SOURCE: King, Kathryn R. “A Jacobite Novelist.” In Jane Barker, Exile: A Literary Career 1675-1725, pp. 147-79. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000.

[In the following essay, King tells the story of Barker as a Jacobite novelist, showing the connections between the plots of her novels and the political activities and ideologies of the Stuart court.]

Barker is in fact a supremely self-regarding writer, mindful of her gendered singularity and fascinated with the many ways to tell her own story; and it seems undeniable, if hard to prove, that her heroine, Galesia—poet, healer, virgin, femme savante, and odd woman—is in many ways a self-portrait. However, when the complex self-fashionings of the prose fictions, the Galesia trilogy in particular,¹ are read in relation to their own political moment, these narratives emerge as complex elegiac responses to the declining fortunes of the exiled Stuarts and their followers in England.²

That Barker's career as a market-place novelist overlaps closely with the reign of the first of the Hanoverians, George I (1714-27) is no coincidence. These were years of intense Jacobite, or anti-Hanoverian, activity—the two were never easily distinguishable—protests, plots, conspiracies, alarms, riots, abortive and actual invasions, including in 1715-16 a full-fledged uprising, the Fifteen, one of the most serious of several attempts in the first half of the century to overthrow the Hanoverian government. With its ongoing unrest over the question of the succession, the period from 1714 to 1723 was the ‘most widespread and the most dangerous’ of the ‘three great waves’ of Jacobite agitation that threatened the English government between 1689 and 1754.³ (It was during the first of these waves, 1689-96, that Barker composed much of [her] St-Germain verse. ….) The failure of the Fifteen, as will be seen, had disastrous consequences for the English Catholic community: from this point on Jacobite political activism would be largely a Protestant phenomenon. Barker remained stalwart, however. A former inhabitant of St-Germain, kin to ex-officers in James's army and at least one officer presently in the service of Philip V of Spain, a person whose name was known to the exiled duke of Ormonde, she evidently had connections with the Jacobite underground. A 1718 letter to Ormonde demonstrates she was implicated in Jacobite plotting at high levels, and it is possible she lent covert assistance to the Pretender in ways no longer discoverable. She continued to write with a Jacobite purpose, but starting in 1714 she began publishing in the literary market-place and would require strategies of indirection to advance her Catholic-Jacobite programme.

Critics have shown little interest in the political dimensions of the novels and until recently have failed to recognize their deep immersion in a Jacobite world-view,⁴ while studies of the links between women, politics, and the novel such as those provided by Ros Ballaster, Catherine Gallagher, and Paula McDowell omit Barker from consideration. Yet Barker was, arguably, England's leading producer of Jacobite fiction. The discussion that follows focuses upon her career as a Jacobite novelist, beginning with Exilius in 1714, published just weeks after the death of Queen Anne, and ending in 1725 with The Lining of the Patch Work Screen, a work that wrestles with the implications for English Jacobites of the failure of the Jacobite cause. (Her first published prose fiction, The Amours of Bosvil and Galesia (1713), better known as Love Intrigues, presents a special case. …) Barker was no propagandist; she did not attempt political interventions in the manner of Tory party-writer Delarivier Manley. Although she shared her predecessor's anti-Whig animus as well as her appreciation of the political possibilities of market-place fiction, Barker wrote quite, realistic stories far removed in tone and intent from the lurid sex-and-scandal allegories that brought Manley infamy but also contributed, it has been thought, to the fall of the Whig ministry in 1710.⁵ None the less, the plots and central situation of the Galesia stories, even the heroine's identity as a spinster, would have carried strong political resonances for contemporary readers attuned to Jacobite interpretative codes. Read through these codes and against the backdrop of the ongoing crisis over the succession—a sustained conflict that constitutes, it seems to me, a crucial context for everything Barker published between 1714 and 1725—her prose fictions present themselves as highly allusive political meditations designed to express the hopes and anxieties of politically disaffected readers, Catholics and Jacobites especially, in ways we are only now beginning to recognize.

