/594 (Feb. 1865), 2.33. 3 See Pamela McCallum, Literature and Method: Towards a Critique of I. A. Richards, T. S. Eliot, and F. R. Leavis (Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities Press, 1983), 9-37; and Raymond Williams, Culture and Society, 1780-1950 (1958; New York: Columbia University Press, 1983), 49-70.

82 «Tourism and Anti-Tourism back to work, resume the identity by which one is recognized among relatives, co-workers, employers. If this characterization of travel abroad bespeaks an exemplary goal of modern cultural practice, then the perception (whether justified or not) that travel is in the process of radical democratization will yield signifi-

cant questions about travel’s and culture’s ability to perform their appro- ;

priate functions: for how can the self-actualizing potential of travel or , culture be realized when the participant finds himself or herself awash in a flood of others attempting to perform the same manceuvres? How can

travel survive when the ground for its performance is held, ever more complacently and permanently, by tourists and their industry? To witnesses of tourism’s expansion, plurality seemed always to imply homogeneity and crudity; what would remain that was special about one

tourist’s tourism—that which he or she would valorize as ‘travel’? .

This chapter investigates the ways practitioners and observers attempted to answer these questions, particularly in the first half of the nineteenth century. I argue that established privileges and prejudices were called upon and new techniques invented in order to reassure selfstyled travellers in even the most popularly visited places of their saving difference from ‘the tourist’. The first part of this chapter describes contemporary representations of the post-1815 travel atmosphere, indicating the surprising tenacity of such representations. Part II then demonstrates

how nineteenth-century views on the contrasting purposes of Continental ‘travel’ and ‘tourism’ emerged and diverged from the older discourse surrounding the post-Renaissance Grand Tour. As the ideology presented it, privileged individuals had undertaken that Tour not only for their own betterment but on behalf of, as the representatives of, the

British nation; but the cultural gestures of their nineteenth-century counterparts were more embattled, and were likely to gain value by setting the actor apart from a larger social group rather than by constituting him or her as its representative. Tourism’s apparent openness

led to the frequent identification of tourists as part of the modern ‘crowd’ , or ‘mob’—evoking class anxieties, in the wake of the French Revolution, . about the ‘mobility’ of the lower orders of society. Part III examines some ways in which Romantic literature and its authors—particularly Byron—

were adapted to the purposes of tourism and anti-tourism. Part IV considers the gender stereotypes of the post-Romantic paradigm, according to which ‘travel’ is achievable by lone males of demonstrably acute sensitivity, while ‘tourism’ appears a feminine endeavour requiring a constraining male solicitude. But first it will be necessary to take stock of

the contemporary literary, epistolary, and journalistic record that brought and kept the tourists’ horde and all that accompanied it before

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 83 the public eye. Because I mean to stress the repetitive nature of recorded

comments on the tourists in Europe, the following pages will take examples from the whole period from 1815 to the 1870s. In this nineteenth-century record, we confront an exaggeration similar

to that with which many observers regarded the rise of the modern transport technologies: the tour was described as having undergone almost instant democratization, and fashionable resorts seemed to have packed themselves with highly visible, alarmingly diverse hordes of other British men and women almost overnight. A writer in the Westminster Review in 1825 described the ‘curious medley’ of his compatriots in Rome, consisting of all classes, ages, sexes, and conditions ... assembled together; the first of our nobility with the last of our citizens ... crossing and justling each other in every corner; talking, writing, wondering, displaying, and rhapsodizing:—lionhunting, husband-hunting, time-killing, money-spending, view-taking, and book-making ... English, in short, of every kind and description—high and low—wise and foolish—rich and poor—black, brown, and fair.‘

The medley is cacophonous. This account depicts a kind of ‘Vanity Fair Abroad’: a compressed, ‘justling’, heterogeneous mass of English all jockeying for position within a social system that seems scandalously

freer than the domestic one.’ In similar fashion, the New Monthly Magazine found in 1829 that ‘“all sorts and conditions” of his Britannic

Majesty’s subjects seem engaged ... in steam-boats, omnibuses, and accélérés, on one common pursuit of perpetual motion’; never had the writer seen ‘such a deportation of an entire people’.* Of course, there was not and has never been any meaningful equality of access to the cultural values procurable through the Continental tour; but perceptions like the above have proceeded none the less, operating on the principle of what Pierre Bourdieu has called ‘wéconnaissance’—a misrecognition of social reality that works to maintain, by naturalizing, the advantages of dom-

inant groups.’ The topical literature of the years following the Napoleonic Wars is full of hyperbole about British tourists’ deluge, invasion, or infestation of

the Continent, an onslaught marked chiefly by suddenness, liquid formlessness, and deafening noise. The Westminster Review remarked in 1825 that ‘immediately after the peace’ of 1815, ‘the inundation of Britons,

4 Westminster Review, 3 (Apr. 1825), 358-9.

5 See John Pemble, The Mediterranean Passion: Victorians and Edwardians in the South (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 99. 6 T. Morgan, ‘Travelling Troubles’, New Monthly Magazine, 5 (Oct. 1829), 337-8; quoted in Piers Brendon, Thomas Cook: 150 Years of Popular Tourism (London: Secker & Warburg, 1991), 11.

, Pree Sees a , Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University

84 Tourism and Anti-Tourism —

- like a second irruption of the Goths, poured down upon Italy ...’.® Numerous testimonies feature a spectacle of British men and women flowing furiously across the Channel, transforming in their numbers the favoured Continental routes and haunts. A sizeable body of mocking and indignant commentary on the unprecedented rush of tourists began to

accrue. Coleridge lambasted the new fashion in ‘The Delinquent Travellers’: But O, what scores are sick of home, Agog for Paris and for Rome!

Nay! tho’ contented to abide, .

You should prefer your own fireside; Yet since grim War has ceas’d its madding, And Peace has set John Bull agadding, "T would such a vulgar taste betray, For very shame you must away! ...

Keep moving! Steam, or Gas, or Stage, Hold, cabin, steerage, hencoop’s cage— Tour, Journey, Voyage, Lounge, Ride, Walk,

Skim, Sketch, Excursion, Travel-talk— , For move you must! ’Tis now the rage, The law and fashion of the Age.’

Along the line from France to Italy, the English seemed to be everywhere

- one looked. In 1817 Byron was describing Rome to Thomas Moore as ‘pestilential with English,—a parcel of staring boobies, who go about gaping and wishing to be at once cheap and magnificent’; he remained in Venice ‘chiefly because it is not one of their “dens of thieves”’.!° Byron’s unwelcome companions had ‘crossed [him] everywhere’ in Switzerland,

he said, to the extent that ‘the most distant glimpse or aspect of them poisoned the whole scene’.'' The vision of ‘the English to be met with everywhere’ provided the starting-point for Moore’s remarkable ‘Extract IV’ of Rhymes on the Road (1819), which asked, And is there then no earthly place Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision?! 8 Westminster Review, 3 (Apr. 1825), 359. 9 In Coleridge: Poetical Works, ed. Ernest Hartley Coleridge (Oxford: Oxford University Press,

10 Otted in Thomas Moore, The Life of Byron (Philadelphia: J. & J. L. Gihon, 185x), i. 601. 11 Ibid. i. 601, 602. 12 Rhymes on the Road, in The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, n.d.), 587. Further quotations from same page.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 85 As the English touring party Moore describes makes its way up the Simplon, its members show no interest in the splendours all around them; instead, they jabber noisily about such items of bourgeois British concern as the latest ‘news from “Change”’. (In a Cornhill article of 1869, Leslie Stephen would repeat the image, writing of the Alpine tourist who

‘likes to have a conversation with his fellows about cotton-prints or the

rate of discount in the shadow of Mont Blanc ...’.'°) The poem then builds on this sketch of English tourists with their insular concerns: Moore’s satiric imagination glimpses a global vision of tourism’s future. And, if this rage for travelling lasts, If Cockneys, of all sects and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, — Will leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands ...

| Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that’s free of London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue ‘at home’ Among the Blacks of Carolina— Or, flying to the Eastward, see Some Mrs Hopkins, taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China!

‘Go where we may, rest where we will,’ Moore writes, ‘Eternal London haunts us still.’ Constantine Henry Phipps, First Marquis of Normanby, wrote in 1825 of seeing ‘Jenkinsons and Tomkinsons tumble down the Alps in living

avalanches’; and in his volume of tales entitled The English in Italy, Normanby gave this analysis of the new English enthusiasm for journeys abroad: The power of Napoleon became as by a miracle dissolved ... the minds of Englishmen being accustomed to contemplate the rise and fall of empires, and to hang upon the fate of armies, could not resign themselves at once to the dull and newsless state of peace, without seeking to supply the means of excitement which

they had lost by some other as absorbing. Foreign travel alone appeared to supply this void, and all who could, or deemed they could, afford the gratification, rushed to enjoy it. At first it was but the higher orders who ventured to taste this long forbidden cup—even the rich commoner feared in the commencing days of peace to make so bold a step as that across the English Channel—but 13 [Signed ‘A Cynic’], ‘Vacations’, Cornhill Magazine, 20 (Aug. 1869), 209; repr. in Men, Books, and Mountains: Essays by Leslie Stephen, ed. S.O. A. Ullman (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1956), 174.

86 Tourism and Anti-Tourism as the few noble avant-couriers of English wholesale emigration returned, lesser

men and lesser fortunes took courage, and sped to Calais, ashamed of their former backwardness and fears. '*

This common interpretation holds that the war has made the Continent

| more attractive by proscribing access to it; ‘abroad’ has loomed large in the thirsty British imagination as ‘the long forbidden cup’. Furthermore,

its tastes now keyed to vicarious experiences of a dramatic, worldhistorical nature, the British populace plunges feverishly into foreign travel as an ill-considered substitute for the events of war. | If we supplement Normanby’s explanation with another comparable effort to account for the British public’s strange new tastes in the early nineteenth century, we may go some distance towards understanding why impressions of crowdedness, inescapable Englishness, and the free mixture of classes occurred so readily to imaginations of that period. In the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads (1800), Wordsworth insisted that ‘the ‘human mind is capable of being excited without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and power who.does not know this, and who does not further

know, that one being is elevated above another, in proportion as he possesses this capability.’ Of his own labours, the poet asserted that to endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best services in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged; but this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present day. For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place, and the increased accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid communication of intelligence hourly

gratifies. !5 7

On this view, not only the events of the French War, but also the centri-

petal and standardizing force of industrialization is responsible for a

dangerously degraded sensibility among the British public. Wordsworth’s preface presents the Ballads as an attempt to counteract that same lust for ‘experience’ which Normanby would see impelling the Channel-crossers and Alp-tumblers. Thus, though often lightly satirical, overstatements about a tourist mass indiscriminately mingling all levels 14 The English in Italy (London: printed for Saunders & Otley, British and Foreign Public Library,

1825), ii. 223; i. 12. Subsequent references cited in the text as EJ. See Kenneth Churchill, Italy and

English Literature, 1764~1930 (London: Macmillan, 1980), 56. ,

15 Wordsworth, The Poems, ed. John O. Hayden, 2 vols. (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1981) i. 872-3.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 87 of British society impinge upon that series of responses to the urban crowd and its powers which marks the era from Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790) to Gustave Le Bon’s The Crowd (1895) and beyond. Moore’s flippant Rhymes on the Road was written in the year of Peterloo. Placing the conventions of tourist representation in this context can

further illuminate the reactions to such tourist pioneers as Thomas Cook, who in promoting his business often took direct aim at the crowdanxieties of his opponents. As part of its campaign to attract visitors to the 1862 International Exhibition, the Excursionist carried a column by Eliza Cook (no relation) on ‘The Great Roar of London’—in which we read: Among the busy crowd, filling the many long miles of London streets, one feels oneself to be a very insignificant unit. Eighty thousand persons pass over London Bridge daily! What is one among so many. Nobody knows you, and you know none of them. You have to fall in with the current or get your shins kicked, no

matter how great a nabob you may be in your native town. Draymen rub shoulders with you, and butcher boys shoot past you with tray on shoulder. Rich equipages fall into the train of coal waggons, and liveried footmen have to wait the passage of brewers’ drays. The fine gentleman in his brougham—a great magnate on the magistrates’ bench at home—follows in the wake of an adver-

tising caravan, or behind a stopping omnibus ... ,

Even the Prime Minister must pick his way along Parliament Street, ‘an

errand-boy with a blue bag ... at his side, and a burly coal-heaver ... before him’—and like their Premier, all English people must submit to being ‘jostled’, for as the streets of its capital so amply demonstrate, modern England admits of ‘no ceremony—no exclusiveness—all are on the same level ... °.'6 The city masses that populated Victorian imaginations were already on the minds of tourist-observers in the early years of the century, play-

ing a role in representations of tourism similar to that which Walter Benjamin discerned for them in the works of Baudelaire, the great poet of Paris: they formed the underlying assumption of representations.'” It is

within the framework of the modern conurbation that visions of the ‘curious medley’ of Britons abroad become second nature. Other common responses, such as bemusement and frustration at finding signs of England ‘everywhere’—responses that may be found in earlier comments on the Grand Tour and that largely reflect the clustering tendency of the English abroad—were redoubled in the nineteenth century because 16 Cook’s Excursionist (24 May 1862), 3. 17 Benjamin, Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism, trans. Harry Zohn (London: Verso, 1983), 120 ff.

88 Tourism and Anti-Tourism of the impression that the new social mobility was transforming England itself into a curious medley of ‘all sorts and conditions’ in which high and low social tones clanged tunelessly together. Fears of the revolutionary wave of the mob, assuaged by the assiduous efforts of a repressive wartime administration, resurfaced in the hyperbolic post-war representa-

tions of the touristic hordes. The spectre of Englishness abroad, then, was not solely the result of greater numbers of tourists. Overstatements such as I have quoted can easily mislead us about the size and diversity of

the English touring contingent on the Continent after 1815, a quantity and a quality difficult to calculate.'* As Thackeray said in his observations on ‘English Snobs on the Continent’, ‘though they are a hundred thousand times less numerous than on their native island, yet even these

few are too many’.'!? Comments that began in experiences filtered through preconceptions grew into a nearly self-perpetuating discourse that burgeoned with little reference to demographic trends.

Several other factors contributed to this impression of English ubiquity. Most obvious among these was the clustering tendency: as in earlier times, English society abroad revolved about the same coteries or coffee-houses. ‘We English herd so much together’, says a character in Lever’s The Dodd Family Abroad, ‘and continue to follow our home habits and use our own language wherever we happen to be, that it is not very easy to break out of the beaten track.’*° This propensity was much noted by visitors to Rome, where an English colony had been established

around the Spanish Steps for many years. When the protagonist of . Thackeray’s novel The Newcomes (1856) arrives in Rome, he sees that ‘thither, as elsewhere, we carry our insular habits with us. We have a little England at Paris, a little England at Munich, Dresden, everywhere. Our friend [Clive Newcome] is an Englishman, and did at Rome as the English do.’! (Arthur Sketchley’s Mrs Brown produced the non sequitur ‘When you’re in Rome do as the Romans does, as the sayin’ is, and so I went all over the place with the rest of the Hinglish.”*) In the Rome Clive Newcome visits there is 18 Estimates vary widely. John Pimlott has 50,000 passengers leaving England by the Channel ports every year during the 1830s; George Young claims ‘ro0,000 people were crossing the Channel each year’ by 1840, 500,000 by 1882; and Maxine Feifer writes that ‘t50,000 British visitors per year’ travelled to the Continent in the period after the Napoleonic Wars. See Pimlott, The Englishman's Holiday: A Social History (London: Faber & Faber, 1947), 189; Young, Tourism: Blessing or Blight? (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1973), 18; and Feifer, Tourism in History: From Imperial Rome to the Present (New York: Stein & Day, 1986), 164. 19 The Book of Snobs (1848; Gloucester: Alan Sutton, 1989), 105. 20 The Novels of Charles Lever (Boston: Little, Brown, 1894), iv. 13. Subsequent references cited in the text as NCL.

ee The Newcomes: Memoirs of a Most Respectable Family (1856; London: Smith, Elder, 1884), i. , 22 Mrs Brown on the Grand Tour (London: George Routledge, n.d.), 95.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 89 an English library where the various meets for the week are placarded: on such a day the Vatican galleries are open; the next is the feast of Saint So-and-so; on Wednesday there will be music and Vespers at the Sistine Chapel; on Thursday

the Pope will bless the animals—sheep, horses, and what not: and flocks of English accordingly rush to witness the benediction of droves of donkeys. In a word, the ancient city of the Caesars, the august fanes of the Popes, with their splendour and ceremony, are all mapped out and arranged for English diversion 2

In addition, the English amenities increasingly available in the most-visited centres became the subject of repeated ambivalent comment. Hazlitt, in Florence in the early 1820s, was ‘surprised to find, at the Hotel of the Four Nations, where we stopped the first two days, that we could have a pudding for dinner ... and I concluded this was a luxury which the Italians had been compelled to adopt from the influx of

the English, and the loudness of their demands for comfort’.** The English-style meals served in Continental hotels continued to attract comment in later travel books: Arthur Sketchley’s memoir of a Cook’s tour to Switzerland and Italy speaks of the hoteliers’ custom of serving ‘what they think are the perfection of English dinners, and surfeit[ing] one with a stringy roast beef and greasy potatoes, varied by a tasteless leg of mutton, with an apple-pie or rice-pudding thrown in’.* As the image arose of a Continent stocked with English food, English

newspapers, English churches (especially in Catholic countries), English-seeking hotels (Hétel de Londres, de l’Angleterre, Grande Bretagne, Victoria, and so forth), English doctors, chemists, grocers, and plenty of English society, questions arose with it about what sort of

contact could be expected there with foreign cultures and people.” ‘Eternal London’ haunted the British traveller because any considerable

aggregate of tourists would soon transfigure a portion of the visited

being that | region’s economy into a system of support services for themselves. The

protagonist of The Dodd Family Abroad found that ‘the Continent

differs wonderfully little from England’—the reason for this impression

I was always in intercourse with foreigners who live and trade upon English travellers, who make a livelihood of ministering to John Bull’s national leanings in dress, cookery, and furniture; and who, so to say, get up a kind of artificial England abroad, where the Englishman is painfully reminded of all the comforts

he has left behind him, without one single opportunity for remembering the 23 The Newcomes, ii. 6. 24 Notes of a Journey through France and Italy (London: Hunt & Clarke, 1826), 249.

25 Out for a Holiday with Cook’s Excursion through Switzerland and Italy (London: George Routledge, 1870), 84. 26 On English amenities in Italy and on the Riviera, see Pemble, Mediterranean Passion, 41-2.

90 Tourism and Anti-Tourism compensations he is receiving in return. ... [The Continent] is a bad travesty of a homely original. (NCL iii. 253)

Dismay over the Anglicization of European places—and over ‘the tourist’s’ invidious satisfaction at the prospect—was a repeated theme. The Westminster Review called Rome in 1825 ‘no better than an English watering-place’.?”? Anna Jameson found St Peter’s ‘as usual crowded with English, who every Sunday convert [it] into a kind of Hyde Park, where they promenade arm in arm, show off their finery, laugh, and talk aloud

... 78 One author writing on Switzerland in Blackwood’s claimed that British visitors had made Chamonix into a ‘little London of the High Alps’ and the Col de Balme into ‘the Oxford Street or Strand of the Alps’.2? In The Kickleburys on the Rhine, Thackeray, as Michael Angelo

Titmarsh, pronounced that we all flock the one after the other, we faithful English folks. We can buy Harvey Sauce, and Cayenne Pepper, and Morison’s Pills, in every city in the world. We

carry our nation everywhere with us; and are in our island, wherever we go. Toto divisos orbe—always separated from the people in the midst of whom we are, *°

Like Moore’s overreaching satirical imagination, Thackeray’s runs far | ahead of actual events (‘every city in the world’) to furnish a prescient ) description of touristic alienation. (Dean MacCannell’s claim—in 1976— that ‘“the tourist” is one of the best models available for modern-man-in-

general’ derives from just such an image of the tourist as a figure estranged from ‘the authentic’.*!) As amenities and institutions increasingly made it unnecessary or difficult to imagine, some means of over-

- coming that separation, some contact with what was authentically foreign in the foreign place—its true culture, its genius loci—would

emerge as the desideratum of genuine travel. 7 Of course, significant changes in the fashions and means of Con- ,

tinental travel did take place over the course of the century: the urge for novelty, the improvements in transport, the constraints placed on travel by disease and war and changing passport regulations all influenced the available and desirable choices. The cholera epidemic of 1836 and the unstable political conditions of the 1830s and 1840s contributed to a decline in ‘the Italianate fashion’ and the emergence of new preferences in travel destinations and styles*; the events of 1848 put a temporary and 27 Westminster Review, 3 (Apr. 1825), 359. 28 Diary of an Ennuyée (1826; Boston: Ticknor & Fields, 1857), 141. 29 ‘Mountaineering—The Alpine Club’, 460.

