Reasons For Self-Publishing: Lessons from History

… Owing to my having been my own publisher and thereby displeasing all London bookseller/proprieters of reviews I am to be most severely handled in the Quarterly, Westminster, Monthly Lit. Gazette &c–but how Edin. will treat me I do not know. You will, however, be glad to learn that I have the consolation that I have 7,000 subscribers amounting to no less than £7,000!–My first object in being my own publisher was to get the book up so as to be a credit to the nation and all concerned, my 2nd object was to give it to the public cheaper, and to show thereby how the booksellers impose on both the authors and the public–and lastly that I might keep the property in my own hands.

–From a letter by Sir John Ross to William Scoresby, 28th April 1835. Quoted in Tom and Cordelia Stamp, William Scoresby, Arctic Scientist (1976).

Freeing Up the Pub Trade: A View From 1872

In the mid-nineteenth century the brewing industry was in flux. Technology was changing the way beer could be produced and the larger or ‘common’brewers were steadily growing, squeezing out smaller operators and buying up their properties. Public drunkenness was a real problem and the number of pubs and beerhouses, many of which were unpleasant places, was widely seen as contributing to the problem. To make matters worse, the way that licenses were handed out by magistrates favoured publicans tied to the bigger, wealthier brewers who were able consequently to control the market in whole areas of some cities.

In Liverpool in 1862 the magistrates tried an experiment. At the time Liverpool was widely seen as one of the worst cities in the country in terms of the amount of public drunkenness and the number of offences committed; it also had an unusually high number of beerhouses and pubs, many of them in a poor state. There was a desperate need to solve Liverpool’s problems with drunkenness and at the same time lessen the influence of brewers on the political and social life of the city. What these far-sighted magistrates did was free up licensing altogether, making it possible for anyone who could show they had suitable premises and were of ‘good character’to set up a business selling beer.

Critics, including the common brewers and many tenant publicans who saw their local monopolies threatened, attacked the plan, arguing that more liberal licensing would lead to more public disorder and crime. The policy lasted only four years and was widely believed to have failed miserably; in 1872 the Spectator commented on the subject saying that “free licensing has been tried by the Liverpool magistrates and has produced results so ghastly that they have recoiled from the experiment.” As always the truth is more complicated. By 1866 the magistrates’bench was once again dominated by individuals influenced by the larger brewers who had a vested interest in tighter controls–on their own terms–over licensing. This is not very far from the way large brewers in recent years have defended the ‘beer tie’.

In a letter to the Times dated May 21, 1872, a ‘Liverpool Man’believed to be S.G. Rathbone, an opponent of the ‘free trade in licenses’when he sat as a magistrate, suggests the experiment was much more successful than generally thought. Indeed Rathbone seems to have changed his mind about restriction:

… I know of no evidence which shows any ghastly results followed the introduction of free licensing; certainly the police statistics do not point to such a conclusion. The free licensing system was adopted at the licensing session held in the autumn of 1862 and abandoned in the autumn of 1866. The number of apprehensions for drunkenness during the official police year which closed in autumn, 1862, was 12, 362, and for the year 1866, 12,494; so that at the end of the free licensing period the apprehensions had not increased in proportion to the increase of population. The restrictive system of issuing licenses having been returned to at the licensing session of 1866, and Sir Selwyn-Ibbetson’s Beerhouse Act of 1869 having brought the issue of beerhouse licenses under magisterial control, there has been a steady decrease in the number of drinking houses; and the number of publichouses and beerhouses, which in 1865 amounted to 2,805, is now only 2,313. The steady decrease in the number of drinking houses has been accompanied by an equally steady increase in the number of apprehensions for drunkenness, which, for the last year of free licensing, 1866, was 12,494; while for the police year ending in autumn, 1871, after five years of restrictive policy, it was 22,947. These figures are, of course, in themselves not conclusive, many causes combining to influence the apprehensions of drunkenness; but, at all events, they show that the police statistics of this town, so much relied upon by the advocates of restriction, afford no evidence that free licensing injured the morals of the inhabitants.

The ‘Liverpool Man’goes on to show that the number of licensees unable to pay their rates rose substantially during the unrestrictive period, indicating that the profit from selling beer had fallen substantially. Much of this was put down to licensees keeping open houses in ‘bad situations’hoping for the return of the restriction; these licensees were no doubt assisted by the larger brewers who owned the houses in question. Our ‘Liverpool Man’concludes wisely and I’ll leave him the last word:

No human ingenuity can devise a law which shall at the same time place liquor within the reach of the sober and keep it out of the reach of the drunken: yet this is really the impossible aim of all systems of partial restriction. The restrictive system, at least in our large towns, entails all the evils of monopoly without any corresponding advantages …

The real solution to the liquor question is, then, to throw the trade open on equal terms to all willing to enter it and to pay a good high Excise license duty [there was no excise duty on beer until 1880], and thus destroy the monopoly out of which many of the moral and all the political evils of the trade now arise.