EXILIUS; OR, THE BANISH'D ROMAN

Although the title-page reads 1715, Exilius; or, The Banish'd Roman, an old-fashioned heroic romance, appeared in August 1714 during the interval between the death of Queen Anne, the last of the Stuarts, and the arrival of George I from Hanover.⁶ (The post-dating is typical of its publisher, Edmund Curll, who found it expedient to prolong thus a work's claim to currency.)⁷ The weeks and months following Anne's death saw a flood of pro-Stuart writing as fears about the Hanoverian succession and the change of ministry gave rise to pro-Jacobite riots and demonstrations. Throughout the kingdom, according to historian Kathleen Wilson, political anxieties found expression in a Tory-Jacobitism that would provide the ‘dominant idiom of protest in the extra-parliamentary nation between 1715 and 1722’.⁸ In its own way Exilius frames a fittingly pro-Stuart response to the succession crisis of 1714. Turning on a bewildering array of returns from exile, its plot organized around crises of obligation and authority displaced onto a variety of father—child relationships, Exilius develops the themes of loyalty, constancy, and obligation beloved of Stuart supporters in the seventeenth century and their Jacobite successors in the next. In the manner of the French heroic romance of the previous century, Madeleine de Scudéry's Clélie (1654-61) for example, she used Roman history to comment on present affairs of state;⁹ as with the royalist dramas of the 1680s to which it is related, the extravagantly heroic plot inscribes codes of loyalty and obligation shown to be inviolable even under the most egregious conditions, including attempted rape and incest.¹⁰ By reaffirming these old-fashioned royalist virtues and celebrating a determination to remain faithful at all costs, Barker offers in Exilius a fiction designed, it would seem, to strengthen Jacobite resolve to resist the House of Hanover and bring home the true king.

Readers are right to feel there is something retro about Exilius, however. Parts had in fact been written much earlier, as far back perhaps as the early 1680s in response to the Exclusion Crisis.¹¹ Commendatory verses printed in Poetical Recreations reveal that an earlier version of Exilius, then entitled Scipina, was ‘in the Press’ in 1687—why it failed to appear is unknown—and that the romance had been read in manuscript by members of the Cambridge circle, two of whom wrote under names shared by characters in the romance (‘Exilius’ and ‘Fidelius’), suggesting its coterie origins.¹² It seems reasonable to speculate, then, that the episode in which the princess Galecia runs her lover through with a sword was written with a view toward amusing the Cambridge friends, who would have been all too familiar with Barker's obsession with Strephon/Bosvil (called Boccus in Exilius), the unreliable suitor whose perfidy was evidently the subject of verse exchanged within this circle. A further example of coded, in-group humour may be found in John Newton's tongue-in-cheek observation that ‘Young Country Squires’ may read Scipina ‘without offence, ❙ Nor Lady Mothers fear their debauch't Innocence’ (PR 2. 32), a mischievous gender reversal that suggests he and Barker may have been enjoying a private joke.

We do not know whether Barker had a hand either in initiating or in stopping publication of Scipina or why publication was delayed nearly three decades. One of the first hints the romance had resurfaced under a new title comes on 14 August 1714 in the Post Boy (No. 3006): ‘Next Thursday will be publish'd, in a neat Pocket-Vol. Exilius; or, The Banish'd Roman: A new Romance, in Two Parts’. Curll may have rushed the book through the press to take advantage of the political moment. (On 5 August, just days after Anne died, he published a pamphlet on her death: he ‘must have been first in the field’, his biographer comments.)¹³ In any event Exilius came out at last in the context of widespread apprehensions about the Hanoverian succession. Fitted out with a topical, politically allusive title, this high-minded story of constant love and banished Romans, a piece of coterie fiction dating back to the Restoration and begun in response to a different Stuart crisis, emerged a deeply (if in a sense inadvertently) Jacobite work. It seems right Barker should assume the role of market-place writer at the precise moment of the passing of the Stuart era.

She did not consider herself a market-place author, however, not yet anyway. She seemed rather to imagine herself as writing in the tradition of aristocratic sixteenth- and seventeenth-century royalist romance,¹⁴ if a dedication dated 10 June 1715 is any indication.¹⁵ She casts herself in the role of a latter-day Sir Philip Sidney, ‘whose steps with awful Distance, I now take Leave to trace’, and calls attention to the affinities between her own ‘Roman Heroes’ and ‘his Arcadians’.¹⁶ Perhaps she saw Exilius as providing the present generation of Stuart loyalists with what, according to Annabel Patterson, Sidney's Arcadia gave royalists in the seventeenth century: pro-Stuart commentary in the guise of romance, ‘a key to class solidarity, a language in which to express and assess their own recent history’.¹⁷