30 The Kickleburys on the Rhine (3rd edn., London: Smith, Elder, 1851), 34. 41 The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class (New York: Schocken Books, 1976), 1. 32 C. P. Brand, Italy and the English Romantics: The Italianate Fashion in Early NineteenthCentury England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957), 24.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 91 much-discussed halt to most Continental tourist traffic. Yet the conventions of the British tourists’ pervasiveness and predictability outlasted

these topicalities; and new generations of visitors were always to be found in locales no longer considered fashionable, as well as in more recently favoured spots. When quiet returned to the capitals of Europe after 1848, the theme of omnipresent tourists likewise returned to the pages of British books and journals. Fraser’s Magazine of July 1850 reminded readers that the English are to be found in every nook and cranny that contains a fraction of a civilized or uncivilized population. You cannot go into a mosque, a synagogue, or a cathedral, visit a picture-gallery or a museum, climb a mountain, traverse a

pass, lose yourself in a ruin, or go anywhere, in short, for society or solitude, that you may not calculate with tolerable certainty upon meeting some of your

| wandering countrymen ... *° Several decades’ repeated representations lent support to generaliz-

ations about ‘that potent and odious aggregate—“The British Tourist”’.3* ‘Tourists’ had become sufficiently identified with the indus-

tries and bureaucracies enabling numbers of people to reach the Continent that it was conventional for their critics to range back and forth between observations about those impersonal systems and confident inferences about the personal traits of each single tourist. Whereas the names ‘Karl Baedeker’ and ‘Thomas Cook’ came to represent both systems and the individuals who created them, ‘The Tourist’ emerged as an individual defined by system and plurality, a plural person of suspect motives and tendencies, like Poe’s ‘Man of the Crowd’, recapitulating the

imputed qualities of the mob. Charles Lever’s brief view of Cook’s tourists led him to remark, as we have seen, on their ‘crass ignorance’, their ‘overbearing insolence’, their ‘purse-strong insistance [sic]’, their ‘absurd pretension’.*5 Writing in Cornhill Magazine in 1869, Leslie Stephen proposed, ‘Let any intelligent person strike into the tracks of a party of Mr. Cook’s tourists and study their modes of passing the time’; such study could only conclude that the tourist, in short, is notoriously a person who follows blindly a certain hackneyed round; who never stops long enough before a picture or a view to admire it or to fix it in his memory; and who seizes every opportunity of transplanting

little bits of London to the districts which he visits. ... We are supposed to travel mainly in search of the beautiful and the picturesque; and yet the faculty

33 ‘Recent Travellers’, Fraser's Magazine, 42/247 (July 1850), 45. 34 ‘At the Alps Again’, 551. 35 ‘Continental Excursionists’, 233.

92, Tourism and Anti-Tourism which takes pleasure in such things is frequently in a state of almost complete atrophy. *°

‘The tourist is a person who ...’: the criticisms always seemed to come back to judgements about the touristic personality. Towards the end of the century, Gustave Le Bon would describe the crowd member in

terms that had been partly prepared for him by tourist-watchers: he spoke of ‘the disappearance of the conscious personality [and] the predominance of the unconscious personality’, of the intellectual inferiority and suggestibility of human beings when massed together. The man in the crowd ‘is no longer himself, but has become an automaton who has ceased to be guided by his will’, Le Bon argued.*” But whereas the sociologist emphasized the way ordinary individuals were transformed under the temporary conditions of crowd-membership, critics of ‘The Tourist’ usually attributed lasting personal characteristics to the specimen on the

basis of his or her place in the throng. Crowd-haters reasoned that an increase in tourist density in particular places implied flaws in the individuals so densely compacted; and in the pages of many offended observers, the figure of the ‘specimen tourist’ tended to emerge from the swarming mass only in order to exemplify its vulgarity and insensitivity

to Europe’s greatest marvels. Byron wrote of remembering, ‘at Chamouni, in the very eyes of Mont Blanc, hearing {an English] woman ... exclaim to her party, “Did you ever see any thing more rural?” as if it

was Highgate, or Hampstead, or Brompton, or Hayes,—‘“Rural!” quotha. Rocks, pines, torrents, glaciers, clouds, and summits of eternal snows far above them—and “rural!”’>® Anna Jameson encountered such

a tourist in Venice, dwelling upon the example and quoting his speech with evident astonishment: We found here a solitary gentleman, who was sauntering up and down with his hands in his pockets, and a look at once stupid and disconsolate. Sometimes he

| paused, looked vacantly over the waters, whistled, yawned, and turned away to resume his solemn walk. ... He congratulated himself on having met with some one who would speak English; adding contemptuously that ‘he understood none of the outlandish tongues the people spoke hereabouts’: he inquired what was to be seen here, for though he had been four days in Venice, he had spent every day precisely in the same manner; viz. walking up and down the public gardens. We told him Venice was famous for fine buildings and pictures; he knew nothing of them things. And that it contained also, ‘some fine statues and antiques’—he cared nothing about them neither—he should set off for Florence the next morning, and begged to know what was to be seen there? Mr. R—-— told him, with 36 ‘Vacations’, 209; in Men, Books, and Mountains, 174. 3? The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind, intro. Robert K. Merton (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981), 32 and passim. 38 Moore, Life of Byron, i. 54r.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 93 enthusiasm, ‘the most splendid gallery of pictures and statues in the world!’ He looked very blank and disappointed. ‘Nothing else?’ Then he should certainly not waste his time at Florence, he should go direct to Rome; he had put down the name of that town in his pocket-book, for he understood it was a very convenient place: he should therefore stay there a week: thence he should go to Naples, a place he had also heard of, where he should stay another week: then he should go to Algiers ... and thence to Tunis ... then he should return home, having seen every thing worth seeing. He scarcely seemed to know how or by what route he had got to Venice—but he assured us he had come ‘fast enough’;

he remembered no place he had passed through except Paris. *? , ‘After this specimen, sketched from life,’ adds Jameson, ‘who will say there are such things as caricatures?’ (Part of the amazement was due to the scandalous thought that the tourist could equate Florence and Rome with Algiers and Tunis as mere ‘curiosities’.) And because the same cities, spas, and sights were on many a Continental itinerary, it was not uncommon to

meet the same specimen in a number of different places. Writing twenty years after Jameson, Dickens recalled a certain Mr and Mrs Davis, who during Holy Week in Rome were to be found ‘in every tomb, and every church, and every ruin, and every Picture Gallery ... deep underground,

high up in St. Peter’s, out on the Campagna, and stifling in the Jews’ quarter’. It was a reflex then to apply to Mrs Davis the standard conclusion about the ubiquitous tourist’s disregard for the sights she was supposed to be seeing: ‘I don’t think she ever saw anything, or ever looked at anything

....° There is no record of what Mrs Davis thought when she saw a certain English gentleman reappear wherever she went. Perhaps no text better illustrates the habit of identifying the individual tourist with the imputed features of the group than ‘At the Alps Again’, a Blackwood’s article of 1867: its author offered ‘to define, after the manner of natural historians, this class [the touristic] of the human genus’. The character sketch that ensued matched the pattern of Lever’s and Stephen’s accounts. But what most fired this writer’s indignation was not the tourist’s often laughable incapacities, but the way the tourist immediately implied the system he exemplified:

lates... |

It is amusing enough for the first time to meet [the tourist] in the Oberland in blouse and straw hat, carrying an alpen-stock; but this vision of helplessness

soon becomes tiresome. In other shapes, however, he is by no means helpless— the more’s the pity. He is an item of a mighty corporation, the power of which is felt over a large portion of the picturesque world. District after district it deso-

39 Diary of an Ennuyée, 73-4. 40 Pictures from Italy (1846; New York: The Ecco Press, 1988), 120.

94 Tourism and Anti-Tourism The attack is resumed a page further on. Perhaps one ought to pity this class of beings, for they are docile and obedient, , and, indeed, their offensiveness comes less of any self-willed viciousness, than of

a subjection to certain established regulations, and to the will of those whom they choose to consider as placed in authority over them; and yet it is from this last and amiable weakness that they become the curse of all who frequent the same path with them. They create an army of mercenaries nominally to serve them, actually to order them about, and the host thus established carries its tyranny beyond those who have sanctioned and established the institution, inflicting no end of torment on the simple wanderer, who desires to have his own

way on the face of the wide world. , Moving ‘like the glacier . . . steadily and slowly onwards, pressing out all verdure and beauty and geniality wherever it lays its heavy icy load’, the

omnipresent tourist ‘desolated’ Europe’s most beautiful places and fostered ‘bad travesties’ of England across the Continent. But the primary concern, here as in other texts, is for the ‘simple wanderers’ (the anti-tourists) sharing the same paths with the tourists who torment them.

Complaints about the tourist invasion were less an effort to defend favourite haunts—an effort that would be futile, in any event, in the face ,

of tourism’s continuing development—than they were a rhetorical strategy for guaranteeing the complainer’s difference. The author of ‘At the Alps Again’ was clear about this priority: Whoever takes the trouble to read through these random recollections will note that I look on an exemption from the presence of the British tourist as one of the charming privileges of this district. If 1 am charged with inconsistency in being told that in these pages I am doing my best to awaken the attention of this class

to a new and desirable field, I can easily defend myself. If I were to adopt the cynical humour, I would say, Not many more years can I expect to enjoy ... ‘in such a loved and lonely place companionless to roam;’ and so, after I have done with it, let the deluge of tourists come. *!

Apres moi, le deluge, the anti-tourist was always saying: keep the flood-gates shut until I have had my special experience and made my uniqueness known. But in the most-visited spots, the dikes had already burst, and the problem for the anti-tourist was more a matter of keeping

one’s head above the waters and calling attention to one’s ability to float. , In E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View (1908), the lady novelist Miss Lavish speaks of wanting ‘to set an examination paper at Dover, and [to] turn back every tourist who couldn’t pass it’; but she is staying at the same pensione with the ‘typical tourists’ she cannot abide. * Even equanimity towards the tourists’ crowd tended to be expressed in 41 ‘At the Alps Again’, 550-2.

42 A Room with a View (1908; London: Edward Arnold, 1977), 18.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 95 patronizing terms, and it was often accompanied by overt or tacit assurances of the observer’s difference from the crowd. In the autumn of 1873 the young Henry James was in Berne, watching the stream of summer tourists make its way through that city on the way back to England. The vision prompted remarkable reflections. People are flocking out of Switzerland, as in July they were flocking in, and the

main Channels of egress are terribly choked. I have been here several days, watching them come and go; it is like the march-past of an army. It gives one a lively impression of the quantity of luxury now diffused through the world. Here

is little Switzerland disgorging its tens of thousands of honest folks, chiefly English, and rarely, to judge by their faces and talk, children of light, in any eminent degree; for whom snow-peaks, and glaciers, and passes, and lakes, and chalets, and sunsets, and a café-complet, ‘including honey’, as the coupon says, have become prime necessities for six weeks every year. It’s not so long ago that lords and nabobs monopolized these pleasures; but nowadays a month’s tour in Switzerland is no more a jeu de prince than a Sunday excursion. To watch this

huge Anglo-Saxon wave ebbing through Berne makes one fancy that the common lot of mankind is after all not so very hard, and that the masses have reached a rather high standard of comfort.

Continuing, James wondered, Is it really the ‘masses’ I see every day at the table d’héte? They have too few h’s

to the dozen, as one may say, but their good nature is great. Some people complain that they ‘vulgarize’ Switzerland; but as far as I am concerned I freely give it to them. Switzerland is a ‘show country’—I think so more and more as |

come here; and its use in the world is to reassure persons of a benevolent imagination when they begin to wish the mass of mankind had only a little more elevating amusement. Here is amusement for a thousand years, and as elevating, certainly, as mountains five miles high can make it. I expect to live to see the

summit of the Monte Rosa heated by steam-tubes and adorned with a hotel setting three tables d’héte a day.”

If we imagine the corrosive sarcasm which writers like Ruskin or Leslie

Stephen would have administered in such a passage, the mildness of James’s treatment becomes all the more striking. James does not stoop; he bestows a temperately ironic blessing from on high. This was his usual

method for confronting tourism’s ‘cocknification’ of places—though there were occasional lapses of ire—and it here makes up part of the 30-year-old James’s strategy of establishing his distance from the hordes.

But there was often a problem for those who sought anti-touristic distinction; Frances Trollope expressed it well in 1842. She was convinced 43. Transatlantic Sketches (1875; Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1893), 230-1.

96 Tourism and Anti-Tourism that the cause why we hear, throughout France, Germany, and Italy, so many unpleasant observations on what are called our national peculiarities, arises from the fact, that the respectable class of travellers—I mean such as are of good educations, and good breeding, pass through these countries, and through all the scenes of public resort in which they may chance to mix, so quietly as not to

attract any notice whatever, and therefore the best among us cannot act as a | balance weight against the worst ... while those, who every year scramble abroad for a few weeks, instead of spending their money at Margate or Brighton,

have no joy equal to that of drawing all eyes upon them, and account their consequence to be in exact proportion to the astonishment they excite.

The result of this disparity was that ‘every traveller from Great Britain is dubbed Milor Anglais, and the boutiquier is, from sheer ignorance, con-

founded with the gentleman’. As successful ‘travel’ came to depend upon the assurance that one’s experience was distinctively meaningful and authentic, travellers required confirmation from either the actual or the imputed reactions of witnesses. But the available witnesses—foreig-

ners—could be confused by the vulgar tourists’ and the genuine travellers’ equal and opposite devotions: to attention-getting displays of themselves, in the tourists’ case, and to polite self-effacement, in the travellers’. Common tourists, Frances Trollope wrote elsewhere, ‘have

perhaps no pleasure so great as that of being conscious that they are

observed—that they are producing a great sensation—and that they are not leaving their gold behind without the meed of being stared at as rich

milors, who were of too much consequence at home to condescend to be , decently civil and quiet abroad’. Trollope saw a scandal in the mistaking of boutiquiers—and worse—for gentlemen; she considered the new competitive atmosphere of the Continental tour, that ‘Vanity Fair Abroad’, a threat to the dignity and stability of English social structure. But, along with many another Victorian writer and journeyer, she also saw an opportunity: passages like the above are a part of her overall

attempt to represent herself—held back by her class and sex though she felt herself to be—as a spokesperson for polite ‘travellers’: The selfagerandizing anti-touristic gesture needed to be made just as noticeably as the reviled touristic one: it needed a theatre, a script, an audience. Such gestures could be made in a written text, like Frances:Trollope’s travel book, or they could be exhibited while on tour, by selecting some

accredited form of behaviour from an anti-tourist repertoire. Antitourists thus found themselves faced with a deeply ironic obligation to 44 A Visit to Italy (London: Richard Bentley, 1842), ii. 271-2. Subsequent references cited in the text

SS The Robertses on their Travels (London: Henry Colburn, 1846), i. 5. Subsequent references cited in the text as RT.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 97 display their qualities while simultaneously avoiding making tourist-like displays of themselves. How could nineteenth-century travellers guarantee that their imagined

witnesses would credit their superiority and uniqueness, rather than simply grouping them with the despised ‘potent aggregate’ all around them? Against the backdrop of a noisy, milling English touring population, solutions to the problem of defining the ‘traveller’-—the proper performer of cultural gestures—needed to be worked out.

II. Motives and Expectations After 1815 the recurrent representations of a Continent unprecedentedly

accessible to and overrun by the whole ‘curious medley’ of English society necessitated new interpretations of the aims and expectations with which European travel might be undertaken. In the face of the touristic hordes and the ‘little Englands’ they fostered abroad, nineteenth-century travellers and travel-writers needed to ask new questions, and to readdress some old ones with a new urgency, about the purpose and value of foreign travel. Many commentators shared the perspective of Fraser’s Magazine in finding it (in 1850) ‘difficult to determine why the thousands of English who may be tracked annually up the Rhine, and over the Alps and the Pyrenees, go abroad at all’, since ‘Intelligible purpose they have none ...’.“© What did all those English tourists want? What benefits did they think the Continent could offer them? What, after

all, should one want from the tour of Europe? Recourse to older accounts and justifications for travel abroad was an obvious option for

those who wanted to comprehend the new situation; but could such explanations, offered in the days of the privileged Grand Tour, be of much use under the new conditions of nineteenth-century tourism? I have already argued that the social and demographic changes noted by anxious nineteenth-century critics and exaggerating satirists were by

no means as sudden as they were conceived to be; it must also be observed that complaints about crowds of English visitors abroad were not entirely new. Gibbon had written in 1785 that ‘the only disagreable circumstance’ he observed in Lausanne was ‘the encrease of a race of animals with which this country has been long infested, and who are said

to come from an Island in the Northern Ocean’. He felt sure that his Swiss city of residence had its ‘full proportion’ of the 40,000. ‘English masters and servants’ said to invade the Continent from June to Octo-

| ber.*? Nor was ambivalence about the motives and benefits of foreign 46 ‘Recent Travellers’, Fraser’s Magazine 42/247 (July, 1850), 44. 47 The Letters of Edward Gibbon, ed. J. E. Norton (New York: Macmillan, 1956), iii. 33.

98 Tourism and Anti-Tourism travel a creation of the post-Napoleonic period. In raising questions about the motives and expectations of the new touring throng, nineteenth-century writers were returning to a topic of much previous concern. The educational and acculturating promises of the tour had been subject to debate from the time of Bacon’s early seventeenth-century essay ‘Of Travel’ and throughout the Enlightenment. Mary Wortley Montagu had anticipated Frances Trollope’s and Charles Lever’s dismay

over the threat which tourists posed to the reputation of England abroad; Montagu had complained in 1758 that ‘the folly of British boys and stupidity and knavery of governors [i.e. their tutors accompanying them] have gained us the glorious title of Golden Asses all over Italy’. Smollett had lamented the ‘number of raw boys, whom Britain seemed to have poured forth on purpose to bring her national character into contempt: ignorant, petulant, rash, and profligate, without any knowledge or experience of their own, without any director to improve their understanding, or superintend their conduct’.*? And yet an ideology of the tour’s benefits for young men of property—

and hence for the nation—was also widely circulated. Writing in 1670, | Richard Lassels had urged the Continental tour upon the youthful heirs of England’s estates, since my country gentleman that never travelled, can scarce go to London without making his will or at least wetting his handkerchief ... that never saw anybody but his father’s tenants and Mr. Parson; and never read anything but John Stow and Speed, thinks the Land’s End to be World’s-End; and that all solid greatness, next unto a great pasty, consists in a great fire and a grand estate. Whereas my

Travelling young Lord, who hath seen so many greater Men and Estates than his : own, comes home far more modest and civil to his inferiours, and far.less puft up

with the empty conceit of his own greatness.

Accordingly, Thomas Nugent’s influential volume The Grand Tour (1749) found the tour to be ‘a custom so visibly tending to enrich the mind with knowledge, to rectify the judgment, to remove the prejudices of education, to compose the outward manners, and in a word form the complete gentleman’.*! Bishop Hurd’s Moral and Political Dialogues

(1764) contained an imaginary debate on ‘The Uses of Foreign Travel’, in , the form of a dialogue between Shaftesbury and Locke.** Shaftesbury took Nugent’s line in arguing that the tour ‘polished [the traveller] by 48 The Complete Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, ed. Robert Halsband (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1967), iii. 148. 49 Travels through France and Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), 241. 50 ‘A Preface to the Reader Concerning Travelling’, in An Italian Voyage, Or, a Compleat Journey through Italy (2nd edn., London: Richard Wellington, 1698), n.p. 51 The Grand Tour (3rd edn., London, 1778), p. xi. 52 See R. S, Lambert, ed., Grand Tour: A Journey in the Tracks of the Age of Aristocracy (London: Faber & Faber, 1935), 29.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 99 degrees into a general and universal humanity’, ameliorating the narrow prejudices of his insular upbringing. ** On the other hand, by providing an education in contrasts to English conventions, the tour could heighten the traveller’s patriotic appreciation of English customs and social arrange-

ments. Gibbon claimed that he had returned from France and Italy ‘a better Englishman than I went out. Tho’ I have seen more elegant manners and more refined arts I have perceived so many real evils mixed with these

tinsel advantages, that they have only served to make the plain honesty and blunt freedom of my own country appear still more valuable to me.’ Still, the spreading fashion of the Grand Tour afforded much evidence for the detractors of its optimistic ideology. In Hurd’s dialogue, Locke answered Shaftesbury by claiming that the tour offered only a superficial social polish that was less beneficial as ‘the proper method for building up men’ than it was for ‘tricking out a set of fine gentlemen’.*5 Perhaps the ideals of the tour were set too high; perhaps it was the fault of opportunity-wasting practitioners if the potential gains of touring were not realized. Adam Smith wrote scathingly that the typical Grand Tourist ‘commonly returns home more conceited, more unprincipled, more dissipated, and more incapable of any serious application, either to study or to business, than he could well have become in so short a time had he lived at home’.°* Drawing on his own experience, Doctor Johnson con-

cluded that the young man’s putatively educational tour was almost always a waste of time: ‘What I gained by being in France’, Johnson told Boswell, ‘was, learning to be better satisfied with my own country. Time

may be employed to more advantage from nineteen to twenty-four almost in any way than in travelling .. .’.5” Smollett claimed that all the

Grand Tourists he knew of ‘talk familiarly of the arts, and return polished connoisseurs and coxcombs to their own country’. And Cowper summed up in couplets the general complaint about the Grand Tourist: Returning he proclaims by many a grace, By shrugs and strange contortions of his face, How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam, Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home.°*? 53 Moral and Political Dialogues, with Letters on Chivalry and Romance (3rd edn., London: Bowyer & Millar, 1765), iii. 31.