Text Messaging Before the Telephone

I’ve been spending quite a lot of time recently reading personal letters between various members of Liverpool’s merchant elite in the early nineteenth century. By the late 1700s Liverpool had an established local mail service and was connected to London by direct mail coach in 1785. By 1800 the penny post was a sophisticated and efficient means of communication with several postal deliveries each day within the city. It has been interesting to see just how frequently people communicated with one another. The content of letters was in many cases no more significant than a text message or a quick email might be today; they are ephemeral and insignificant. In fact many of the letters I have been looking at do away with the date and distinguish themselves only with the time of day, suggesting that ‘real time’conversations were carried out this way even between people living less than half a mile apart.  Here are a couple of real examples from the 1820s and 1830s, both of which went by post (I’m keeping the names to myself until I have permission to publish this material properly):

My Dear Madam

We shall be most happy to wait upon you tomorrow evening, and I shall have much pleasure in the opportunity of seeing your sister and in the mean time I always am

Faithfully and affectionately yours

My Dear Madam

I shall be most happy to visit you this evening. In the mean time I always remain (though more briefly expressed than I could wish being in haste),

My Dear Madam
I am faithfully and affectionately yours

Monday Morng.

It is interesting to see that impromptu and short-notice social engagements were as much part of early-nineteenth century life as they are now. Finding out this kind of thing will be almost impossible for future historians looking back at us.

Liverpool’s Floating Churches and a Famous Chaplain

Yesterday I came across (via Twitter) a post about New York’s floating chapels and this started me thinking about Liverpool’s own floating churches. It seems there were two, one of which was a nonconformist chapel based on board a former whaling ship the William, which in its heyday as a whaler would have looked something like the one in the picture, the James. The William had been built in Liverpool for the Greenland fishery in 1785 and became a chapel in 1822. The William remained in the King’s Dock until 1850, when she was broken up. The journal of Robert Day, (1848-1850), Agent to the Liverpool Seamen’s Friend Society, held in the Liverpool Records office, records that “she sold for £105. The amount of dock dues incurred for 28 years and 7 months amounted to £1277 13s 7d”.

The other floating church in Liverpool belonged to the Church of England. Based in the donated former frigate HMS Tees, the Mariner’s Floating Church opened its companionways to worshippers in 1827 and remained in place in George’s Dock until 1872, when it sank at its moorings. The first chaplain of the Floating Church was William Scoresby Jr., the former whaler and arctic scientist turned minister. Scoresby had always had a strong religious sense and was well known as a whaling captain for refusing to catch whales on a Sunday. This was partly because he believed in observing the sabbath, but also because he believed that a day of rest would be beneficial to the crew. He was deeply concerned for the moral and spiritual health of sailors and was also a Temperance campaigner, arguing that drunkenness at sea was at least partly responsible for the large numbers of ships lost. Scoresby first moved to Liverpool from Whitby in 1819 and built his ship the Baffin there. He returned to the city as chaplain in 1827 and stayed for five years before moving on.

Baffin of Liverpool: The Last Liverpool Whaler?

Baffin_left_1.jpeg

The Liverpool Whaleship, Baffin, by Francis Hustwick, c. 1834

I seem to be developing a minor obsession with whales and whaling. I’ve been reading recently about William Scoresby Jr, a Whitby whaler who built and sailed the Liverpool whaleship Baffin on a famous voyage to Greenland. Scoresby, besides being a whaler, arctic explorer and naturalist, designed the Baffin himself, overseeing her construction at Liverpool. In his Journal of a Voyage to the Northern Whale Fishery Scoresby describes the ship:

The voyage was accomplished in the ship Baffin, burden 321 tons, built at Liverpool, under my personal inspection, expressly for the whale-fishery, in the year 1820. No expense having been spared in the construction of this ship, every known principle calculated for producing strength, accommodation, sea-worthiness, and fast sailing, in so far as these properties were compatible, was adopted, and with such good effect, as to answer, upon trial, our highest expectations.

As far as I have been able to work out, Baffin was one of only two whale ships based in Liverpool in 1822. The other was the Lady Forbes, which was wrecked that year. After this voyage the Baffin transferred to Whitby. Scoresby made one last trip to the Arctic before he gave up the sea and became a clergyman. The Baffin–almost certainly the last Liverpool whaler–also sailed out of  Leith, before being wrecked in the Davis Strait off Greenland in 1830. The ship with its bow towards us in the picture above is thought to be the Baffin. The painting is held at the Hull Maritime Museum.

Edited, December 17, 2009.