Exilius is in many ways an angry work, filled with a Jacobite's contempt for the credulity of the lower orders, ready to fall for the absurdity of the fiction of the warming-pan birth, and fury at the fear-mongering tactics of those with an illegitimate hold on power,¹⁸ but it remains Barker's most sanguine fiction. The multiple weddings with which it closes exhibit the triumph of ‘unfashionable Constancy’, as the dedication puts it, and proclaim faith in the power of loyalty, honour, moral integrity, and steadfast love—sacred ideals in the Jacobite constellation of virtues—to triumph over adverse circumstance. Such faith would fade in the novels to come. A Patch-Work Screen for the Ladies and The Lining of the Patch Work Screen, written after the spectacular failure of the Fifteen and the collapse of other lesser Jacobite restoration attempts, deliberately reject the affirmations of marriage in order to explore the uncertain circumstances of the woman never-married, a spinster and an exile who never quite makes it home. If Exilius uses romance, exalted love, and a heroic idiom to project Jacobite faith, the more pessimistic patchwork novels for which she is better known turn away from love, marriage, and the heroic possibilities of the past to confront instead the gritty, here-and-now experience of loss, disappointment, loneliness, and compromised loyalty in early Georgian Britain.

THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIMAGE

Her next publication was not a fiction at all, however, but a translation of Lenten meditations by the French prelate and man of letters François de Salignac Fénelon (1651-1715), the archbishop of Cambrai. The octavo volume, advertised in the Post Boy on 18 February 1718 (No. 4456) as ‘This Day’ published, came out under the auspices of Curll and Charles Rivington as The Christian Pilgrimage,¹⁹ dedicated to the countess of Nottingham. She was a High Anglican reputed to have Catholic sympathies; her husband had recently been dismissed from office for his opposition to the government in the aftermath of the Fifteen.²⁰ The Catholic devotional manual was obviously intended for a Protestant audience: Barker sought to make Fénelon ‘speak English, in the Dialect of the Church of England’ (‘Dedication’, ii-iii).²¹

Given Fénelon's strong market value at this time Curll's part in the venture is not difficult to understand. The decade witnessed a veritable outpouring of Fénelon titles from mainstream (that is, non-Catholic) presses. The previous year, 1717, Curll had brought out a highly successful new translation by John Ozell of Fénelon's Telemachus (1699), said to have established ‘the cult for the Archbishop of Cambrai’.²² By 1720 it had gone into a third edition. Though little read today Telemachus—part didactic romance, part political theory, part mirror-for-princes treatise, and part cause scandale for what was universally thought to be its attack on the absolutism of Louis XIV—was extraordinarily influential in its time, the ‘most notorious, then the most renowned book of the early eighteenth century’.²³ Barker sought to draw upon its prestige when on the title-page she described Exilius as ‘Written After the Manner of Telemachus, For the Instruction of Some Young Ladies of Quality’, although in fact the two books are not much alike.

If Curll's involvement in the publication of The Christian Pilgrimage requires little explanation, Barker's motives are more complicated and are, as usual, bound up in her Catholic-Jacobite agenda. To understand why she might want to translate a French Roman Catholic devotional manual at this particular juncture, and publish it through the auspices of a Protestant publisher,²⁴ we need to recall the crisis in which hard-line Jacobite members of the English Catholic community found themselves early in 1716 when government forces managed successfully to quash the Jacobite rebellion. Catholics had been heavily involved in the Fifteen and faced severe reprisals from a government determined to crush all future Catholic opposition. Prominent members of the Catholic aristocracy and gentry were imprisoned and in some cases executed—the hapless young earl of Derwentwater lost his head—and many priests were forced into hiding. Catholic landowners of all ranks and regions were threatened with additional charges on estates already subject to double land taxes; some faced forfeitures. As a known papist Barker was herself obliged by a 1715 statute to register her estate in Wilsthorp; documents preserved in the Lincolnshire Archives Office show that she submitted a deposition on 15 October 1717, just before the government's deadline.²⁵ The English Catholic community was deeply shaken by these events. Indeed, as Colin Haydon has observed, ‘for contemporary Catholics the aftermath of the uprising had the potential to develop into one of the greatest crises for their church since Elizabethan times’.²⁶ Leading members of the gentry and nobility renounced their faith in order to hold onto their property; those who did not looked for ways to assure the authorities of their political loyalty. To the consternation of many Catholic Jacobites a group of churchmen, led by Bishop John Talbot Stonor and Dr Thomas Strickland, went so far as to draft for the community's use an oath that would enable Catholics anxious to protect their estates to swear allegiance to George I.²⁷ In short, government measures designed to sap Catholic opposition to the established order largely succeeded. Historians Geoffrey Holmes and Daniel Szechi report that from 1716 Catholic support of Jacobite plots was ‘minimal’: the ‘dwindling Catholic élite was no longer prepared to risk what it had left by rebelling’ while the larger Catholic community ‘was forced into quietism to protect itself’.²⁸ Hereafter the impetus for Jacobite conspiracy would come principally from Protestants, as evidenced by the Atterbury plot exposed in 1722, named after one of the central conspirators, the Anglican bishop Francis Atterbury: it was a plan for a foreign invasion hatched at the very highest levels of the Church of England.