54 Letters of Edward Gibbon, i. 197-8. 55 Hurd, Moral and Political Dialogues, iii. 65. 56 An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of The Wealth of Nations, ed. Edwin Cannan (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), ii. 295. 57 James Boswell, Life of Johnson, ed. R. W. Chapman (new edn., corr. J. D. Fleeman, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 197¢), 995. 38 Travels through France and Italy, 241. 59 ‘The Progress of Error’, in The Poetical Works of William Cowper, ed. H. S. Milford (4th edn., London: Oxford University Press, 1934), 26.

100. 6Tourism and Anti-Tourism

In short, earlier comment on the Continental tour bequeathed no

, unambiguous set of opinions to the observers of the post-Napoleonic scene. The tour could broaden one’s horizons, making one ‘a citizen of , the world’; or it could make one a better citizen at home, confirming the : superiority of British social arrangements over those found elsewhere. It

could round the character of the gentleman, or it could give a meretricious flourish to the coxcomb. Nineteenth-century writers hazarded all

these arguments, conflicting opinions sometimes voiced by a single author—which suggests that the arguments had become automatic. Samuel Rogers’s poem Italy (1822), which devoted a prose section to ‘justify[ing] myself and my countrymen in wandering over the face of the

earth’, furnishes an example. Rogers nods in passing to the claim that

foreign travel encourages tolerance for other scenes and customs than those at home, writing that, through travel, ‘Our prejudices leave us, one

by one. ... Our benevolence extends itself with our knowledge.’ In some tension this assertion, though, is Rogers’s next point: ‘And must we

not return better citizens than we went? For the more we become acquainted with the institutions of other countries, the more highly must we value our own.’© Later works often tried to reconcile just such instances of strain. Frances Trollope’s almost constant refrain is that expo-

sure to the artistic treasures of Europe can liberate the English from their : cultural insularity, but a view of the social and political systems of foreign countries will only convince Englanders that they are better off at

home. In A Visit to Italy Trollope writes of feeling more, and more, and more again, as I continue my rambles through the world, that the Constitution of ENGLAND when guarded with common prudence from the democratic innovations which have of late years buzzed about it ... is the only one which appears to be formed in reasonable, honest, and holy conformity

to the freedom of man as a human being, and to the necessary restraint inevitable | upon his becoming one of a civilized, social compact. So firmly convinced am I of this fact, that I sometimes wish for a moment (no longer, observe) that I were the native of another country, yet knowing all I do about my own, that I might speak

my opinion without being suspected of suffering from that maladie du pays, which makes Frenchmen believe themselves a nation of philosophers, and Americans conceive that they are in the last and most advanced stage of civilization, (VI i. 167)

| While these lines of thought were extended from the era of the Grand Tour into the very different post-1815 world, other arguments were being introduced for the first time. As representations of travel began to be cast |

in terms of universal access (‘all sorts and conditions’), not in terms 60 Jtaly: A Poem (London: printed for Cadell & Moxon, 1830), 170, 173. Subsequent references cited in the text as Italy.

| Tourism and Anti-Tourism 101 limited to one privileged class, it became important to imagine a goal for the tour that could be regarded as universally applicable. Rogers’s Italy shows this attempt taking place. First it seems necessary to cushion the shock of the new mass of tourists by placing it in a comforting historical perspective: so Rogers argues that ‘ours is a nation of travellers’, adding

in a footnote, ‘as indeed it always was, contributing those of every degree, from a milors with his suite to him whose only attendant is his shadow’. The curious medley would appear to have an honourable pedigree after all, if trips to the Continent could be regarded as traditionally open to every class of English society. Rogers then proposes an explanation of motive that embraces that entire nation of travellers. Britons of different social stations may head abroad for different immediate purposes—‘if rich, they go to enjoy; if poor, to retrench; if sick, to recover; if studious, to learn; if learned, to relax from their studies’-—but they share an underlying aim: ‘Whatever [individual travellers] may say, whatever they may believe, they go for the most part on the same errand.’ They go, says Rogers, to revivify themselves, to recover that direct and joyous

sense of life which their routine existence at home has nearly extinguished. ‘No sooner do [men] enter the world, than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures, so remarkable in early life. ... Now

travel, and foreign travel more particularly, restores to us in a great degree what we have lost. ... All is new and strange. We surrender ourselves, and feel once again as children’ (Italy, 170-1). Rogers’s claim is in keeping with the Romantic theories of his day. Like the visionary moments of Romantic poetry, the enchantments of travel, as he sees it, can retrieve for us our childlike sense of wonder at the world, feeding the life of the imagination. Wordsworth’s Immortality Ode and Keats’s Endymion echo nearby: like Keats’s ‘thing of beauty’, travel appears to Rogers as a part of that ‘flowery band’ with which the imagination fed by beauty ‘bind[s] us to the earth’, in spite of ‘despondence’ and of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

Made for our searching ... 7 In spite of our flat, prosaic routines and the frustrations they give rise to, travel ‘moves away the pall | From our dark spirits’.*' Travel can do us a

service like that which John Stuart Mill found Wordsworth’s poems doing for him. ‘What made Wordsworth’s poems a medicine for my state 61 Endymion: A Poetic Romance, in Keats, Selected Poems and Letters, ed. Douglas Bush (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1959), 39.

102 Tourism and Anti-Tourism of mind’, Mill would write in his Autobiography, was their expression of ‘states of feeling, and of thought coloured by feeling, under the excitement of beauty. They seemed to be the very culture of the feelings, which _ Twas in quest of. In them I seemed to draw from a source of inward joy, of sympathetic and imaginative pleasure, which could be shared in by all

human beings .. .’* Rogers presents travel as just such a medicine for the troubled mind, one that, like true poetry as Mill imagines it, is prescribable to a// human

beings. It is a tonic all the more necessary in a utilitarian world that stultifies the deepest sources of imaginative life. ‘If life be short,’ writes Rogers, not so to many of us are its days and its hours. When the blood slumbers in the veins, how often do we wish that the earth would turn faster on its axis, that the sun would rise and set before it does, and, to escape from the weight of time, how many follies, how many crimes are committed! Men rush on danger, and

even on death. Intrigue, play, foreign and domestic broil, such are their resources; and, when these things fail, they destroy themselves. Now in travelling we multiply events, and innocently. We set out, as it were, on our adventures.

(Italy, 172) :

Rogers democratizes the impulses which Byron attributed to Childe Harold’s travels (“Worse than adversity the Childe befell; | He felt the fulness

of satiety: | Then loathed he in his native land to dwell .. .°), imagining travel a universally accessible means of alleviating those impulses. Travel ‘multiplies events, and innocently’: Rogers’s theme was to become a commonplace of commentaries both positive and negative. Like the claims made in the context of the Grand Tour, this one is linked to a theory—an ideology—of how touring can help to maintain the social

structure at home. By cultivating young men of property, the Grand Tour had aimed at producing better statesmen and masters of estates; to

this end, eighteenth-century writers, as well as the later writers who adopted their views, could contend that travel furnished comparisons favourable to the social and political institutions of England. Rogers’s Romantic thesis was different. On this view, travel offers us channels for

those energies that must remain pent up in our domestic rounds. It stimulates active imaginative impulses and invites us to indulge them before returning home: we multiply events innocently, and set out on adventures ‘as it were’. Travel, in sum, has become an ameliorative vacation, which like the emerging nineteenth-century concept of culture, promises us a time or imaginary space out of ordinary life for the free 62 Autobiography, ed. Jack Stillinger (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1969), 89. 63 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, in Byron: Poetical Works, ed. Frederick Page, corr. John Jump (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), 181.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 103 realization of our otherwise thwarted potential. As long as the imaginative liberties of culture remain in a separate space outside our normal lives—and in foreign travel, how could they not do so, since travel takes us physically outside our home environment?—home society will not be exposed to the dangerous drives of its members.“ William Hazlitt’s Table-Talk essay ‘On Going a Journey’, almost exactly contemporaneous with Rogers’s Italy, strikes many similar notes. ‘The soul of a journey’, says Hazlitt, ‘is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much

more to get rid of others.’ As soon as he sets foot in Calais, Hazlitt ‘breathe[s] the air of general humanity’, and he walks ‘over “the vinecovered hills and gay regions of France”, erect and satisfied’; for once there

he feels, as he adds in Blakean language, that ‘the image of man was not cast down and chained to the foot of arbitrary thrones’. The ‘sensation of travelling into foreign parts’ is ‘too remote from our habitual associations

to be a common topic of discourse or reference, and, like a dream or another state of existence, does not piece into our daily modes of life. It is

an animated but a momentary hallucination.’ In this condition, Hazlitt believes, we craft ennobling travellers’ identities for ourselves, becoming

for a time the unfettered selves we always long to be. And it demands an effort to exchange our actual for our ideal identity; and to feel the pulse of our old transports revive very keenly, we must ‘jump’ all our present comforts and connexions. Our romantic and itinerant character is not to be

domesticated. ... The time we [spend abroad] is both delightful and in one sense instructive; but it appears to be cut out of our substantial, downright existence, and never to join kindly to it. We are not the same, but another, and perhaps more enviable individual, all the time we are out of our own country.

The foremost attraction of travel, according to Rogers’s and Hazlitt’s thinking, is, simply, change from the onerous duties and compromises

that cage us in our usual lives; the particular sights to be seen, the particular ‘adventures’ to be experienced ‘as it were’, seem of secondary importance. Such arguments posit a goal sufficiently general to suit ‘all

sorts and conditions’ of practitioners: they establish leisure travel as a distinctly egalitarian cultural practice—at least in theory. They also suit the competitive, market-like atmosphere of post-1815 touring by making 64 Such functionalist arguments are still made by some analysts of tourism. Jost Krippendorf calls tourism ‘social therapy, the valve that maintains the world in good running order! It has a stabilizing effect not only on the individual but on our entire society and its economy. ... People travel so that they may be confirmed in the belief that home is not so bad after all... They travel in order to return.’ See The Holiday Makers; Understanding the Impact of Leisure and Travel (Oxford: Heinemann Professional Publishing, 1987), pp. xv—xvi. 65 Table-Talk, or, Original Essays (New York: Chelsea House, 1983), 249-50, 260-1.

104 Tourism and Anti-Tourism it possible to think of the traveller’s destinations as so many equivalent

choices available to the consumer, and they were bound to become popu- | lar for the forms of tourism that were eventually aimed below the levels : of aristocracy and rich bourgeoisie. For those whose ordinary lives were

full of frustrating, routine labour, tourism promised revivification through free imaginative deployment in new fields—which were to be chosen less for their particularities than for the dose of difference they could supply. Edmund Yates celebrated Thomas Cook for sending the ‘hard-working man, labouring in one spot for fifty weeks in the year... [to] some place as far away from and as different to his ordinary abode as

lies within the reach of his purse . . .’.° Those able to visit the Continent | would find it to afford ‘a more complete change than that which a trip | thro’ the British Isles can procure’.°

A Temple Bar writer in 1875 compared the modern tourist to the nomad: both must journey because ‘the domestic soil yields but a meagre and beggarly crop; [the tourist] is wearied of everyday sounds and sights,

and hungers ... for sights and sounds and sensations that are new’. But some considerations often excluded from the many reflections on the urge for change should give us pause. First of all, no one could wholly

forget that the tourist’s choice of particular routes and destinations was . still a highly motivated one. Not even the nomad goes in search of anything as arbitrary and abstract as ‘Change’; he goes where he can go _ and where he can expect to find sustenance. For the nineteenth-century

tourist, the established attractions of Europe exerted a great pull not only for their difference from domestic scenes, but also for the cultural accreditation which exposure to them could bring. Arthur Sketchley felt that many ‘rush[ed] off to the Continent’ with ‘the sole object of being

able to say, “I’ve been there”’.© The Romantic emphasis on travel-as- | difference did not replace older ideals about travel; it blended with them, , producing a highly paradoxical amalgam. The most-trodden paths in Europe could still represent a bracing ‘Change’ to the tourist who had not trod them yet; but the observer would find such tourists’ experiences

hackneyed and predictable. The nomadic tourist described in Temple Bar is seen as seeking adventures that are new to him but as familiar as can be to the magazine’s audience; they can be named succinctly in a list of Continental clichés: He is going to see the Rhine; he is off to the valley of the Rhone; he will try if he | can cross a glacier; he will see what gliding in a gondola feels like; he-will behold that fair Florence of which he has heard so often; he will wander in the Coliseum 66 Quoted in Cook's Excursionist (6 June 1864), 6. 67 Sketchley, Out for a Holiday, 15. 68 ‘The Pleasures and Drawbacks of Travelling’, Temple Bar, 45 (NOV. 1875), 348. 69 Out for a Holiday, 15.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 105 by moonlight; he will hear the twang of the light guitar, and watch the dance of the Phrygian-capped fishermen on the sands of the lovely Bay of Naples. He has never done any of these things, and he is going to do them now. They are all new to him, and the human mind is refreshed and exhilarated by novelty.”°

What is remarkable is that the two perspectives could be maintained at

once, so that European travel appeared alternately new (delivering ‘Change’) and familiar (delivering anticipated cultural experience). This oscillation is unmistakable in the highly self-conscious verse of Rogers’s Italy. Europe yields what is expected, of course, because Rogers’s educa-

tion has told him which places to seek; it yields what is new simply , because Rogers is new to it, is at last actually standing on those longawaited sites. In lines like the following, Rogers’s stress is laid heavily on the ‘Tl who casts the fresh light of an eager imagination upon some of the most shop-worn attractions of Italy. ‘And I am there!’ Rogers proclaims in Rome: Ah, little thought I, when in school J sate, A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn Glowing with Roman story, I should live

To tread the Appian ... to turn Toward Tiber ... or climb the Palatine _— (Italy, 139)

And in a frequently quoted passage, Rogers recharges the classical and Shakespearian associations of Italy with the energy of his own overwhelming delight at being there: Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius? Are those the distant turrets of Verona? And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque Saw her beloved Montague, and now sleeps by him? Such questions hourly do I ask myself;

And not a finger-post by the road-side |

‘To Mantua’—‘To Ferrara’—but excites

Surprise and doubt, and self-congratulation. (Italy, 41)

Similar in spirit are the thoughts of Disraeli’s hero Contarini Fleming, who, like Rogers, has spent his youth in almost uncontrollable anticipation for the day he will cross the Alps. (Fleming ‘danced around the chamber like a madman’ on his first morning in the South, asking himself in feverish disbelief, ‘Am I indeed in Italy?) Like Rogers, Disraeli’s protagonist cannot help thinking that Italy has been waiting for him with as

keen expectation as he has felt in waiting for it. Having just arrived in Venice, Fleming observes a procession of priests crossing the Rialto, ‘bearing in triumph the figure of a Saint’ and singing ‘WAVE YOUR 70 ‘The Pleasures and Drawbacks of Travelling’, 348.

106 Tourism and Anti-Tourism BANNERS! SOUND, SOUND YOUR VOICES! FOR HE HAS COME, HE HAS COME!

OUR SAINT AND OUR LORD! HE HAS COME, IN PRIDE AND IN GLORY, TO GREET WITH LOVE HIS ADRIAN BRIDE.’ Fleming’s immediate response? ‘It

is singular, but these words struck me as applicable to myself.’”! The ‘self-congratulation’ in Rogers’s and Disraeli’s accounts means applauding oneself for realizing the dream of Italy. The excited imaginations of

Rogers and Fleming blot out the wholly conventional nature of their sightseeing. It is not only that travel in Italy revivifies the visitor; these acts of imagination are undertaken to revivify Italy, allowing the visitor to exult in the most familiar places as though they, not he, were new. This is highly satisfactory tourism. Others of Rogers’s age and after were less successful: the beatenness of the beaten track oppressed them. Some were snide about Rogers himself: Anna Jameson, who met Rogers in Italy while he was at work on his poem, observed his rapt gazes at the Venus de Medici in the Uffizi and concluded that the poet looked ‘as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion, to animate [it]; or rather, perhaps, that the statue might animate /im’.”

Writing of the same gallery, Samuel Butler in The Way of All Flesh attacked Mendelssohn’s claim to have spent two hours in humble worship of the Venus. The Uffizi, said Butler, is a slippery place for people like Mendelssohn to study humility in. They generally take two steps away from it for one they take towards it. I wonder how

many chalks Mendelssohn gave himself for having sat two hours on that chair. | wonder how often he looked at his watch to see if his two hours were up. | wonder how often he told himself that he was quite as big a gun, if the truth were

known, as any of the men whose works he saw before him, how often he wondered whether any of the visitors were recognizing him and admiring him for

: sitting such a long time in the same chair, and how often he was vexed at seeing them pass him by and take no notice of him. But perhaps if the truth were known

his two hours was not quite two hours.”?

In their mockery of others’ assertions that their sightseeing wholly absorbed them, Jameson and Butler were aware that such assertions could be impelled by a desire to think well of oneself, to win credit for a deep (not a ‘touristic’) sensitivity to cultural objects. For their own part, they felt their attentions much divided between the sights they saw and the consciousness of their own belatedness in seeing them. On the Rhine in the 1850s, Thackeray was alert to this double-mindedness too. “1 Contarini Fleming: A Psychological Romance, in Novels and Tales by the Earl of Beaconsfield (London: Longmans, Green, 1881), iii. 201, 207. 72 Diary of an Ennuyée, 89-90. 73 The Way of All Flesh (1903; Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984), 48.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 107 And so we pass by tower and town, and float up the Rhine. We don’t describe the river. Who does not know it? How you see people asleep in the cabins at most of the picturesque parts, and angry to be awakened when they fire off those stupid guns for the echoes! It is as familiar to numbers of people as Greenwich; and we know the merits of the inns along the road as if they were the Trafalgar or the Star and Garter. How stale everything grows! If we were to live in a garden of Eden, now, and the gate were open, we should go out, and tramp forward, and push on, and get up early in the morning, and push on again—anything to keep moving, anything to get a change: anything but quiet for the restless children of Cain.”

For the nineteenth-century (anti-) tourist, to the problem of being one of a crowd was added that of being late on the scene. As I shall argue in Chapter 3, tactics for allaying this latter concern are plentiful in some of the period’s travel-writings. New travelling models were necessary— and the Faustian and Byronic echoes in Thackeray’s passage may be taken as acknowledgment that Romantic literature provided them.

III. The Uses of Romanticism New Stories, New Distinctions In confronting and attempting to counteract the behaviour and attitudes of tourists abroad, fiction had resources not available to the ‘traveller’ or travel-writer: it could create characters whose resistance to the vulgarities of mere tourism could be made both unobtrusive and noticeable at once. Fiction could show serious-minded and self-effacing individuals quietly going their ways, undaunted by the clamour of the tourists surrounding

them and unobliged to join in that clamour in order to declare their distinctness. Lever’s epistolary novel The Dodd Family Abroad juxtaposes letters written from the Continent by the admirable Caroline Dodd with those written by the other members of her family, who are bent on exaggerating their status and boasting of their access to fashionable European society. In her private correspondence—she would never make a public show of her feelings—Caroline confesses shame at her family’s socialclimbing antics: ‘We seem to have come abroad’, she writes, ‘not to derive the advantages that might arise from new sources of knowledge in language, literature, and art, but to scramble for a higher social position,—to impose ourselves on the world for something that we have no pretension to, and live in a way that we cannot afford’ (NCL iii. 85-6). Fortunate to

drift into contact with the modest and well-travelled Captain Morris (whom she later marries), Caroline learns from him what is meant to be a lesson of Lever’s novel: that 74 Kickleburys on the Rhine, 43.

108 Tourism and Anti-Tourism to really enjoy the Continent it is not necessary ... to be very rich; on the contrary, many—ay, and the greatest—advantages of Continental travel are open to very small fortunes and very small ambitions. Scenery, climate, inexpensive acquaintanceship, galleries, works of art, public libraries, gardens, prom-

enades, are all available. The Morrises [the Captain and his mother] have certainly much less to live on than we have, and yet they have travelled over every part of Europe, know all its cities well, and never found the cost of living considerable. You will smile when I tell you that the single secret for this is, not ' to cultivate English society. Once you make up your mind to live with the people of the country ... you need neither shine in equipage nor excel in a cook. (NCL Iv. 17)

In tales using third-person narration, like Frances Trollope’s The Robertses on their Travels (1846), the crucial difference of the traveller amidst tourists could be emphasized in other ways. Not only do readers

have frequent access to the consciousness of Bertha Harrington, the serious young orphan whom the Robertses take along on their tour; they

also receive evidence of Bertha’s superiority to her hosts. Intent upon trying to be mistaken for milords abroad, the Robertses dance attend-

ance upon every dissolute nobleman to come their way, completely : ignoring Europe’s artistic treasures; Bertha leaves them to their vain pursuits and goes devotedly sightseeing on her own. Readers can watch Bertha’s actions being watched by other characters in the novel: she attracts attention in spite of herself, providing a counterbalance to that awful notoreity everywhere achieved by the Robertses. Dickens solicits attention for Little Dorrit in much the same way. During the Dorrits’ visits to Venice and Rome, the girl frequently leaves her Dodd- and Roberts-like family to tour the old cities alone. ‘Social people [in Ven-

ice]’, Dickens writes, ‘began to ask each other who the little solitary girl , was whom they passed, sitting in her boat with folded hands, looking so

- pensively and wonderingly about her.’”’ Little Dorrit becomes a noteworthy traveller by shunning notice; she has Dickens to record her quiet integrity. The detached and encompassing consciousness of a story-teller could

dramatize and register the silent superiorities of these characters: this was a decided advantage of art over life. A controlling, stage-managing

narrator relieved his or her characters of the onus that fell on real ‘travellers’ both to demonstrate and to record how they differed from the

others around them—a burden that manifests itself bothersomely in

many nineteenth-century accounts. There is a troubling overassertiveness in travel-writers’ claims of having seen more, spent more , eiow. . Little Dorrit (1856~7; Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978), 5r9. For further discussion, see Part IV

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 109 time or attended more sensitively than the average tourist. The author of

a Temple Bar article somewhat too proudly announces that her two weeks in Pisa have given her a deep appreciation of the whole city, not just ‘the Cathedral, the Baptistery, and “Campo Santo”, to which, per-

haps, with the Leaning Tower, a traveller [read tourist], just passing through, would confine himself’.’”© Mark Twain found the self-congratu-

latory anti-tourist in the figure of a disdainful 18-year-old American, reporting the youth’s speech in what he assured readers was an ‘honest portrait’ and ‘not [a] caricature’: I visit the regulation cathedral, do the worn round of the regulation sights, yet?—Excuse me! ... I flit—and flit—for I am ever on the wing—but I avoid the herd. Today I am in Paris, tomorrow Berlin, anon in Rome; but you would look for me in vain in the galleries of the Louvre or the common resorts of the gazers

in those other capitals. If you would find me, you must look in the unvisited nooks and corners where others never think of going. One day you will find me making myself at home in some obscure peasant’s cabin, another day you will find me in some forgotten castle, worshipping some little gem of art which the careless eye has overlooked and which the inexperienced would despise; again you will find me a guest in the inner sanctuaries of palaces while the herd is content to get a hurried glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant.’’

The absurd self-promotion of this approach made it impracticable for most anti-tourists: it amounted to shouting one’s qualifications amidst the clamouring touristic herd. Preferable, instead, was to imagine onself acting, like a character in a novel, in some overarching narrative, some story in which the anti-tourist could play a flattering ‘insider’s’ part. And this preference coincided with the general perception that the influence of the ‘story’ that had motivated a dominant form of previous travel to the

Continent—namely the great ideology of Greek and Roman classical civilization—had waned. In the ideals of the Grand Tour, classicism mandated a fair portion of

the traveller’s itinerary and guided his responses to many sights and cultural artefacts. An important justification for the Tour was that it offered the deepest appreciation of the great classical texts; Richard Lassels’s An Italian Voyage (1670) recommended the journey on the grounds that ‘no man understands Livy and Caesar ... like him who hath made

exactly the Grand Tour of France and the Giro of Italy’.”? Joseph Addison’s Remarks on Several Parts of Italy (1705) provided classical passages for the various stations of the journey.”? The Grand Tourist 76 ‘Ordered Abroad’, pt. 2, Temple Bar XXI (Sept. 1867), 252. 77 A Tramp Abroad (1880; London: Century, 1982), 287. 78 ‘A Preface to the Reader Concerning Travelling’, An Italian Voyage, n.p. 79 See Kenneth Churchill, Italy and English Literature, 2.

110 Tourism and Anti-Tourism ritually joined himself to the ‘Classical Mind’ by visiting the sites made famous by the texts he had studied. Where that Mind had exerted itself, there must one go; failure to do so would leave one with only a factitious

‘literary’ knowledge of the sources of civilization. Doctor Johnson

reports that in 1776

brooded for years that he had remained in such a condition. Boswell a journey to Italy was still in [Johnson’s] thoughts. He said, ‘A man who has not been to Italy, is always conscious of an inferiority, from his not having seen what it is expected a man should see. The grand object of travelling is to see the shores

of the Mediterranean. ... All our religion, almost all our law, almost ail our arts, almost all that sets us above the savages, has come to us from the shores of the Mediterranean.”®°

In the nineteenth century, the process of cultural accreditation through | Continental touring was seen to have changed significantly, marking a break in ‘the underlying narrative structures, or story lines, on which the

meanings of travel performances are founded’.*! Whereas the neoclassical traveller might feel that ritual contact with and imitation of classical originals was precisely what constituted full participation in his European heritage, the tourist after 1815 was likely to feel burdened by the Romantic dilemma of ‘belatedness’. Seeking new forms of accreditation, post-Romantic tourists would object to the tired classical associ-

ations of the tour; more importantly, they chafed at imitation and repetition as such. The very sign that someone had preceded them, laying . down preferred routes, establishing a hierarchy of attractions to be seen, fostering conventions of response, unsettled the new tourists, much of whose behaviour was driven by the need to demonstrate uniqueness. Here was another way that the hiatus of the Napoleonic Wars seemed to give a wholly new start to the Continental tour: tourists after 1815 could adopt the sentiments and ideals of Romanticism. From the situations and moods of such works—a number of which were records of

heightened sensitivity and exquisite emotions displayed while travel- . ling—tourists could appropriate some of the pathos and power of Romantic figures. In The Robertses on their Travels, Bertha separates herself from the Roberts family and undertakes independent sightseeing, carrying with her a text which Frances Trollope and many of her contemporaries had also taken along. ‘Of all the books treating of Rome and its marvels’ which Bertha has read, Trollope tells us, ‘the “Corinne” of Madame de Staél had made the deepest impression. It was in fact her

hand-book, her vade mecum, her delight. ... To see all that Corinne 80 Boswell, Life of Johnson, 742. 81 Judith Adler, ‘Travel as Performed Art’, American Journal of Sociology, 94/6 (May 1989), 1375.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 111

saw, was the first wish of her heart, and the first resolve of her bold young spirit’ (RT iii. 67~—8). Setting out ‘with “Corinne” in her hand, and

all her soul in her eyes’, Bertha retraces the itinerary followed by Staél’s Lord Nelvil and his beloved Corinne, tapping the intense emotions of Staél’s characters for her own Roman tour (RT ili. 70).

Staél’s text seemed to sanction this way of using it: sections of the novel advancing the plot are clearly distinct from those describing tours

in and around Rome (parts of Books IV, V, VIII, IX, and X), Naples (parts of Books XI and XIII), Venice (parts of Book XV), and Florence (parts of Book XVIII). As one of the most widely-read works of its time, Corinne (1807) achieved great authority as a guide not only to the sights

but also to the new appropriate responses of the Italian tour. Kenneth Churchill observes that ‘commendatory references to Corinne were the first Romantic trait to appear in the English guide-books to Italy when the Continent was re-opened to tourists after the Napoleonic Wars’ and that well into the century the book was still exerting authority: Mary Garland and Mrs Hudson read it, Churchill notes, ‘in preparation for Italy in James’s [1875 novel] Roderick Hudson’ .**

Now, the following of new literary models is still following. But a work like Corinne seemed able to resolve the contradiction raised by the twin aims of gaining credit for cultural accomplishment (which requires some accepted standard) and of avoiding repetition. If originality and

value had their sources in the inner life of individuals, and not in the performance of visibly new actions, then new habits of imitation could be made to appear forms of originality. Proposing that ‘there are only two distinct classes of men on earth: those who feel enthusiasm and those who scorn it’, Corinne invited its readers to assert their membership in the former group—and Staél’s ‘only’ underscored the implicit claim that

this one crucial opposition in the world did not depend upon the outward signs of wealth or class membership. ® Corinne provided ‘travellers’ with a script for being original, in the sense of obeying one’s unique inner

dictates; it suggested that the goal could be accomplished by anyone properly sensitive. The distinction was exemplified in the novel by the contrasting attitudes of the enthusiastic Corinne and Nelvil, on the one hand, and the cynical French Count d’Erfeuil on the other. As Nelvil’s travelling companion, the Count is the focus for Staél’s attack on French

, (and Northern European) aesthetic, social, and imaginative limitations, and he is described as a ‘tourist’ addicted to the guidebook and to the inflexible standards of his own country. ‘Count d’Erfeuil’, we read, ‘went 82 Ttaly and English Literature, 24. 83 Germaine de Staél, Corinne, or Italy, trans. Avriel H. Goldberger (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1987), 183. Further references cited parenthetically. On ‘enthusiasm’, see De L’Allemagne (1810; Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1968), ii. 301-4.

112 Tourism and Anti-Tourism

through each town with his traveler’s guide-book in hand. He had the } pleasure of simultaneously killing time by seeing everything and con- tending that once you knew France, there was nothing left to admire.’

| D’Erfeuil’s influence on Nelvil—who in the course of the novel must try to understand Italy under Corinne’s tutelage—is anything but salutary: ‘His boredom depressed Nelvil, who was prejudiced against Italians and Italy from the start, since he had not yet seen into the nation’s mystery, or the region’s—a mystery that must be understood through imagination rather than through the critical judgment that is particularly developed by the English system of education’ (Corinne, 17). Much of the novel’s didactic purpose is to display the process by which Nelvil attempts, and fails, to break the coldly rational Northern habits of mind that militate against his acceptance of Italy and his love for Corinne; within this larger struggle, considerable emphasis is given to the matter of what travel may

accomplish in educating the feelings and deepening the capacity for emotion.

Nelvil’s is a problem clearly arising from earlier debates about travel’s , - capacity to break down prejudices and broaden the sympathies. Responding to the same stimuli in turns, Corinne and d’Erfeuil offer Nelvil and the reader two alternative models for regarding Italy. Their contrasted views on ruins are exemplary. ‘I did my best’, asserts d’Erfeuil (and

we know he did not), to find something interesting in those ruins they make such a fuss over in Rome ... but I do not see anything beautiful in all that. People are simply predisposed to admire those bramble-covered ruins. .. . There is not one monument intact in

Europe today that is not more remarkable than those stumps of columns, those | bas-reliefs darkened by time, that cannot be appreciated without scholarly erudition. A pleasure that costs so much study does not in itself seem so very keen to me. To be enraptured with the sights of Paris, for example, nobody need grow pale and wan over books. (Corinne, 91)

No more favourable towards mere erudition, Corinne takes a different approach: Readings in history, the thoughts they provoke, do not act upon our souls like these scattered stones, these ruins interspersed with buildings. Eyes are allpowerful over the soul: once you have seen Roman ruins, you believe in the ancient Romans as if vou had lived among them. The mind acquires its memories

through study; the imagination’s memories are born of a more immediate and deep-seated impression that gives life to thought and makes us into a kind of witness to what we have learned. ... On the outside, everything about most of our European cities is ordinary, everything is prosaic, and more often than any other, Rome offers the mournful sight of poverty and degradation. But suddenly a broken column, a half-wrecked bas relief, stones linked to the indestructable

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 113 style of ancient architects, remind you that there is an eternal power in man, a divine spark, and that you must never grow weary of lighting it in yourself and of rekindling it in others. (Corinne, 64-5)

In passages such as this, we can note the new emphasis on travel’s ‘revivification’ of our spirits. Another important precursor for revivificationists was Goethe’s Italienische Reise (1786-8), which described the journey south as a desperate flight from spiritual and imaginative stultification. ‘Can I learn to look at things with clear, fresh eyes?’ Goethe asks himself. ‘How much can I take in at a single glance? Can the grooves of old mental habits be effaced?’** He would ‘reckon [his] second life, a very rebirth, from the day when [he] entered Rome’ (p. 136). We see the

oscillating response found later in Rogers and Disraeli: everything Goethe sees is new, yet it all strikes him with a feeling of déja vu. Of the

Italian objects and places described in the classics, Goethe writes of feeling ‘not that I am seeing them for the first time, but that I am seeing

them again’ (p. 90). Mind and world are correspondingly refreshed. ‘Wherever I walk,’ the traveller attests, ‘I come upon familiar objects in an unfamiliar world; everything is just as I imagined it, yet everything is

new. ... I have not had a single idea which was entirely new or surprising, but my old ideas have become so much more firm, vital and coherent that they could be called new’ (p. 116).

Other works also helped to establish ‘a thick new layer of literary associations’ all across Europe.** Among the influential was surely Rousseau’s Julie, ou La Nouvelle Héloise; Byron and Shelley toured Switzerland with this book in hand in 1816, Byron writing to John Murray II that ‘I [have] traversed all Rousseau’s ground with the Heloise

before me, and [was] struck ... with the force and accuracy of his descriptions and the beauty of their reality’.** Walter Scott’s historical novels left their mark not only on the Scottish countryside, stimulating Scottish tourism (Thomas Cook said Scott ‘gave a sentiment to Scotland as a tourist country’), but also on France: John Murray III’s travel letters from Angers and Tours speak of ‘the land of Quentin Durward’ and ‘the remains of the Palace where good King René (see Quentin Durward) was born’.®” And a later but significant entry was Bulwer-Lytton’s Last Days of Pompeii (1834), a very popular novel that exploited public fascination

with the excavations of Italy’s ancient lava-buried cities. G. A. Sala wrote that the book 84 Goethe, Italian Journey, 1786-1788, trans. W.H. Auden and Elizabeth Mayer (1962; San Francisco: North Point Press, 1982), 21. Further references cited parenthetically.

85 Churchill, Italy and English Literature, 64. 86 Moore, Life of Byron, i. 535. 87 Cook: Cook’s Excursionist (1 July 1868); quoted in Brendon, Thomas Cook, 38. Murray: quoted in John Murray IV, Jobn Murray HI, 1808-1892: A Brief Memoir (London: John Murray, 1919), 69-70.

| 114 Tourism and Anti-Tourism sent everybody, in person or in imagination, to that wonderful place. The novel so exquisitely and so truthfully portrays the city, that the houses of Glaucus and

Pansa, the theatre, and the gladiators’ wine-shop, have become as indelibly

impressed on the readers’ minds as the forms of the dead Pompeians on the hot | ashes with which they were stifled. Bulwer has made Pompeii his own; the Last Days are the best possible guide-book to the disinterred city ... *°

In preparation for his visit, the hero of Thackeray’s The Newcomes ‘had read Sir Bulwer Lytton’s delightful story, which has become the history of Pompeii’; Pliny’s classic description was reduced to summarizable form ‘apud the “Guide-Book”’. ®° Such new literary works as I have cited in this partial survey helped to

instil a much-needed charge of novelty and excitement in the European |

tour. Scenes, situations, and characters from these texts became the appropriatable, exchangeable markers in a cultural economy in which ‘travellers’ competed for pre-eminence by displaying their imaginative

capacities and by attacking that always available enemy, the lowly tourist. The new models were well suited to a competitive cultural market. By emphasizing the inchoate standard of ‘enthusiasm’ or power of feeling, they made travel seem at once open and exclusive: those who

felt they had satisfactorily demonstrated their responsive . capacities

would also feel they had earned their place among the enthusiasts. More : widely traded in this anti-touristic economy than any of the previous , examples were the work and the public persona of Lord Byron, the poet who had remade travel in his image. The particular appropriations and reinterpretations to which Byron and his works were subjected, in order to serve the anti-touristic interests of visitors to the Continent, form a peculiar and in many ways exemplary story. Being Byron In ‘Stanzas on the Grand Chartreuse’ (1855), Matthew Arnold raised a 7

memorable series of questions about the legacy of the Romantic age.

‘What helps it now’, Arnold asked, ,

| that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mocked the smart, Through Europe to the Aetolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own???

88 George Augustus Sala, Rome and Venice, With Other Wanderings in Italy, in 1866~7 (London: Tinsley Brothers, 1869), 426. 89 The Newcomes, ii. 14.

Piaaied and Criticism of Matthew Arnold, ed. A. Dwight Culler (Boston: Houghton Miflin, 1961),

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 115 The question was rhetorical: to the Victorian man of culture, ‘wandering

between two worlds, one dead, | the other powerless to be born’, the great outpourings of Romantic emotion did not seem much help at all. But another passage, taken from a very different work of the same year, suggests that not all Victorians would have endorsed Arnold’s lofty pessimism about Romanticism’s lasting value. This second quotation shows Byron performing a useful function in a Victorian context probably very remote from any that Arnold had in mind, but one that mattered to more

Victorians than could have been concerned with Arnold’s critical encounter with the life and work of his poetic precursors. It is found in Richard Doyle’s mildly satirical picture-book about middle-class Continental tourism entitled The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones, and Robinson; it is the caption to an illustration that depicts Mr Robinson, in Venice, striking up a poetic attitude while his fellow tourists look on: Robinson (solo).—‘I stood in Venice’, etc.; Jones and Brown, having heard something like it before have walked on a little way. Reflection made by Brown.—Why do people when repeating poetry always look unhappy?”!

Robinson is borrowing the opening verses of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,

Canto IV (‘I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; | A palace and a prison on each hand ... ‘), lines whose fame in their century probably rivalled any in English poetry; and Doyle’s setting the quotation to read like a line from a dramatic script, with the speaker’s name followed by a parenthetical indication of the circumstances for the line’s delivery (solo), captures the essence of many small dramatic performances staged within

the nineteenth-century Continental tour. Along with other memorable passages in Byron’s work (such as that describing ‘the castled crag of Drachenfels’ in the Rhine stanzas of Childe Harold, Canto III), Robinson’s chosen passage belonged to an ennobling repertoire of poetical attitudes which tourists could strike in many places abroad. Juxtaposing

these two references to Byron illustrates that when by mid-century Arnold and other Victorian literati had renounced their own youthful Byronic enthusiasms and imitations, Byron was still a presence in British culture through his peculiar influence on the habits of tourists. In spite of

his vilification as the embodiment of Continental libertarianism and libertinage, Byron had managed to become, to the disgust of William Makepeace Thackeray, one of the ‘public gods’ of Victorian England: Thackeray was particularly incensed that the tourists’ handbooks of p 91 The Foreign Tour of Messrs Brown, Jones, and Robinson (1855; New York: D. Appleton, 1860), 5.

116 Tourism and Anti-Tourism John Murray III were assisting in this apotheosis by proclaiming Byron to be ‘our native bard’. **

It was, to begin with, the much-noted histrionic, theatrical tenor of Byron’s public persona—Keats had classed Byron with Bonaparte as a prime representative of the ‘worldly, theatrical, and pantomimical’ temper of mind—that made Byron so well suited to the purposes and attitudes of nineteenth-century tourism.®? Many focused their criticism of Byron on this aspect of his appeal. Leigh Hunt told Lord Houghton that ‘there was no doubt whatever in my mind that Byron was all the time strutting about as on a stage’, and Thackeray charged that ‘that man never wrote from his heart. He got up rapture and enthusiasm with an eye to the public.’ Even Matthew Arnold’s more measured response attacked the public’s ‘theatrical Byron’, full of ‘affectations and silliness’; Arnold sought to retrieve the true poet beneath all the vainglorious pomp of the ‘theatrical and easily criticised personage’.*> By focusing so frequently on Byron’s self-dramatizing impulse, detractors and enthusiasts alike made it difficult to think of the wandering poet without reference to

theatres, stages, ‘pageants’, and so forth; theatricality became the pre- dominant feature of Byron’s fame and a key element in the poet’s allure for Continental tourists.

Furthermore, there seemed to be different standards for judging Byron, depending on whether one stood inside Britain or outside it. For English readers, the poet’s contribution as ‘national bard’ was easier to gauge from abroad than from home, where moral concerns applied more stringently: the Dean of Westminster’s repeated refusal to allow a Byron memorial in the Abbey caused Punch to joke, in 1844, that even Byron’s graven image might be a source of ‘moral infection’ to his compatriots. On English soil, John Stuart Mill had turned initially to Byron for solace in the midst of the well-known ‘crisis in [his] mental history’, knowing Byron’s ‘peculiar department ... to be that of the intenser feelings’; but Mill found that ‘the poet’s state of mind was too like [his] own [agitated

- one]’ to afford relief.” Wordsworth was a domestic tonic; Byron’s domain, that of the intenser feelings, was felt to be outside England, 92 Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo, in The Works of William Makepeace Thackeray (New York: Scribner's, rgrr), xvi. 321. 93. The Letters of John Keats, ed. Maurice Buxton Forman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1935),

233; quoted in Samuel C. Chew, Byron in England: His Fame and After-Fame (1924; New York: Russell & Russell, 1965), 131—2.