Catholics who retained their commitment to Jacobite activism were compelled to adopt strategies of accommodation to pursue their political ends. The Christian Pilgrimage, which seeks to reframe Anglican understandings of Catholicism in such a way as to secure greater toleration for the Catholic community, represents one such strategy. Barker makes Fénelon speak ‘in the Dialect of the Church of England’ so that the volume might be ‘universally beneficial’, to which end she expunges a few Catholic bits, some Hail Marys for example, in order ‘to prevent any sudden Disgust the Protestant Reader might take at the Sight of it’.²⁹ Barker's translation is an instance of ‘protestantization’, that is to say, a kind of sanitizing process whereby ‘Catholic publications, especially works of devotion’ were deliberately ‘purged of all-too Catholic elements, and provided with an introduction warning the Protestant reader’.³⁰ But Barker's purposes went beyond making Catholic materials palatable to non-Catholic readers and beyond extending the common ground between Catholics and Anglicans, important though these were to her greater aim, which was, to soften resistance to the notion of a Catholic monarch on the English throne.

For such a project Fénelon was ideal. Why? To begin with, he was a revered figure not only in English Jacobite circles, where his role as counsellor to the Pretender would have been well known, but in broader circles as well—for reasons wrapped up, ironically, in British xenophobia and anti-French prejudice. At the turn of the century Louis XIV, infuriated by certain passages in Télémaque, had banished Fénelon from Versailles to the remote frontier diocese of Cambrai: ill-treatment at the hands of the French king counted for much among Barker's contemporaries. For another thing, Fénelon's particular brand of Catholicism, quietist and mystical, appealed to Anglicans of a highly spiritual turn of mind. The compilers of English Catholic Books include his devotional writings (along with those of Thomas à Kempis) in a select category of ‘spiritual classics’ destined to remain ‘popular across the denominational divide throughout the century’.³¹ But even more importantly, perhaps, Fénelon—famously mild, gentle, urbane, tolerant, universalist, even in a sense anti-French—offered an effective counterbalance to English stereotypes of ‘superstitious’ and ‘tyrannical’ papists, an answer of sorts to the anti-Catholic propaganda churned out by government writers nothing loath to whip up support for George I and the Whig ministry around long-standing fears of Catholic atrocities.³² In such a papiphobic climate the benign example of Fénelon and his devotional writing would offer reassurance to an English public all too inclined to assume Catholics capable of the worst kind of militancy and superstition and in this way, perhaps, diminish antipathy toward the notion of a Catholic Stuart on the English throne.