94 Hunt: quoted in Chew, Byron in England, 134-5; Thackeray: Notes of a Journey from Cornbill to Grand Cairo, 321. 95 Poetry and Criticism of Matthew Arnold, 359-61. 96 ‘The Statue of Byron to the Dean and Chapter of Westminster’, Punch, 6 (Jan.—June 1844),

ae “autobiography, 88. |

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 117 stretching ‘through Europe to the Aetolian shore’.** Byron’s impassioned persona added a deeply appealing value to the Continental tourist’s physical separation from England—the value, which Hazlitt had celebrated in

‘On Going a Journey’, of feeling oneself free from ordinary social constraints, at liberty within the special realm of culture. Byron helped to turn the Continent into a great theatre for travellers’ acts of cultural self-dramatization.

On his own journeys, Byron had been a moving tourist attraction— voyeurs had watched him through telescopes at the Villa Diodati, and gossip-mongers had eyed his rented palazzo and pestered his servants in Venice. But his lasting influence on tourism was not so much a matter of founding new tourist attractions, of redrawing the tourist map of Europe.

It was, rather, the general Byronic aura that most significantly altered tourist conventions. For the tourist who could evoke it, the ‘Byronic’ held out the promise of making Continental experience ‘live’, of saturating it anew with poetical evocations, pathos, and even the frisson of a sexual

daring not for domestic consumption. Byron’s characteristic effect in works such as The Prisoner of Chillon, Marino Faliero, Mazeppa, The Lament of Tasso, and Beppo had resulted from his weaving pathetic tales from the fabric of history associated with places tourists might see. The Byronic work revivified its setting, rescuing it from familiarity and the ‘mere prose’ of standard travel accounts. Writing in Praeterita, Ruskin recalled feeling struck, when a teenager in the 1830s, by Byron’s ability to capture the ‘living truth’ of the places he visited: more than Scott, Samuel Rogers, or even Shakespeare, writes Ruskin, ‘Byron told me of, and re-

animated for me, the real people whose feet had worn the marble I trod on’. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage served this purpose too, but it went further by providing a full-dress travelling persona that could be momentarily appropriated—in the manner of Mr Robinson in Venice—with the smallest gesture or quotation. Venice was now quintessentially Byronic: Ruskin felt that his Venice, ‘like Turner’s, had been chiefly created for us by Byron’ (Praeterita, 268). The Bridge of Sighs has never ceased to be a major attraction of the city since Childe Harold spoke of standing on it—though Sketchley’s Mrs Brown found that ‘that there Bridge of Size as

they makes such a fuss about, why, it’s no size at all .. .’.' At the Lido, 98 Britain did contain a few Byronic associations: Newstead Abbey, the poet’s ancestral home, and his tomb in nearby Hucknall Torkard Church became tourist attractions in their own right, receiving a stream of visitors throughout the century. Numerous visitors’ accounts and even special guidebooks were published about them: see, e.g., ‘A Pilgrimage to Byron’ in the Mirror (Sat., 25 Feb. 1837), 113-16, and ‘The Home and Grave of Byron’, in Once A Week, 2/49 (2. June 1860), 539-42; for information on

the guidebooks to Newstead Abbey, see Chew, Byron in England, 275. 99 Praeterita: The Autobiography of John Ruskin (1889; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), 140. Further references cited in the text. 100 Mrs Brown on the Grand Tour, 133.

118 Tourism and Anti-Tourism travellers could take a slightly scandalous pleasure in seeing (as Arthur Hugh Clough’s Dipsychus described it) ‘the ground which Byron used to ride on, | And do I don’t know what beside on’. !*! In Rome, Byronic associations were almost as common: at the tomb of

Cecilia Metella, Anna Jameson acknowledged that ‘what this massy fabric wanted in classical fame Lord Byron has lately supplied in poetical interest. The same may be said of the Fountain of Egeria, to which he has devoted some of the most exquisite stanzas in his poem, and has certainly

invested it with a charm it could not have possessed before.”! Other territories newly marked by Byron were of course the Rhine (the Shelleys

deferred to Childe Harold in the History of a Six Weeks’ Tour [1817], rather than describe the river scenery themselves'®*), the districts of the Bernese Alps, where the poet had begun Manfred, and the region of the Lac Léman, which he had toured with Shelley and in which he had set The Prisoner of Chillon. Many would remember, along with an anonymous writer in Once A Week, ‘the time when the sensitive feelings of our childhood were first moved to tears by the “Prisoner of Chillon” [and]

how we read it in later years with scarcely less emotion by the white castle “on the blue Léman”’,'™ (After visiting the area in 1872, a young

_ Henry James was able to recommend the Hdtel Byron at Villeneuve. ) But in addition to prompting new habits of remembrance and reference, the new Byronic associations of the Continental tour also gave rise

to new varieties of travellers’ texts, which in time supplanted their classicist precursors. Probably unimaginable without Byron is the nineteenth-century poetic travel book. On his first European tour, a teenage Ruskin had determined to assemble all the important ‘events and sentiments ... in a poetic diary in the style of Don Juan, artfully combined

with that of Childe Harold’, and he did produce two cantos describing , the family trip through France to Chamonix (Praeterita, 141-2). After : Childe Harold, the best-known entrant in this genre was Rogers’s Italy (its 1830 edition containing illustrations by Turner), which became one

of the most popular books of the 1830s and 1840s.'% Like Byron’s poetry—and like Corinne and its prose imitators—these works were often carried as guides to the sentiments of the tour, and they frequently treated of places and feelings drawn from Byronic verse and lore. In 1830 Thomas Maude rhapsodized on the shore of the Lac Léman: 101 The Poems of Arthur Hugh Clough, ed. H. F. Lowry, A. L. P. Norrington, and F, L. Mulhauser (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951) 248. 102 Diary of an Ennuyée, 177. 103 Mary Shelley and P. B. Shelley, History of a Six Weeks’ Tour (1817; repr. Oxford: Woodstock Books, 1989), 68. 104 ‘The Home and Grave of Byron’, 542. 105 See Jeffrey L. Spear, ‘Ruskin’s Italy’, in William S. Peterson, ed., Browning Institute Studies, xii.

(New York: Browning Institute, 1984), 73-92.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 119 And here I tread where trod the lord of song, Mid the dwarf orchard where his towering mind Reposed a while from the world’s fame and wrong!”

In a similar fashion, John Edmund Reade’s portable Italy provided a brief eulogy to be read while passing before Byron’s former palace on the

Grand Canal: | Mark yon grey palace,* Could we pass nor pay

| A reverential tribute to the one,

Its tenant for the hour, a lightning ray That flashing passed from men?!°’

Even more than Childe Harold, works like Maude’s and Reade’s seemed

meant to be used on the spot, efficiently directing their readers in the stations of the poetical tour. Reade’s asterisk refers the tourist to an entry—‘The Palazzo Mocenigo’—at the bottom of the page; this would enable readers to be sure they were looking at the right palace, and to consult the appropriate entry in their Murrays. Byron’s poems were also quickly supported by subsidiary texts designed to help readers and tourists follow in the pilgrim’s footsteps. The poet had himself supplied some notes for Childe Harold, but his friend

Hobhouse gave the world a book-length guide to the work’s Italian references—a self-effacing volume entitled Historical Illustrations of the

Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, Containing Dissertations on the Ruins of Rome and an Essay on Italian Literature (1818). A different kind of work, the collaborative effort of William Brockedon and the brothers Edward and William Finden, was the Illustrations of the Life and Works of Lord Byron (1832-4), created to accompany Murray’s ‘First Complete and Uniform Edition of Lord Byron’s Life and Works’ and available in instalments of five engravings per month; it could prime the prospective tourist’s imagination with ‘plates depicting places mentioned in “Childe Harold” and other of Byron’s poems, together with portraits of himself

and his associates ... [and] quotations from his letters and diaries ... 108 A few years later, when the Murrays had entered the guidebook business, they produced a pocket-sized Lord Byron’s Poetry, ‘so as to enable Travellers to carry it with their other HANDBOOKS ... ’. Promotional blurbs from Notes & Queries and the Observer graced Murray’s advertisement for the portable Byron, assuring readers that the volume would ‘not encumber the portmanteau or carpet bag of the Tourist’, and 106 The Traveller's Lay (London: Longman, 1830); quoted in Chew, Byron in England, 247. 107 The Poetical Works of John Edmund Reade (new edn., London: Longman, 1865), i. 32. 108 See Lambert, ed., Grand Tour, 160; see Brockedon et al., Finden’s Illustrations ... (London: John Murray, 1832-4).

120 Tourism and Anti-Tourism asserting that ‘as a companion for the traveller, nothing [could] be more valuable’, '° Murray’s companion volumes—handbook and pocket Byron—were complementary yet wholly distinct, each presiding over its own province of the touristic mind. ‘Every Englishman [abroad]’, wrote William Wet-

more Story, carries a Murray for information, and a Byron for sentiment, and finds out by them what he is to know and feel at every step.’!"° Arthur B. Rowan, in Venice in the 1850s, announced that his travel book would ‘eschew most religiously aught of Venice which can be better read in “Murray’s”, or in other professional books of travel’, and explained that ‘if I borrow from Byron’s words wherewith to record that “I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,” it is because I cannot otherwise or better give my own peculiar impressions of my visit to the “palace and prison on each hand”’.'!! Rowan’s aspiration was to forgo Murray’s flat touris-

tic prose in favour of Byron’s poeticality, which seemed the natural voice | of modern ‘travel’. But anti-tourists sharing Rowan’s goal probably wound up as Story said they did, carrying both ‘a Murray for informa-

tion, and a Byron for sentiment’. To contemporary users, Murray’s handbook exemplified the exhaustive rational planning that was as much

an ideal of the emerging tourist industry as it was to British industrial society in general: it provided the rational administration necessary to keep the tour running smoothly, from railway to custom-house to hotel to gallery and so on. In contrast, Byron’s poems offered that ancillary

‘culture of the feelings’ which Mill had sought in that mental crisis pre: cipitated by excessive utilitarianism and rationalization. The greater ‘agitation’ Mill saw in Byron’s works made them all the more appropriate for use outside England, in tourists’ temporary physical and imaginative separation from home. On the Continent, Byron’s celebrated capacity to revivify the well-known tourist haunts contributed to the shaping of new

social aims for leisure travel and new means of distinguishing genuine from spurious (‘touristic’) cultural experience. The novelty of these aims

and means may best be appreciated by contrasting them with a central , goal of the pre-Napoleonic Grand Tour, that prior paradigm for Con- , tinental travel with which nineteenth-century travellers habitually compared their own practices. Among its many offices, the Grand Tour had performed the forthright ideological work of cementing the solidarity of the British ruling classes and providing them with a pseudo-historical legitimation. While English gentlemen refined their statecraft in Paris or in Amsterdam, it was in 109 Advertisement, Handbook for Travellers in Central Htaly (4th edn., London: John Murray,

ait Story, Roba di Roma (and edn., London: Chapman & Hall, 1863), i. 7. . 11! Gleanings After ‘Grand Tour’-ists (London: Bosworth & Harrison, 1856), 253-4.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 121 Rome that they found the richest message for their own era and class,

and writers such as Addison, Lord Lyttleton, and James Thomson forged a pedigree for Augustan England by imagining their nation as heir to the great but fallen Roman imperial tradition. '!? From the perspective of the nineteenth century, this historical ideology seemed to go hand in hand with an enviable confidence in the Grand Tourist’s social position,

which the tour was to confirm. Little of this complacency could be mustered in the post-Napoleonic period. In light of the evidently irresistible drive towards democratization occurring over the long haul of the

century in British society and in its cultural practices, the question became: how could foreign tourism liberate the tourist from identification with the large social movement of class following class in which tourism was playing a part? Whereas the Grand Tour had identified its participant with the world-historical destinies of his class, modern tourism would have to aid its new practitioners in an effort to transcend—

imaginarily, at least—the limits of class identification altogether. Adumbrating Arnold’s theoretical formulations and exhortations on cul-

ture, Continental tourists would learn to aspire to a condition of selfculture above and beyond the call of class. Towards this framing of new goals, Byron offered tourists a means of imagining and dramatizing their saving difference from the crowd of other tourists around them. Byronic emulation constituted a salient case of what Erving Goffman called role distance, the technique of establishing a ‘pointed separateness between the individual and his putative role’ by denying the image of the self that is ‘implied in the role for all accepting performers’. Such behaviour does not include outright rejection of the role in question, but rather a set of actions that indicate ‘some measure of disaffection from, and resistance against, the role’.''? Byron furnished post-Romantics with accredited anti-touristic gestures that were performable within tourism—supplying a solution in consciousness for the symptomatic social and cultural problem of how to distinguish oneself on an acculturating mission frequently accomplished in previous years and now simultaneously attempted by ‘everyone else’. Where the

Grand Tourist had enacted a repetitive ritual of classicism and class solidarity, his nineteenth-century counterpart, self-consciously treading the Grand Tourist’s well-beaten path in the midst of inevitable compatriots, would lay claim to an aristocracy of inner feeling, the projection of 112 See Churchill, Italy and English Literature, 1-4. 113 ‘Role Distance’, in Encounters: Two Studies in the Sociology of Interaction (Indianapolis:

Bobbs-Merrill, 1961), 108. Louis Turner and John Ash call Childe Harold ‘the prototype of the anti-tourist; the wanderer is still a tourist, but a tourist who has “dropped out”, both from his home society and from conventional tourism’. See The Golden Hordes: International Tourism and the Pleasure Peripbery (New York: St Martin’s, 1976), 47.

122 Tourism and Anti-Tourism an ideology of originality and difference. Byron could make even the most familiar routes and stops shed their carapace of clichés and take on powerful new meanings for the anti-tourist: as G. Stillman Hillard said of Byron in Rome, the poet had ‘move[d] over the oft-trodden field as a _ reaper and not a gleaner, and return[ed] with the rich harvests of a virgin soil’.''* The Byronic pilgrim was to savour that toothsome crop.

Through his adoption by anti-tourists eager to partake in his revivifying capability, Byron assumed a cultural authority of a type similar

to that which the sociologist Francesco Alberoni has attributed, in his

studies of modern consumer capitalism, to the ‘divi’, an élite group made | up of ‘all those personages who are the object of imitation, admiration and collective attachment’ and who ‘suggest ways of behaviour and influence popular values without making decisions about them’. The divi have their essential meaning not in terms of social origins or even wealth,

but with regard to their function in channelling mass emotional investment. As Tom Burns has put it, they take the place of the collectivity of traditional small-scale societies in that they become the collective objects of gossip ... Although they are few and privileged, they are not at the summit of the social system, neither do they constitute a social group or class. ... Any person, rich or poor, can ‘adopt’ or become identified with one or other category, or in one or other social identity, which means that they act as a kind of structural solvent [for society as a whole] ...'!5

Alberoni had in mind such luminaries of the mass media as Elizabeth Taylor or Elvis Presley, but in the Byron of Victorian tourism we can glimpse the same ‘star quality’ that distinguishes the divi of Hollywood _ and the recording industry. Tourism’s Byron functioned as just the kind of ‘structural solvent’ which Burns describes: open to emulators yet apparently exclusive; free of the ordinary determinants of social class and yet redolent with the ineffable quality of ‘class’ in our modern colloquial sense of the term. But what became of Byron once his works and life were pressed into

service as a fount of culturally valuable sentiment that ‘transcended’ social determinants? On the new European tour, Byron’s verses took an important place in a British corpus of citations applicable to British tourists’ itineraries. Compiling his first handbooks in the late 1830s and

early 1840s, John Murray III included passages by many authors, ‘knowing how much the perusal of [such passages] on the spot, where the

works themselves are not to be procured, will enhance the interest of 114 Six Months in Italy (London: John Murray, 1853), ii. 343. 1S Burns, ‘Leisure in Industrial Society’, in Michael A. Smith et al., eds., Leisure and Society in Britain (London: Allen Lane, 1973), 48; see Francesco Alberoni, Consumi e societa (Bologna: Mulino, 1964), 12 and passim.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 123 seeing the objects described’;'!® Murray gave pride of place to Byron, Southey, and Scott. But in joining this cause, Byron had to be deliberately revised, so as to retain the pathos and passion without confronting what was seen as the irrelevant political grounds for much of the sentiment. Enlisting the rebellious poet in a British cultural pantheon along-

side such loyalists as Southey and Scott, Murray could draw on an established tendency to set aside Byron’s polemical or incendiary aspects, however pervasive they might seem to be. What might then remain was the appropriatable and exciting form of rebelliousness without the content of rebellion. Since Byron was so regularly seen as a theatrical figure,

both Whigs and Tories were accustomed to regard his politics as ‘obviously insincere’, the mere histrionics of a lord who, as Hazlitt put it, ‘tired of what he is, by a natural perversity ... sets up for what he is not ... his ruling motive [being] not the love of the people, but of distinc-

tion: not of truth but of singularity ...’.1!” This habit of interpreting Byron’s political challenges in the entirely subjective terms of bad faith allowed observers to concentrate on the poet’s ‘pure’ aesthetic or emotive

features, while overlooking the fact that, whatever one might decide about his deepest intentions, Byron had quite consciously striven to be, and had effectively become, an agent of change in European politics. The Tory John Murray II, founder of the Quarterly Review, surely employed

some such reasoning as he made his fortune by publishing Byron’s poetry.

The abstracting of a Byronic spirit from the political and historical contexts that figured in Byron’s poetry enabled tourists to adopt Byronic gestures without any consideration of what might seem to us now the insistent political character of the verse. Certainly Disraeli, in his youth among the most sycophantic of all the poet’s admirers, felt unconstrained to observe consistency with his hero in political matters, even as he literally followed the course of Byron’s travels. In 1826 Disraeli and friends had traced Childe Harold’s footsteps across Europe, stopping at the Lac Léman to interview Byron’s boatman, Maurice; in 1830 the future Prime

Minister took the route of Childe Harold, Cantos I and II, to Spain, Malta, Greece, and Albania; his friend James Clay hired Byron’s servant

Tita as valet, of whom Disraeli wrote rapturously, ‘Byron died in his arms.’'!® Yet for all his diligent attention to the places and people known 116 Preface, A Handbook for Travellers on the Continent (3rd edn., London: John Murray, 1842), wai? The Spirit of the Age (Oxford: World’s Classics, 1960), 116; quoted in William Ruddick, ‘Byron in England: The Persistence of Byron’s Political Ideas’, in Paul Graham Trueblood, ed., Byron’s Political and Cultural Influence in Nineteenth-Century Europe: A Symposium (London: Macmillan,

atts Quoted in B. R. Jerman, The Young Disraeli (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1960), 124,

124 Tourism and Anti-Tourism to the master, Disraeli bypassed Missolonghi (it was too exclusively known as the site of Byron’s martyrdom in the Greek cause) and remained unapologetically anti-Hellenist and anti-Albanian. He lamented having missed the opportunity to volunteer for service in the Turkish army, later sending his Byronic and ‘autobiographical hero, Contarini |

Fleming, into battle on the side of the Turks rather than the Greeks’, '!% : One of Disraeli’s biographers, Robert Blake, considers the ‘paradox of a disciple of Byron adopting such an unByronic attitude in 1830’; the point would seem to be that Disraeli was aware of the profound irrelevance of politics to the poet’s aura.'*° Fashioning himself as a Tory and imperialist Byron, the young Disraeli helped to make Byron safe for consumption by travellers of all political leanings. Regarding Byron’s politics as mere subjective political excitement, Dis-

raeli, like many others, was able to read around the politically troubling passages in the poetry, imitating his hero in spirit only. This was the , legacy that Victorian tourism inherited. Sharing his father’s Tory sympathies, John Murray III offered such a flexible interpretation of Byronic

precedent to wide audiences in the handbooks. His own youthful enchantment with Byron prepared him well for the task. As an Edin-

burgh student, Murray had rambled around Aberdeen in search of Byroniana for Moore’s 1830 Life of the poet; traversing the Continent

while preparing his first handbooks in the early 1830s, his letters buzzed . with the delight of visiting sites aglow with Byronic traces. ‘I went to the | Lido’, he writes from Venice, ‘to see the ground over which Byron used to ride—and to-day I had his residence on the grand canal pointed out to

me.’ But Murray’s Byron, like Disraeli’s, is void of political content. After a trip to San Lazzaro, where Father Aucher had tutored Byron in the language of the oppressed Armenians, Murray compliments Aucher’s

civility during his long and inquisitive visita civility all the more remarkable, Murray considers, since ‘he is I fancy very much pestered with

visits from English people’. One might imagine the priest’s attitude about .

the Byron-hunters who came in such numbers without bringing Byron’s interest in the Armenian cause with them. Murray is not abashed at being one of these, and will not be stirred by the political issues which exercised Byron and which Aucher must take seriously. Blankly reporting that Aucher has decided to suppress Byron’s preface to an Armenian Grammar because ‘it contained some very strong passages against the

Sultan, the sovereign of his native country, who might easily have 119 Patrick Brantlinger, Rule of Darkness: British Literature and Imperialism, 1830-1914 (Ithaca,

NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 147; see also Donald Sultana, Benjamin Disraeli in Spain, Malta 7

and Albania, 1830-1832 (London: Tamesis, 1976). 120 Disraeli's Grand Tour: Benjamin Disraeli and the Holy Land, 1830-1831 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), 29-33.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 125 retorted on his friends and kindred for such an insult’, Murray exhibits none of the excitement that Byronic stimuli regularly drew from him amidst evocative ruins or beautiful landscape. '! The young Murray recognized that touristic experience involves both ‘prose’ and ‘poetry’, both the prosiac work of stocking readers with facts

and getting them physically to a given site with the least amount of trouble, and the poetic labour of prompting tourists’ responses. The handbooks sought a balance of the two functions, nestling carefully excerpted passages of verse amidst copious plain exposition. Though tourists could take along their own copies of ‘Byron for sentiment’, Murray also let them lighten their portmanteaus by supplying the appropriate passages where

required. The 1838 guide for Switzerland, for example, abounds with Byronic quotation, often entered without comment but sometimes accompanied by tactful corrections. By recasting excerpts to suit his needs, Murray reinvents Byron, making the poet’s stanzas read as though they were created for no other purpose than to guide the finer feelings of the tourist. Murray stalks Byron through the Alps with Manfred, but has no use for the perilous theological speculations; he tracks him around Lac Léman with The Prisoner of Chillon and Childe Harold, Canto III, freely

extracting stanzas from original contexts. Deriding Rousseau’s sentimentality about the village of Clarens (in La Nouvelle Héloise), he quotes five stanzas of Byron’s no less emotional account of the area from Childe

Harold,'” but disregards the crucial point of Byron’s presentation of Rousseau at Clarens as a revolutionary of the spirit, the author of ‘those oracles which set the world in flame, | Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more’. At Morat, where the Swiss had repelled a ten-day Burgundian siege in 1476 and had erected a pile of their enemies’ bones as a monument, Murray quotes Childe Harold’s chilling account of the ‘bony heap’ (Canto III, stanza Lx), but he finds no need to include any of the ensuing stanza, in which Byron drove home his liberal argument: While Waterloo with Cannae’s carnage vies, Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; They were true Glory’s stainless victories,

| Won by the unambitious heart and hand

Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, All unbought champions in no princely cause Of vice-entail’d Corruption; they no land

Doom’d to bewail the blasphemy of laws , Making kings’ rights divine, by some Draconic clause. '”’ 121 Quoted in John Murray IV, Jobn Murray Il, 52-3. 122 Handbook for Travellers in Switzerland (London: John Murray, 1838), 148. 123 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto Ill, stanza Lxxx1 in Byron: Poetical Works, 221 (on Rousseau), 218-19 (on Morat).

126 Tourism and Anti-Tourism As for Chillon, Byron’s handling of the legend of Bonnivard has given the English poet, in Murray’s estimation—not the imprisoned Swiss pa-

triot—the better claim to be taken as the place’s presiding spirit. The prisoner, whom Murray dispatches as having ‘rendered himself obnoxious to the Duke of Savoy by his exertions to free the Genevese from the Savoyard yoke’, seems a mere pretext for poeticality. Quoting Byron

extensively on the dungeons and the situation of the castle, Murray reminds the reader of the marks, literal and figurative, which the poet has left upon the site: ‘Byron inscribed his name on one of the pillars, but it is far more lastingly associated with the spot [by his verse].’ Then come

the gloomy reflections of The Prisoner of Chillon, Murray creating a hybrid stanza that extracts the general pathos of the scene from Byron’s description of the prisoners’ physical suffering. Here is Murray’s version: Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls; A thousand feet in depth below Its massy waters meet and flow; Thus much the fathom-line was sent From Chillon’s snow-white battlement (? ?), Which round about the wave enthrals: A double dungeon-wall and wave Have made—and like a living grave. Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies wherein we lay. We heard it ripple night and day. In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old

There are seven columns massy and grey, | Dim with a dull, imprison’d ray, A sunbeam which hath lost its way, And through the crevice and the cleft Of the thick wall is fallen and left, Creeping o’er the floor so damp, Like a marsh’s meteor lamp.

The first thing to notice about Murray’s quotation is that it works backwards—Murray begins with stanza vi of The Prisoner of Chillon and continues quoting that passage through ‘We heard it ripple night and day’; then, without a typographic break, he quotes eight lines from the original stanza u, beginning with ‘In Chillon’s dungeons’. Murray is clearly interested in isolating evocative descriptive detail, not in observ-

ing the sequence of a narrative poem. Furthermore, a glance at the immediate context of these lines in Byron’s poem makes it clear that they

are the only passages of their length that could have been excerpted

without involving Murray’s reader in the story of Bonnivard, his

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 127 brothers, and the reasons for their imprisonment. Detached from these human implications, the castle of Chillon is remade for the tourist as a fitting subject for rather empty poetical reflections, on the one hand, and rather absurdly precise examination and measurement, on the other. The parenthetical question marks above, at ‘snow-white battlement’, are Murray’s way of calling attention to Byron’s misjudgement of Chillon’s colour; and at the end of the quoted passage, Murray abruptly returns his readers to prosaic fact by informing them, somewhat regretfully, that ‘Byron has exaggerated the depth of the lake, which near the castle does not exceed 280 ft.”!*4

This reconstructed Byron pervades Murray’s handbooks, well suited to the brief and disconnected emotive-aesthetic responses which tourists sought to display. As the Murray guides grew in authority, their atmospheric Byron became the version of the poet most widely circulated. This Byron soon seemed to be everywhere on the tourist’s map of Europe, and, in the process, appeared to be losing some of its liberating promise for anti-tourists. Before long, the convention of Byronic reference came to present the ironic dilemma of role-distancing behaviour that has itself coalesced into a role—and for some travel-writers, a new mark of distinction consisted of distancing oneself from Byronic precedent. Murray’s gentle corrections of Byron’s exaggerated physical descriptions gave way to expressions of outraged middle-brow realism. Thus Thackeray on Childe Harold’s version of the Rhine: anyone can see that the river is filthy, says Thackeray; and as for Byron’s Rhenish ‘peasant girls with deep blue eyes’, they are nothing but ‘brown-faced, flat-nosed, thicklipped, dirty wenches!’.'* (An article written over thirty years later still

pleads the same case, speaking of ‘slovenly women [who pester] the unfortunate pedestrian for groschen in return for the paltry weeds held in their dirty fingers’. !?°) Others began to find Byron not quite ‘Byronic’ enough—that is, too

unlike Murray’s touristic Byron of unspecific passion, altogether too political, an obstruction to the peaceful prosecution of sightseeing. In Venice in the early 1840s, Frances Trollope conceded that ‘the first thir-

teen lines of the fourth canto of Childe Harold are excellent, not only from being exquisitely poetical, but from painting the scene with extraordinary truth, as well as brightness’; but she preferred, ‘as an echo to the emotions inspired by the view of Venice’, the distinctly apolitical lines of Monckton Milnes to ‘a thousand of those in which Childe Harold groans in lamentation over [the city’s] decline’ ( VI ii. 67). Byron had thought the 124 Handbook for Travellers in Switzerland, 149-50. 125 Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo, in Works, xvi., 321.

881) ne for the Vacation Ramble, by an Old Tramp’, Blackwood'’s Magazine, 130/790 (Aug.

128 Tourism and Anti-Tourism

visual splendour of Austrian-ruled Venice at odds with its political degradation: to him, the city shone garishly as the prize gem in an Austrian crown. But Frances Trollope favours Milnes’s defiant aestheticism, which regards all talk of Venice’s decline as evidence of a deficient

touristic sensibility. In the passage below (quoted by Trollope), Milnes’s rhetorical questions affirm that the city’s capacity to charm tourists is

more than enough consolation for its lost autonomy: Who talks of vanished glory, and dead power, Of things that were, and are not? Is he here? Can he take in the glory of this hour,

And call it all the decking of a bier? (VI ii. 67) Battling Byron’s interpretation of Venice, Mrs Trollope accepts the city’s new destiny as a ‘magnificent museum of art, and a favourite resort of the curious and intellectual of all countries’ ( VI ii. 122). She acknowledges that ‘Austria is certainly not at all likely to restore to Venice the aristocratic power of her old republic; but as long as the city is in her hands the politically indifferent connoisseurs may set their hearts at rest concerning her condition’ (VI ii. 107). Byron had been amenable to nineteenth-century tourism because the

overriding impression of his work and persona was that of a grand subjectivity making travel into an opportunity for self-staging. Literature 7

about ‘an obscure person on his travels’, wrote Arthur Symons in 1907, would have been ridiculous; but Byron ‘could write of the Alps, and fill the imagination of Europe with the mere fact of his presence there’. !2’ Despite their initial anti-touristic valence, Byronic gestures had become

as standard a touristic pursuit as any previous fashion. A number of writers expressed puzzlement, sometimes scorn, over the production of uniform sentiment they saw carried out under the aegis of the Byronic.

Suspicious tourists wondered if the cachet of freedom and rebelliousness . ' _ procurable through contact with Byron might not be an illusion they , were pressured to endorse. Their suspicion was heightened. each time

they encountered a guide or servant on the Continent who, having learned what the English would pay to see and hear, obligingly delivered

the Byronic commentary to suit each expedition. At Ferrara, Frances Trollope observed that ‘the cicerone who attended us through the rooms, appeared as well acquainted with all the little circumstances connected with Parisina’s unfortunate affair, as if he had been her page of honour at

_ the time’, and she wondered, ‘I should like to know how much of what is :

now poured into the ears of travellers upon that subject, was bestowed 127 The Romantic Movement in English Poetry (London: Constable, 1909), 250; quoted in Chew, Byron in England, 287.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 129 upon them before the poem of Lord Byron was published’ ( VI ii. 37). A few pages later Trollope concluded that ‘it was very evident that the man who attended us through the castle thought that, as countryfolks of Lord Byron, the Parisina story must be the one to interest us the most; and it was upon this he dwelt’ ( VI ii. 45). In just this way had Byron’s image and

reputation travelled: once the scandalous embodiment of an anti-British Continentalism, Byron had attained the station of an inescapable British stereotype, the regular stock-in-trade of guidebooks and ciceroni. A remarkable passage from Dickens’s travel book Pictures from Italy provides the classic statement of this both amusing and rather troubling recognition, ringing out a cautionary tone in spite of its comic intent. Dickens finds the waiter in his Bolognese hotel to be a man of one idea in connection with the English; and the subject of his harmless monomania, was Lord Byron. I made the discovery by accidentally remarking to him, at breakfast, that the matting with which the floor was covered, was very comfortable at that season, when he immediately replied that Milor Beeron had

been much attached to that kind of matting. Observing, at the same moment, that I took no milk, he exclaimed with enthusiasm, that Milor Beeron had never touched it. At first, I took it for granted, in my innocence, that he had been one of the Beeron servants; but no, he said no, he was in the habit of speaking about my Lord, to English gentlemen, that was all. He knew all about him, he said. In proof of it, he connected him with every possible topic, from the Monte Pulciano

wine at dinner, (which was grown on an estate he had owned,) to the big bed

itself, which was the very model of his. | The harmless monomania of this waiter, an entirely marginal figure in

Dickens’s world, takes a suggestive turn at the anecdote’s end: in a manner that anticipates the discomfiture of many later tourists, the little tale seems finally to speak of its author’s uneasy feeling of containment within a coercive, stereotyping enterprise that will grow and grow without his control or consent. ‘When I left the inn,’ Dickens writes, [the waiter] coupled with his final bow in the yard, a parting assurance that the road by which I was going, had been Milor Beeron’s favourite ride; and before the horse’s feet had well begun to clatter on the pavement, he ran briskly up stairs again, I dare say to tell some other Englishman in some other solitary room that the guest who had just departed, was Lord Beeron’s living image. '7*

In a manner shared with the likes of Richard Doyle, with his absurdly Byronizing Mr Robinson, and Arthur Sketchley, with his Mrs Brown and her ‘Bridge of Size’, Dickens here deflates the pervasive Byronic aura

surrounding the Continental tour. By mid-century, mockery of Byron had become a new form of role-distancing (though the Byronisms of 128 Pictures from Italy, 65-6.

130 Tourism and Anti-Tourism anti-tourists persisted). Byron-mockers cast a critical light not only on the pretensions of the Byronic role but also on the whole exalted process of becoming cultured, for which the mechanisms of Byronic emulation provided a synecdoche and to which the Continental tour was supposed vitally to contribute. Middle-brow humorists found themselves in an ambivalent position with regard to the necessity and methods of taking part in the new, putatively open cultural market-place—the openness of which was construed as an opportunity for people in the middle to better themselves. Byron’s celebrated pathos and poeticality had been shaped into an instrument for the assertion of one’s difference from the crowd, but what Victorian humorists suspected was that the socially sanctioned vehicle for differentiating oneself might function as a tool for producing conformity, providing a gratuitous sense of liberation in individual consciousness while ushering one individual after another through the same holiday routine.

IV. Gendered Geography The touristic appropriation of Byron provides a case study of the ideol-

ogy of distinction and originality arising in the post-war Continental tour. One aspect of tourism’s Byron will serve as a transition here, to help bring into focus another feature of anti-tourism that had its origins in the post-Napoleonic years. I am referring to the Byronic model’s par-

ticular applicability to men. For the Englishman abroad, borrowing Byronic precedent amounted to figuring oneself as a lone male wanderer, unfettered by the familial and female influences of home; in this respect, Byronic anti-tourism appears as a new form of an older, established male prerogative, exercised in antebellum days in the form of the Grand Tour.

Young unmarried men of privilege had been going to the Continent in the fraternal company of tutors and friends for many decades; their tours were a finishing stage in the process of education and maturation, undertaken before they thought of marrying and filling the niches assigned to them in their society. One consequence of this was that the tour had come to be seen as providing young men with an opportunity to gain sexual experience and confidence, to sow wild oats, through easy, non-

binding liaisons with women abroad (though of course the sexual freedoms of the tour were not limited to young men). Long before Byron and the naughty vicarious pleasures he imparted, travellers and writers

had been capable of confronting this aspect of the tour in a frank and often ironic manner. A guidebook published in 1722 called A Gentleman’s Pocket Companion for Travelling into Foreign Parts gave the following example—translated into five different languages—of how the

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 131 British traveller might attempt to seduce his foreign chambermaid by feigning illness: [ Traveller:] Sweetheart, is my bed made? Pull off my stockings and warm my

bed, for I am much out of order. I shake like a leaf on a tree. ... Put out the candle and come nearer to me. [Chambermaid:] 1 will put it out when I am out of the room. What is your will? Are you not well enough yet? [ Traveller:] My head lies too low. Raise up the bolster a little. My dear, give me one kiss, I shall sleep the better. [Chambermaid): Sleep, sleep, you are not sick since you talk of kissing. I had rather die than kiss a man in his bed or any other place. Take your rest, in God’s name, !??

The account politely breaks off at this point. The same opportunistic banter with local women of subordinate class also figures in Sterne’s Sentimental Journey (1768) and Boswell’s travel diaries—as in this entry from Berlin in 1764: About eight, in came a woman with a basket of chocolates to sell. I toyed with her and found she was with child. Oho! a safe piece. Into my closet. ‘Habs er ein Man?’ ‘Ja, in den Gards bei Potsdam.’ To bed directly. In a minute—over. I rose cool and astonished, half angry, half laughing. I sent her off. Bless me, have | now committed adultery? Stay, a soldier’s wife is no wife. °°

At least part of the psychological cure Goethe felt his Italian travels had wrought resulted from the ‘complete erotic freedom’ he found in Rome.?3! In the Roman Elegies composed after his journey, Goethe blended his memories of joyous sexual fulfilment in Italy with thoughts

of his new love for Christiane Vulpius, with whom he had become involved shortly after his return to Weimar. Both Christiane and his Italian inamorata were Goethe’s inferiors in class and fortune (though not chambermaids or peddlers); their humbler origins had given them, in

Goethe’s eyes, a refreshing sexual candour and a welcome unconcern with Goethe’s literary fame. The Roman Elegies celebrate the candour and bliss of the poet’s affair with the sensual ‘Faustina’, who never troubles Goethe with questions about Werther and Lotte, as his fashionable acquaintances do. ‘She has scarcely heard of Werther or Lotte, scarcely knows the name of the man who now is hers,’ Goethe exults. He is not at all embarrassed to admit, as she plainly does, that her affection for him has its mercenary side: 129 A Gentleman’s Pocket Companion for Travelling into Foreign Parts (London, 1722); quoted in Feifer, Tourism in History, 115. _ 130° Boswell on the Grand Tour: Germany and Switzerland, ed. Frederick A. Pottle (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1953), 91.

131 Turner and Ash, Golden Hordes, 45-6; see also Richard Friedenthal, Goethe: Sein Leben und seine Zeit (Munich: R. Piper, 1963), 260-77. .

132 Tourism and Anti-Tourism She is delighted with him, this free, robust stranger who tells her of mountains and snow and wooden houses; she shares the flames she has kindled in his breast, and is glad that he is more liberal with gold than the men of Rome. Her table is better furnished now, and she has no lack of clothes, or of a carriage to take her to the opera. Both mother and daughter are pleased with their northern guest, and the barbarian had conquered a Roman bosom and body.'*2 _

Such documents testify that the male Continental tour had hinted of sexual adventures well before Byron favoured the English public with his

tale of the raptures of Don Juan and the pirate princess Haidée—and before that public had been enchantedly scandalized by the gossip about Byron’s own Continental debaucheries. The eighteenth-century novel

had also staged occasional considerations of a sexual union of Northern , male visitor and (usually Italian) Continental female, though the social class of the characters was generally on a par and elevated, and marriage the anticipated result of a properly restrained courtship, In Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison (1754), the title character is an exemplary British _ nobleman who falls in love with Clementina della Porretta, finds himself at loggerheads with her Bolognese clan on the question of religion, and

: ultimately ‘marries an Englishwoman and does his rather feeble best to

console the Italian’. The enormous popularity enjoyed by Corinne , helped to set this basic pattern in the minds of readers all across Europe: Oswald, Lord Nelvil must wrestle with a conflict like Grandison’s, between his love for Corinne and the duty that calls him north to wed one of his countrywomen and to carry on family tradition. The impulsive passions of the Italian woman entice the circumspect visitor but prove unassimilable to his Northern society; the visitor must learn the hard lesson offered by Nelvil’s counsellor Mr Edgermond: ‘Believe me, my dear Oswald, only Englishwomen are right for England. ... As lovable

as Corinne is... what would you do with that at home?’ (Corinne, 133). We should at this point distinguish between two forms of convention : which may condition attitudes about foreign places, in order to observe that where some places were concerned, the two forms functioned together. Conventional interpretations specific to certain regions could be structurally supported by the touristic relationship of visitor to visited—a relationship which often appeared that of monied and privileged visitor to beholden and ‘passive’ visited. If, as one critic has put it, ‘Italy is, as most nineteenth-century writing seems to have agreed, a woman,’ this is

so because both types of convention operated to establish the femininity |

132 Goethe: Selected Verse, ed. and trans. David Luke (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1964), 92, 94. 133 Churchill, Italy and English Literature, 23.

' ‘Tourism and Anti-Tourism 133 of the land. '** Italian attributes that could be given a ‘feminine’ colouring

rose to predominance in the context of the tour’s unequal relationship between Northerners and Italians. Furthermore, European politics in the first two-thirds of the century weighed in favour of a feminized Italy: divided and ‘backward’, the home of emotion and superstition (Cath-

| olicism with pagan shadowings) rather than enlightenment, the Italian nation was the more easily moulded to a stereotypical womanhood. Indeed, as modernizations and self-determination came to Italy after the Risorgimento, the entire nation could be seen to undergo what was for its visiting admirers a painful sex-change. In one passage from a travel essay of 1877, Henry James tries to ease the transition, pronouns shifting from feminine to neuter to masculine as his Italy moves into the modern European day. ‘After thinking of Italy as historical and artistic,’ writes James, it will do [the visitor] no great harm to think of her, for a while, as modern, an idea supposed (as a general thing correctly) to be fatally at variance with the Byronic, the Ruskinian, the artistic, poetic, aesthetic manner of considering this fascinating peninsula. [The visitor] may grant ... that modern Italy is ugly, prosaic, provokingly out of relation to the diary and the album; it is nevertheless true that, at the point things have come to, modern Italy in a manner imposes herself. I had not been many hours in the country before I became conscious of this circumstance; and I may add that, the first irritation past, I found myself able to accept it. And if we think of it, nothing is more easy to understand than a certain displeasure on the part of the young Italy of to-day at being looked at by all the world as a kind of soluble pigment. Young Italy, preoccupied with its economical and political future, must be heartily tired of being admired for its eyelashes and its pose. ... I do not wonder that ... he [young Italy] should at last begin to resent our insufferable aesthetic patronage. He has established a line of tram-cars in Rome, from the Porto del Popolo to the Ponte Molle, and it is on one of these democratic vehicles that I seem to see him taking his triumphant course down the vista of the future. I will not pretend to rejoice with him any more than I really do; I will not pretend, as the sentimental tourists say about it all, as if it were the setting of an intaglio or the border of a Roman scarf, to ‘like’

it. Like it or not, as we may, it is evidently destined to be ... '*

A considerable transformation indeed has come over the country which 134 Robert Viscusi, ‘“The Englishman in Italy”: Free Trade as a Principle of Aesthetics’, in William S. Peterson, ed., Browning Institute Studies, 12 (New York: Browning Institute, 1984), 8. One important exception to this ‘grid of sexual difference’—that raised by male homosexuals—will bear upon my discussion of E. M. Forster in Ch. 5. As John Pemble points out, however, ‘the South’ could carry the promises and dangers of difference from ‘normal’ life for the homosexual no less than for the heterosexual visitor. John Addington Symonds, Pemble says, ‘interpreted his divided life as an alternation between incrimination and atonement; as an expiation in the Alps of guilt incurred in Italy’ by erotic and other sensual indulgences. See Mediterranean Passion, 254. 135 Portraits of Places (Boston: James R. Osgood, 1883), 44-6.

134 Tourism and Anti-Tourism James, only eight years earlier, had adored as a ‘beautiful dissheveled nymph’, 36

If we now return to Corinne, we may appreciate Staél’s crucial contribution of providing one character who seemed to embody all that Italy and ‘the South’ represented for those male visitors who crossed the Alps, trailing clouds of privilege as they came. Standing near the dividing-line of the two centuries, Corinne helps us to connect those particular sexual experiences of which eighteenth-century men wrote and dreamed with the nineteenth century’s habit of mapping Europe as a whole on a grid of sexual difference, the Alps often serving as the boundary between masculine North and feminine South. Italy thus charted becomes a woman of incomparable physical charms and mysterious, imperfectly controlled poetic powers: all things Italian, including the indigenous population, exude this quality before the enamoured male spectator from the North.

One of the primary features of this female identity, as Northern men characterized it, was Italy’s and the Italians’ inability consciously to express themselves, to control language and the Jogos that underlies it. Robert Browning’s comment (in 1866) that the Italians ‘are poetry, don’t and can’t make poetry’!»’ is a surprisingly apt description of Corinne, in spite of the fact that she is a poet: Corinne’s verses—which she sings, never writes—are all spontaneous historico-lyric effusion, pouring forth

: from her deep subrational interfusion with the Italian spirit. Most ironically and tellingly, Corinne is (we discover well into the novel) actually only balf-Italian: her father was an English lord, a fact that Staél

uses to account for the un-Italian degree of rationality with which Corinne is able to explain Italy, to speak on its behalf in her several discourses with Nelvil (in discursive sections of the novel headed ‘Italian Character and Customs’, ‘Italian Literature’, and so forth). In so far as Corinne is English, she possesses her father’s Northern rationality and

commands the language of reason; in so far as she is Italian (on her mother’s side), she embodies the feminine allure of her country of residence, and her lyrical voice gushes unmediatedly from the wellspring of Italianness. As for the nation itself and its people—in those words of Marx’s Eighteenth Brumaire which Edward Said has used as an epigraph to his study Orientalism—‘they cannot represent themselves; they must be represented’.

The gendered geography of Europe arose from, but also helped to structure, Northern men’s bearings towards the South. It is arguable that Browning, with his many verses on Italian subjects, considered his call-

York: Avon Books, 1978), 295.

136 Letter of ro Sept. 1869; quoted in Leon Edel, Henry James: The Untried Years, 1843-1870(New

137 Dearest Isa: Robert Browning’s Letters to Isabella Blagden, ed. Edward C. McAleer (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1951), 238-9; quoted in Viscusi, ‘“The Englishman in Italy”’, 3.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 135 ing as a poet to be that of speaking on behalf of Italy. Browning’s ‘By the

Fire-Side’, from Men and Women (1855), gives us perhaps the most succinct instance of the nineteenth-century feminization of the South: Italy is addressed in the poem as ‘Oh woman-country, wooed not wed, |

Loved all the more by earth’s male-lands, | Laid to their hearts instead!’ Unpossessable as Italian women had proved to their Northern lovers in novels, the woman-country could still be represented as yielding itself to appropriation by male imaginations from the North: it could be laid to one’s heart in poetry and cherished memory; and the claim to such imaginary possession became another means by which male visitors could define themselves in opposition to ‘ordinary tourists’.

If the place is a woman, then he who wins her favours (the ‘true traveller’) knows her best; the others are only rejected suitors. Even more than Browning, it is Henry James who, in elaborate applications of the metaphors of courtship and sexual union with a place, provides us with

the most striking figurations of that longing for a deeper, more meaningful contact than the tourist’s mere ‘skimming the surface’. In James’s handling, the paradigm of the male anti-tourist’s approach to the female place can yield powerful little narratives of acculturation, written in terms of sexual longing, jealousy, and conquest. I will consider two extended examples here. The first comes from James’s travel essay ‘Venice’ (1882), in a passage

where James speaks of the need to outstay the common experience of impatience with the crowded, crumbling, malodorous city. The chain of connections starts with James’s assertion that ‘the danger [in Venice] is that you will not linger enough’ to outlast that impatience, which is exacerbated by the unavoidable perception of many other tourists. ‘The Venice of to-day’, he writes, ‘is a vast museum where the little wicket that admits you is perpetually turning and creaking, and you march through the institution with a herd of fellow-gazers’—adding that the sentimental tourist’s only quarrel with his Venice is that he has too many competitors there. He likes to be alone; to be original; to have (to himself, at Jeast) the air of making discoveries. ... [But] there is nothing left to discover or describe, and originality of attitude is completely impossible. This is often very annoying; you can only turn your back on your impertinent playfellow and curse his want of delicacy.

James then spends a page cataloguing the annoyances that assault one in this surly mood: the cumulative effect of the city is that of a ‘tread-mill’

through a packed emporium where relentless touts hawk their garish 31) Robert 1981), i. §53. Browning, The Poems, ed. John Pettigrew (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press,

136 Tourism and Anti-Tourism wares. But this impression ‘is not the fault of Venice’, James insists; the

| problem ‘is the state of mind of those shallow inquirers who find Venice

all very well for a week; and if in such a state of mind you take your departure, you act with fatal rashness’. What happens if one remains? The reward of anti-tourism is an imaginary sexual intimacy with the city, which (who?) seems almost grateful, after the tourists have huffily depar-

ted, for the anti-tourist’s fidelity. As James puts it: The place is as changeable as a nervous woman, and you know it only when you

know all aspects of its beauty. ... [If you stay,] the place seems to personify

itself, to become human and sentient, and conscious of your affection. You , desire to embrace it, to caress it, to possess it; and finally, a soft sense of possession grows up, and your visit becomes a perpetual love-affair.

One further contrast is needed fully to characterize this preferential treatment—the feminine city’s willing bestowal of her favours on the antitourist. James returns to the depressing sight of the many other visitors crowding Venice in the height of the season—a spectacle he has not seen on such a scale because he has not been in Venice for several years. ‘In the interval the beautiful and helpless city’—a damsel in distress—‘has

suffered an increase of injury. The barbarians are in full possession, and 7 you tremble for what they may do.’ Following upon James’s loving feminization of the city, this language casts the other tourists (not James’s ‘sentimental’ one) as pillaging Huns threatening an illegitimate

seizure, not an imaginative appropriation, of the maiden/city. The sexual innuendo continues in James’s next observation: the sight of these hordes reminds the traveller ‘that Venice scarcely exists any more as a city at all; that it exists only as a battered peep-show and bazaar’.!% In the hands of the tourist-barbarians, Venice will be violated, exhibited, and sold. By now we have arrived at a subtext of Orientalist prurience, about a beautiful princess named Venice who is deflowered and sold into concubinage by ravaging invaders. In this post-Byronic fairy-tale, one

need hardly ask what Anglo-Saxon prince will come to redeem her. Reading of the special bond between the anti-tourist James and Venice, we may recall the Venetian Doges’ annual custom of ‘marrying’ their city

(the Adriatic Queen) in a ceremony renewing their authority to rule. James’s ‘perpetual love-affair’ with Venice borrows subtly from the Doges’ ritual of self-authorization.

Venice’s associations with ‘the East’, with Orientalist stereotypes of , languorous sensuality, account for the risqué character of these representations; but the courtship metaphor could be made more respectable where other places were concerned. In a second example, from one of 139 Portraits of Places, 5-8.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 137 James’s letters from abroad in early 1870, the young writer had spun out

a remarkable conceit: a passage meant to convey the depth of his response to a particular Italian city begins to read like a proper son’s letter to his father about the woman the son has chosen to marry. The name of the betrothed, in English, is Florence, both woman and city. James has been forced to leave her/it—in fact because of disabling constipation— and he tells his father of the pain of the separation: At present I feel as if I could hardly speak of [Florence]: all my instincts are sunk in the one dull dismal sensation of having left it-—of its holding me no more. I sit

here and wonder how my departure effected itself. The better man within me—the man of sympathies and ideas—soul and spirit and intellect, had certainly not the least little finger in the business. The whole affair was brutally and doggedly carried through by a certain base creature called Prudence, acting in the interest of a certain base organ which shall be nameless.

In opposition to his wretched body, which drags him away for medical treatment in the North, James’s spiritual side ‘longs to spread his wings into the celestial blue of freedom and waft himself back to the city of his

heart. All day yesterday, in the train as it dragged me along I could hardly believe that I was doing the hideous thing I was. Last night | spent—so to speak, in tears.’ The letter is staging a version of Corinne,

casting James as the Northern tourist/lover Nelvil, whose ‘prudence’—which means obedience to the wishes of his father, who has arranged a Northern match for him—wrenches him from his heart’s love in the South. James’s torments in the train replay Nelvil’s on abandoning Corinne: Nelvil had gone, as Staél has it, ‘trembling and pale like a man off to the scaffold, [leaving] that room where for the last time, perhaps, he had loved and felt loved in a way that destiny does not offer a second

time’ (Corinne, 314). What are the implications of this subterranean allusion to Staél? The playful letter—from a son bearing duties to the patria, to a father expecting news of a merely temporary trip—exploits the dynamics Staél’s novel sets in motion between Nelvil’s Anglo-Saxon filial piety and the Italian excitement embodied by Corinne. The young man writing the letter in 1870, in love with Europe and ultimately to live and work there, cajoles his father into some light-hearted acceptance of

the son’s shift of loyalties. James emphasizes the responsibility an honourable gentleman like himself owes to the chosen beloved, which (who), like Corinne, is alone in the world but for her Nelvil: | The divine little city [of Florence] has no mortal relationships. She has neither father nor mother, nor brother nor child. She sits alone in the great earth with

nothing but a lover—and that lover moi!—I was there about a fortnight— making six weeks in all. Day by day my fondness ripened into this unhappy

138 Tourism and Anti-Tourism passion. I have left my heart there and I shall be but half a man until I go back to claim it.

The passage then concludes as James attempts to characterize his Tuscan darling: I should be now however in some degree a consoled and comforted man, dear : father, if I could give you some sufficient statement--some faithful account, of | this delightful object of my choice. But in truth, no mere account of Florence— no catalogue of her treasures or colloquy of her charms—can bring you to a knowledge of her benignant influence. It isn’t this or that or the other thing; her pictures, her streets or her hills—it’s the lovely genius of the place—its ineffable spirit—its incalculable felicity. It’s the most feminine of cities. It speaks to you with that same soft low voice which is such an excellent thing in women. Other cities beside it, are great swearing shuffling rowdies. Other cities are things of

men and women and bricks and mortar. But Florence has an immortal soul. You , look into her deep grey eyes—the Florentines have great cheap brown eyes, but

the spiritual city has orbs of liquid grey ... '*°

The metaphor of wedding a European city which is an orphan, and of thus making a new imaginary family, expresses several dimensions of James’s extraordinary desire for acculturation. Laying the woman-city to his heart, James stakes his claim to a privileged intimacy with Florentine ‘culture’, which must be considered not as a catalogue of memoriz-

able facts (such as might be listed in any tourist’s handbook), but rather , as an ineffable total quality, an organic ‘whole’ that is knowable less in a | rational sense than in a biblical one. The exclusivity of Henry’s and Florence’s romance annuls the claims not only of competitor-tourists (rejected suitors) but also of prosaic Florentine residents themselves: people with ‘great cheap brown eyes’ have no business cohabiting with a woman /city blessed with poetical ‘orbs of liquid grey’. In other words, James’s imaginative appropriation of Florence would unseat even the indigenous occupants, who seem to have gathered on the spot for some

unspecified, suspect purpose. And the idea that Florence has ‘no mortal | relationships —‘neither father nor mother, nor brother nor child’—con- | stitutes a chief attraction for James, who found his own family and the very notion of actual families oppressive, and who later resolved never to marry. In such instances we can see James resourcefully exploiting a model for male anti-tourists that had been long in the making. Some indication 140 Letters, ed. Leon Edel (Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1974-84), i. 188-9. See also the remarks made by the protagonist of James’s tale ‘The Madonna of the Future’ (1873): ‘It’s the fashion to talk of all cities as feminine... . but, asa rule, it’s a monstrous mistake.

Is Florence of the same sex as New York, as Chicago? She’s the sole woman of them all; one feels . towards her as a lad in his teens feels to some beautiful older woman with a “history”.’ In The Complete Tales of Henry James, ed. Leon Edel (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1962-5), iii. 23-4.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 139 of the circulation these ideas had gained may perhaps be given by citing the 1873 music-hall song ‘Cook’s Excursion, or She Played Tink-a-Tink’, by G. W. Hunt. Hunt’s song tells of the cockney tourist John Smith, who

has recently gone ‘to do the grand’—in other words, to take Cook’s version of the Grand Tour of the Continent. ‘While enjoying my noble self amongst the ruins of Thingamy’s temple or What’s-his-name, or face, I forget which,’ Smith says, ‘I was made capture ... by the form of a dark-eyed maiden’, a ‘Daughter of Italy’ whose ‘ancestors flourished before the Flood’. The familiar figure of the uncomprehending tourist is captivated by a beautiful woman representing the South, the foreign; he desires, in the Jamesian term, to appropriate her, recognizing that with such a wife ‘I should astonish my friends in the Tottenham Court Road’.

But his elopement is interrupted by his beloved’s knife-brandishing father—a figure never evoked in the passages from James and one whose

introduction here sends Smith scurrying northward again. The jealous guardian-father is the song’s internal equivalent of the anti-tourist’s slur against tourists. By employing him in such a manner, the song comically acknowledges the absurdity of Smith’s (the Cook’s tourist’s) laying claim to ‘culture’. '*!

But nineteenth-century tourists and observers of tourism had also to confront a set of circumstances that did not easily conform to this pattern of male competition for a feminine culture. These circumstances arose from the increasing (and increasingly commented-upon) presence of women and families among touring parties on the Continent, a presence greatly facilitated by the technological and administrative developments I have discussed. A traveller’s paradigm derived from the model of the

Grand Tour could be of little use in this context, since women and children had never been the subjects of the Grand Tour’s ideology of male acculturation. Instead, a new paradigm emerged as another exaggerated response to the new conditions, supplementing but not replacing the older model, which remained of use chiefly as a means for men to

| distinguish themselves from male ‘tourists’. Clough’s epistolary poem Amours de voyage (1849) shows the uneasy rapprochement of the two

paradigms, as the solitary male traveller, the world-weary, Byronimpersonating Claude, becomes fitfully entangled in Italy with the bourgeois Trevellyn family and their daughter Georgina. Claude’s opening letter from abroad to his friend Eustace expresses the ennui of familiar

England and the hunger for ‘Change’: ,

Rome is better than London, because it is other than London{;] It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for a time, of 141 G. W. Hunt, ‘Cook’s Excursion, or She Played Tink-a-Tink’ (Thomas Cook Archive, London).

140 Tourism and Anti-Tourism

All one’s friends and relations,—yourself (forgive me!) included,— ,

All the assujettissement of having been what one has been, What one thinks one is, or thinks that others suppose one

But Clough’s protagonist grumblingly concedes that however keen the longing to escape home life and home-self, he and his travelling compat-

riots none the less ‘turn like fools to the English’ on the Continent. Claude’s so turning has put him in contact with Georgina, who first addresses her own English correspondent (and first enters the poem) with

At last, dearest Louisa, I take up my pen to address you. : Here we are, you see, with the seven-and-seventy boxes, | | Courier, Papa and Mamma, the children, and Mary and Susan: Here we all are at Rome, and delighted of course with St. Peter’s, And very pleasantly lodged in the famous Piazza di Spagna. Rome is a wonderful place, but Mary shall tell you about it; Not very gay, however; the English are mostly at Naples’*”

It scarcely needs to be said that these lines are crowded with appurtenan-

ces, and exude an attitude, utterly at odds with the professed aims of

lone male anti-tourists such as Claude. A sizeable portion of ‘England’ , has accompanied Georgina to Rome, both in the persons of numerous relations and servants and in the contents of the ‘seven-and-seventy boxes’. An insularity and predictability of outlook has also survived the journey, evident in the ‘of course’ and the ‘famous’ which Georgina

attaches to responses and the sites that elicit them, as well as in the unabashed manner with which she regrets the absence of English society.

Though Clough’s poem will eventually undermine Claude’s pose and

alter the dichotomy that begins it—that of male ‘traveller’ and female ‘tourist’—Amours de Voyage does provide a reminder that in so far as ‘Change’, ‘Escape’, and ‘Solitude’ were marks of the anti-touristic, they were licensed only for use by men. Only great wealth or great courage to

ignore social disapprobation, or both, could give women the opportunity to travel—by which I mean simply to move—unladen and unaccompanied. Confronting the many women and families (and boxes) making their appearances on the Continental tour in the decades after Waterloo— and, in typical anti-tourist fashion, overestimating their impact—was

a new narrative model, which I will call the ‘family-abroad plot’. A chief function of this model seems to have been to characterize the tour that is directed by a woman as a misuse of the acculturating potential of ‘travel’, usually involving an illegitimate attempt to gain status at home. In the anonymous ‘A Family Tour and its Consequences’, a story printed 142 Clough, The Poems of Arthur Hugh Clough, 177-8.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 141 in Blackwood’s Magazine in 1839, Mr Hartwell, a small landowner, has

acquiesced to his wife’s demands for a family trip to the Continent, though he has no enthusiasm for the undertaking. ‘I wish it were all over,

and we safe back again here,’ he says; but Mrs Hartwell replies, ‘Only think with what delight all our neighbours speak of the different places they have seen, while we can only sit and listen, and have nothing to say.’ ‘Ah, well!’ sighed Mr. Hartwell, ‘the die is cast; and so, go we must, I suppose now, though for my part I care no more about foreign places nor foreigners than they care about me.’ ‘As to that, my dear, I don’t suppose we differ much; but then you know we

must see them, or else we cannot say so.’ |

‘If there was any chance of being believed, I really think I could stretch a point and “say so” without going.’!*

The Hartwells must keep up with the demonstrated ‘accomplishments’ of their neighbours and so will mount a Continental tour in the interest of

better competing in the cultural market of accomplishments. The satirical narrator here puts into his characters’ mouths words fitting critics’ suspicions about ‘mere tourists’: tourists do not really care for Europe’s cultural offerings; they seek only to trade on their contact with a European atmosphere that is held to be ‘improving’ in some mysterious

fashion. For Mrs Hartwell, the social graces she expects the tour to bestow upon the family outweigh her husband’s aversion to Continental

customs and peoples, and the promise of these advantages prevents both . Hartwells from considering their own obvious unpreparedness for anything but the most superficial tour. The primary concern is that the Continent be made to pay, to yield demonstrable benefits that are, so to speak, legal tender in the cultural economy which the Hartwells inhabit. The focus of their aspirations is their marriageable daughter Jane. At the story’s beginning, Mrs Hartwell ‘for the five hundredth time allude[s]

to the advantages their daughter Jane would derive from the trip’; though, as the narrator is careful to inform us, [Mrs Hartwell’s] notions of [the] precise nature and extent [of these advantages] were by no means very distinct’ (p. 56). The tale then proceeds through a series of fairly predictable misadventures, leading to a ‘sadder-but-wiser’ conclusion. Planned with a view to making an advantageous match for Jane, the tour actually encourages the girl to despise the ways of her own country; and

when Jane is duped into marrying the wily, fortune-hunting Comte Henri de Marburg, the whole Hartwell estate is put in peril, since the Squire has no male heir. Disaster is averted only when the Squire, reconciled to the loss of his daughter, makes a second marriage with a younger 143 ‘A Family Tour and its Consequences’, Blackwood’s Magazine, 46/285 (July 1839), 56. Further

references cited in the text.

142 Tourism and Anti-Tourism woman (Mrs Hartwell having conveniently died in the interval) and produces a successor in the nick of time. English identity and continuity

are preserved by keeping the estate out of the unscrupulous count’s

hands. Back at home, Mr Hartwell confides to an old comrade that | to think that this fine estate would pass away at my death to a foreign swindler, 3 was more than I could endure. The idea haunted me continually. By night I was tormented with dreams of executions in the house, and sales by auction of every

familiar object; and by day, especially at twilight, all the family portraits seemed to look at me imploringly, as though they tried to speak, and beseech me to save them from coming degradation. Then, if I rode out, or took my gun, or strove in any way to amuse myself in the open air, it was all the same. The woods, the river, the very ground beneath appeared to reproach me, and I fancied that the

fine old trees, as their branches waved aloft, cast a darker shade around, and | groaned as though the axe were ready at work to hew them down to supply the :

wants of a gamester and a stranger. (p. 64) , | The Squire’s providential fathering of an heir rescues trees, grounds,

house, and family line ‘for another generation or two, at least’ (p. 65). As for Jane, her own little fortune has quickly been dissipated, and her fate

is in complete contrast with the stability of the Squire’s safeguarded home. Unhappily bound to her count, she has become a homeless frequenter of Europe’s decadent pleasure-spots—a permanent tourist-——and she envies the traveller who is ‘returning to happy England, to the society _

of old friends, and your own quiet, domestic home. For me there is no | such place—none! ... We are wanderers upon the face of the earth, going from one gay place to another, living in the strangest manner .. .’ (p. 62).

| ‘A Family Tour and its Consequences’ presents in short-story form a number of themes that reappear throughout nineteenth-century ‘family abroad’ narratives, most of which satirize women’s efforts to exploit that ‘curious medley’ of English classes abroad in order to gain undeserved -

ascendancy. Driven by mothers and by the unleashed desires of daugh- =

ters, the families depicted in these plots strive to escape the class , identities they bear at home. European travel for them is.a socially advantageous lie, and the women will lie to gain access to it. In a brief sketch from Punch of 1864 one Mrs Naggleton harangues her husband, ‘Shall I ever see Rome? Here is a letter from MRS. BOSSER, who is there,

and who writes in perfect raptures of its treasures of art and antiquity’; but we discover in the end that she has been asking for distant Rome in

order to make her spouse compromise on Paris, her actual goal all along.'** David Carey’s Life in Paris (1822) features ‘the Whimsical 144 ‘The Naggletons Upon Rome’, Punch, 47 (July-Dec. 1864), 68-9.

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 143 Adventures of the Halibut Family’, a clan of cockney social climbers making their first steps abroad after a capricious fortune has elevated Humphrey Halibut from fishmonger to ‘Knight of the Shire and Baronet’. Mrs Halibut may be seen at Calais ‘in mongrel dress, half French, half English’, representing ‘a specimen of the oddest of all amalgamations, Bath and Billingsgate compounded; but she is very desirous of forgetting her relationship with the eastern districts of the town—she has now got

other fish to fry ...‘. Mrs Halibut’s pretensions are to be validated, she hopes, through the ‘finishing’ of young Lydia Seraphina Molly Halibut, for ‘when she has seen a little of the tip-top of “Life in Paris” . .. it is the opinion of her fond mother and governess that there is not a young lady that will be able to match her from Grosvenor-Place to Mile-End’.!*5 Mrs Roberts of Frances Trollope’s The Robertses on their Travels tells her husband she would never have urged the family to ‘scramble up and down the world as we are doing now’, despising as she does foreign ways

and peoples, but for the fact that I happened to know, from good authority, that we might be taken for people of fashion abroad, though we could not at home. ... When a set of English people set off upon their travels, with money enough in their pockets to dress smartly, and to make a little show now and then, by driving about like regular milors, they very soon [get] jumbled together both with those above and those below them, so that it is one of the most difficult things in the world for the natives, or even for other English travellers themselves, when they are all whirling about together, to find out (if people don’t stay too long in one place) who are really

, people of fashion, and who are not. (RT i. 329-30) A character in Lever’s The Dodd Family Abroad remarks that while ‘in England the gradations of rank are as fixed as the degrees of a service;

and we, being who and what we are, could no more pretend to be something else than could a subaltern pass off for a colonel to his own regiment’, the Continental touring scene comprises ‘a general scramble for position’ (NCL iii. 352). Kenny Dodd, the paterfamilias of Lever’s novel, also offers an interpretation of ‘the real and essential difference between [British men] and foreigners’, likening the empty civilities of Continental society to egotistical role-playing and to the passing of false currency: [Foreigners] are always thinking of what effect they are producing; they never for a single moment forget that there is an audience. Now we [British men], on the

contrary, never remember it. ... Our civilities are like a bill of exchange, that must represent value one day or other. Theirs are like the gilt markers on a card-table: they have a look of money about them, but are only counterfeit. 145 David Carey, Life in Paris (London: printed for John Fairburn, 1822), 2-3.

144 Tourism and Anti-Tourism , Perhaps this may explain why our women like the Continent so much better than ourselves. All this mock exchange amuses and interests them; it only worries us. (NCL iit. 135)

The scheming wives of the family-abroad narratives hope to defer that

moment when the curtain must be lowered and the role dropped in favour of one’s true identity; they seek to profit by trading in worthless markers. But husbands like Kenny know that all bills come due in time.

Thus, a conservative vision informs the family-abroad plot, mistrustful of the female irrationality, mendacity, and unruly desires that endanger Britain’s solid, orderly, ‘masculine’ system of social relations. The social pretensions impelling the families on the Continent are usually

let loose by some failure of the order-preserving paternal authority: fathers are dead, absent, or ineffectual, while wives and daughters run rampant. In the preface to The Dodd Family Abroad, Charles Lever writes that he has made Kenny Dodd ‘keenly and sensitively alive’ to ‘all

the pretentious ambitions of his family,—to their exaggerated sense of

themselves and their station,—to their inordinate desire to figure in a rank above their own, and appear to be something they had never hitherto attempted’; Kenny ‘sees Mrs. Dodd’s perils,—there is not a sunk rock nor a shoal before her that he has not noted, and yet for the life of him he can’t help booking himself for the voyage’ (NCL iii, p. viii). It is a primary function of works like Lever’s to run the women’s hopes laugh-

ably and repeatedly aground before the eyes of a readership that will learn the moral of the story. ‘Had you come on the Continent to be abroad what you are well contented to be at home,’ Dodd informs his

family in the end, ‘had you abstained from the mockery of a class you , never belonged to ... your journey would not have.been a series of disappointments’ (NCL iv. 294). Kenny’s final letter in the novel toys with the analogy between family and paternalistic state, describing the

father as a head of government who has averted a coup: ‘our latest advices inform us that, notwithstanding the intrigues in the Cabinet, [Kenny Dodd] maintains his ascendancy’ (NCL iv. 284). Frances Trollope’s third-person narrator in The Robertses conveys this more urgent statement of the message: ‘Alas for the facile husband and indulgent

father who yields his judgment to the ambitious aspirations of his , woman-kind, and decides upon taking up his abode upon the Continent!’

(RT ii. 66). Trollope insists that the delineations which her female characters seek to ignore really do matter—that class distinctions will reassert themselves at the expense of those who attempt to circumvent

them. ‘It is all very well’, she writes,

for Russian generals, Polish princesses, German barons, French dukes, Italian marquises, Swedish counts, &c. &c. &c., with all their fair and noble belong-

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 145 ings (mixed up with a few English milors)—it is all very well for these to rush about from one favourite place of amusement to another, sparkling in diamonds, and stars, and broad-breasted rateaux of decorations innumerable. It is all very well for them. They understand one another perfectly. There is no delusion, no dazzling deception in the case. But woe to the unlucky third-class English gentle-

man and his family, who, bringing with them nothing but English gold and English beauty as tickets of admission to the noble phalanx—woe to him and his, if he or they thrust themselves into the vortex, and fancy they can spin round in it unscathed like the rest! What the others look upon as the amusement of an hour, they contemplate as the most important epoch of their lives. And important it often is to them, Heaven knows! rendering them utterly and for ever unfit

for the station in life for which they were born and bred ... (RT ii. 236-7)

The family-abroad plots sometimes employ a female figure of marginal status within the family—a quiet, overlooked sister or an unrelated com-

panion on the trip—to embody the positive values that a father either neglects or is unable to enforce. In The Robertses on their Travels, the Roberts girls, Agatha and Maria, give themselves up to the lures of the Continent, putting their reputations and their family’s limited fortune at risk in the process. But Bertha Harrington, the young orphan who reluc-

tantly accompanies them, is appalled by the family’s excesses and remains true to the unpretentious aim of travel for self-improvement. Bertha actually cares about what she sees and learns on the tour, rather than whom she manages to impress. At Strasburg Cathedral, where Mrs Roberts is frustrated to find that ‘there were no statues upon which [she] could display her enthusiasm, as she had been wont to do in the halls of the Louvre’, and where her daughters and son long for their usual complement of ‘moustached beaux [and] gaily-attired belles ... to stare at’ (RT i. 259), Bertha devotes patient attention to the church itself. She attends to the profound impressions it yields, which Trollope records in a description of the cathedral’s awe-inspiring ‘vastness, which seems void

of everything but the solemn silence that permits the thoughts to rise to heaven’ (RT i. 264-5). Liberating herself from the Robertses whenever possible, Bertha pursues what Mrs Trollope calls ‘one of the highest and most rational enjoyments of civilized life, namely, that of travelling in search of all that is best worth looking upon in nature and in art’ (RT iii. 65). She cultivates a commendable self-reliance: in Rome, she ‘daily descend[s, unescorted,] to her ... equipage’ to ‘give her commands to her attentive valet-de-place as to the order of the morning’s excursions

... (RT iit. 71). In Lever’s Dodd Family, the younger, meeker daughter Caroline shares her father’s consciousness of the futility of her mother’s social-climbing

designs. Caroline is a powerless but steadfast reminder of the paternal

146 Tourism and Anti-Tourism ideals temporarily in abeyance: as such she is a disappointment to her mother and to her ‘brilliant’ sister Mary Anne, who complain that the improving atmosphere of European society is wasted on her. ‘I observe’, Mrs Dodd writes of Caroline, ‘that whenever foreign travel fails in inculcating new refinement and genteel notions, it is sure to strengthen all old prejudices, and suggest a most absurd attachment to one’s own country

... (NCL iti. 423). While the father’s ‘bad daughter’ Mary Anne is swayed by every temptation of fashion and pretence, his ‘good daughter’ regrets the grasping aspirations of mother and sister. Caroline falls prey to no sinister European suitors; she cannot forget, as the others would

like to do, ‘the unreality of this high and stately existence’ they are

leading (NCL iii. 87); like Bertha Harrington, she prefers humbly to pursue the truly worthwhile objects of attention on the Continent. , . Much the same pattern can be traced in Dickens’s Little Dorrit. In recording the Continental adventures of the newly-rich Dorrits in Book Two of the novel, Dickens applies the family dynamic at work in Trollope’s and Lever’s novels to the characters of Fanny and Amy (‘Little’) Dorrit during their Italian residence. In another situation marked by a functionally ‘absent’ father—William Dorrit has long since abandoned

clear-headed control of his family—two daughters illustrate the conflict , of values in an English touring family. Fanny, the cynical, socially ambi- |

tious ornament of her father’s household, plays the flirtatious games of , salon and dining-room with a vengeance, while timid Amy cowers at the periphery of the clan. She cannot stop being humble, cannot forget the

Marshalsea debtor’s prison from which they have all come. Like Caroline Dodd, she sees the unreality of her family’s new position in the

world, a perception that returns to her wherever she goes; like Bertha

Harrington, she breaks away from the family’s social round to go sightseeing. In Venice, ‘sometimes she would step into one of the gon- |

dolas that were always kept in waiting ... and would be taken all over 7 the strange city’; in Rome, Little Dorrit ‘often ride[s] out in a hired carriage ... [to] alight alone and wander among the ruins of old Rome’. But Amy’s small attempts to discover the glories of Europe for herself are

often thwarted. When her unwelcome companion, Mrs General, accompanies her—standing in for the social-climbing mother in Dickens’s adaptation of the family-abroad plot—independent touring becomes impossible. Mrs General has already ‘made the tour of Europe’, but she has

undertaken it only to gain superficial social polish and to gather assorted facts unenlivened by imagination. She has, Dickens says, seen ‘most of | that extensive miscellany of objects which it is essential that all persons of polite cultivation should see with other people’s eyes, and never with

their own’. In Rome she wields the weighty authority of Eustace’s

Tourism and Anti-Tourism 147 Classical Tour, desiccating the landscape for Amy by the application of that dusty tome, ‘looking everywhere for Mr Eustace and company, and seeing nothing else; scratching up the driest little bones of antiquity, and bolting them whole without any human visitings ... ’.'*° Little Dorrit’s

role is to resist the temptations her family parades before her and to withstand the deadening effects of tourism with Mrs General. The meek young woman in Dickens’s family plot must hold out until she can put herself under the authority of an English father-husband, by becoming the child-bride of Arthur Clennam. All of the family-abroad plots offer object-lessons on the evil conse-

quences of female desires for undeserved distinction. In Lord Normanby’s novella ‘L’Amoroso’ (1825), Mrs Euston and her daughter Matilda prevail over Mr Euston’s misgivings to stage a European tour. Normanby emphasizes the long, continuous Euston tradition running up to the time of the story (the immediate post-Napoleonic years); but Mr Euston’s three sons have all died, leaving the family vulnerable to the whims of the ‘petulant and vivacious’ Matilda (El i. 6). What sets Normanby’s tale apart from mid-Victorian variations is the greater stress it places on the young girl’s dissatisfaction with home life and ‘petulant’ desire for travel and change. Normanby associates these feelings with adolescent female sexuality, a troubling force which a paternal society must keep confined within an inflexible social framework of unthreatening alternatives. Normanby informs us that the impetuous Matilda is ‘perishable and frail’ and needs the security of English surroundings to keep her inviolate: ‘in the pure atmosphere of English life,’ no matter how moody or unpredictable she might become, ‘this indocility of the young maiden could not be looked upon as materially pernicious[;] her passions grew ungovernable, to be sure,—but the object they aimed at, the motives that affected them, were innocent’ (EI i. 8). The urge for travel is the urge for ‘experience’, with all its alarming connotations for the proper fathers of ripening daughters. When Normanby’s protagonist sets foot on Continental soil, there is a dangerous, self-stimulating vibration in the words that pass through her mind: ‘Here I am, was the extent of her reflections, but what a circle of delight stretched around that little centre!’ (EI i. 18). Matilda casts her family from her mind, thinking only of her own adventures to come; she asserts a traveller’s independence which is reserved for men, inviting disaster by this misapplication of

paradigms. |

Like ‘A Family Tour’, Normanby’s tale drives towards a double

scandal: his young maiden is swayed by a dissolute foreign nobleman, and their marriage becomes a threat to the orderly transmission of the 146 J ittle Dorrit, 519, 671.

148 Tourism and Anti-Tourism family name and property. In the two stories, Jane Hartwell and Matilda Euston spurn their fathers’ wishes by dropping earnest but unexciting English suitors in favour of Continental lotharios who will waste their

fortunes, maltreat them, and keep them from their proper homes. In ‘L’Amoroso’, the hope for rescue is removed by the death of Mr Euston abroad. There is no mistaking the narratorial message heavy-handedly delivered through Mr Euston’s dying words to Matilda: Would to heaven, Matilda, that we had never quitted our pure English home! For I have long observed how much you have changed—not materially, I trust. ... You have given yourself up to foreign modes and foreign feelings—they are

not such as render an English woman happy, at least not with an English husband—and heaven forbid you should ever be united to another! ... Your very English blush has long ceased to flush your cheek with innocence. (EI i. 28)

Doomed to ignore his counsel, Matilda is seduced and tainted by contact

with European manners and morals; the loss of the innocent ‘English blush’ prefigures the sacrifice of her virginity to the loathsome Conte D’Avellino.

: Deprived of the possibility that the father might reassert himself and save the day (as in ‘A Family Tour’), ‘L’Amoroso’ makes its inexorable way to a gloomy end. The loyal English suitor dies of grief; the miserable Matilda flees her beastly husband to return, humbled, to England. Normanby does not shrink from peroration, calling his heroine’s fate a striking, and, it is to be hoped, not a useless example to the British fair, who learn, in the enthusiasm for foreign climes and habits, to contemn the domestic virtues of their country,—who mistake the mere charms of novelty for sources of lasting happiness, and who blush not to forfeit the name of English women, in yielding up their hearts and hands to the fickle keeping of a stranger. (EI i. 220)

The gloom and frisson of Matilda’s fate suggests the influence of Ann

Radcliffe, whose Mysteries of Udolpho, with its story of an innocent English girl’s abduction by a ruthless Italian (in the absence of a protect-

ing father), may stand behind all the family-abroad narratives. In the works I have surveyed here, the stereotype of a vulnerable, feminine South has given way to that of a moustache-twirling, debt-ridden adventurer eager to prey on the ingenuous hearts of Northern maidens. This representation was not entirely a convention of fiction. Murray’s Hand-

book for Southern Italy issued a fatherly ‘Caution to English Ladies’ about the dangers of too intimate contact with the local ‘gentlemen’: Too much care cannot be taken in forming acquaintances with southern Italians, and especially with that class of them which frequents Pensions. One of their

chief aims is to marry for money, and keep their families and themselves in

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8T + ’ theme tor , p .a‘constant . Th on between touristic and indigenous uses of space was h *

traVv el writers editorialists irl ; , and satiristsa d(see '

p. 199).

NOBILITY AT THE PYRAMIDS.

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season Frlppiig and fouris’ happily _ ..Tae 6 € £222 pe Bkcont eed coeinental oer pag ates — e “3 5 Bae oe ae 2 ae ere 3being 3. es a wet ~ meon $rather hw 4 ses remote al2555 the2 for present period of the year, there ie just ehance that, by :the gran.time EEREthe - bebe eee aii oscomes ge. obs cca be Beckthe Es gistate ‘age Fino BSc cigs oswill wig aes te suilierr ne mitumn round, of Burope be on fan un $ ee ge ES AY ck Ege eis ° GES ee OE Ee eae OU RF ak: - gt

ciently tranquil to allow one to entertain the notion of gome, for pleasure, lo France or Italy Unless a change does: take place, the

a: > oe _* leWH 2: albe be ry ks ook feat canbe OF. tote for Ba AORIEN, ayia dl eae d t}Ls } Yrannds be the onhe¥ os perfect suser SLILDELB DaGen ANG a ‘ a Bis 3 aa - ~ ¥ “tk. "get eee eek oe a e ee 5 a re Se ce eee “ : . Re | “eat ok Eee: Ol a fos

por of Ascalon will the be recognised:apology for Boulogne, as ashelving foreign vathine-place. We shall ofol a deble-a'Aéle on the the nathing-place. Webe shall hehearihe hearing a fade hole on

oe cE RR ack ee EEabd ES.aBe ts we aioe ge Oe started og ae PgR OF UT hw precipices ofBe Palmyra, boarding-house on| the Libyan ont & Ee ee Bo fF enc reee ae AE Orne ae - 7. en ny ae Pc a. Pe - no cee -¥.. Sk , F.C, . sands, with water laid on: from ihe Grond: Affiean. Junction and TR , *~ z 7Ni owe_.Association, .. 2 Side fn se ‘lor hastne : os supply . ii ARS ict at by os“Nile N | . . oo t . by |} ; Frendly of tee genuine onago equitabie

; » > . . Mh a spine The x oe sigs: af o Bye Trea wo aes a 3locomotion o ‘wa SH ve en x cogs g 1 very ae eee fake he eek Ge tare eLaat ‘i ; t principles. means ol rapid aregeeso numerous, : oe es Ben Bb ecat. REESE OEE PS BS Set PPS Be Boe oe BS ake sat aed de opps GE axacmetn € the journey to these remote places will be almost as-easy as it used to mites baad: ah ‘ a Bo Sag ee Bay or i "eel ee * Saks Ee aeas Be peave es weg “..and oes © quiet petet andare & o indis¥abe; Bnformerly to*visit France [aly ; sind, pe neableto the fill: enjoyment of a holiday, nothing fiéarer than the Vyramids can be thonght-ol, ab present, by travers for pleasure.

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9, Tourism and/as Imperialism: permanent transformations for transient visitors

(see p. 322). |

, ~¥ ’

NEWS FOR THE EXOGURSIONISTS.

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