Barker's use of a conciliatory, ostensibly universalizing stance that at once masks and advances her Jacobite purposes associates her with such well-known Stuart adherents as Thomas Southcott (1670-1748) and his friend Andrew Michael Ramsay (1686-1743), the former a Benedictine monk with close links to the Stuart court-in-exile, the latter the Scots Catholic convert who edited Fénelon and published the first biography. Although there is no evidence that Barker knew Southcott or Ramsay, it is clear they all appreciated Fénelon's tactical importance to the restoration cause. In 1723 Andrew (‘Chevalier’) Ramsay published a deeply sympathetic Life of Fénelon in the hope, according to Geoffrey Scott, that non-Catholic readers ‘would be impressed’ by Fénelon's willingness to suffer ‘for his principles’ and to ‘distinguish essential elements of Catholicism from its trappings’.³³ (As Ramsay put it, somewhat disingenuously, in the Life, ‘Pure Love and humble Faith are the whole of the Catholick Religion’.)³⁴ Southcott vigorously promoted Ramsay's Life, Scott argues, because he was persuaded that Fénelon's teachings on ‘disinterested love’ would draw Anglicans of a particularly spiritual turn of mind closer to Catholicism.³⁵ From 1723, in other words, Fénelon would be a key element in the British Catholic-Jacobite programme. At a time when many of the Pretender's Protestant supporters urged him to renounce his religion, Catholic Jacobites such as Southcott and Ramsay chose for obvious reasons to devise strategies for cultivating greater popular acceptance of his Catholicism, a tolerance which would in turn remove from the minds of many Britons what amounted to the chief obstacle to a Stuart Restoration, the Pretender's repugnant religion. Historians would do well to consider that five years earlier Barker had embarked upon much the same project.

THE PATCHWORK NARRATIVES

Five years would pass before Barker brought out a new work, possibly because she had once more gone to live abroad.³⁶ About these years nothing is known beyond the fact that, in 1718, only a month after the publication of Christian Pilgrimage, Barker wrote a letter to the exiled Ormonde passing on information regarding a proposed invasion scheme. (We know about this letter only because it was intercepted and duly copied into a letterbook by the bemused authorities: ‘On ignore qui est Barker’.)³⁷A Patch-Work Screen for the Ladies was published in June 1723,³⁸ the same month Bishop Atterbury went into exile and just one month after the hanging of the Jacobite conspirator Christopher Layer. The sequel, The Lining of the Patch Work Screen, appeared in the autumn of 1725.³⁹ The preceding decade had been disastrous for Jacobites. Starting with the reprisals following the failure of the Fifteen, these years brought one hardship after another. Imprisonments and executions, the threat of new taxes, renewed vigour in the enforcement of the penal laws, and increased surveillance made life perilous for Catholics and suspected Jacobites, while the exposure of the Atterbury plot brought new severities, including in 1723 Walpole's imposition on the Catholic community of a levy of 100,000 pounds.⁴⁰ Jacobitism was ‘at a low ebb, with its morale so shaken that another spontaneous rising like the '15 was unthinkable’.⁴¹ Even among the hard-core faithful restoration began to seem a lost cause. Barker never ceased working for the cause, however, lending it her support up to the last years of her life, as we saw earlier in her contribution of the ‘od present’ to the newly resurgent movement to canonize ‘our holy King’. Perhaps she was able to keep alive her belief in the ultimate triumph of Jacobite hopes. But the post-Atterbury fictions suggest otherwise, or more accurately perhaps, suggest a struggle to accommodate her faith in the transcendent virtue of the Stuart cause to the bleak events of recent history, to negotiate what has aptly been termed a ‘crisis over the dissonant claims of principle and practical survival’.⁴² Read through the lens of this crisis, Patch-Work Screen can be seen to register a complex elegiac response to the collapse of Jacobite political ambitions while its sequel, Lining of the Patch Work Screen, can be seen to explore the dilemma of the Jacobite subject in a time of defeat, when she or he is torn between rival claimants to the throne and forced into positions of ideological compromise.

This is not to say that the patchwork narratives are Jacobite works in an overt, systematic, or even sustained way. First and foremost they are studies of a singular woman whose life takes shape on the boundaries of ordinary female existence, as feminist scholars have long recognized. My claim is rather that the courtship plot that is an important thread of Galesia's life-story would have been politically allusive for Barker's contemporaries in ways likely to go unnoticed today. In a ground-breaking essay that asks whether there was a rhetoric of Jacobitism, Howard Erskine-Hill answers affirmatively by detailing a distinctively Jacobite use of the image of rape, used to signify William's conquest but also various other violations of political legitimacy.⁴³ He does not discuss a related counter-image that reverberates through a range of somewhat later Jacobite discourses and furnished Barker with her central political trope: marriage (or sexual union) as an image of wished-for political legitimacy.⁴⁴ In many Jacobite contexts the marriage trope tended to be eroticized, as if to convey the immense pain of separation or the intense desire for a union endlessly deferred. Its most characteristic expression is the image of the dashing ‘lost lover’ pervasive in representations of James Francis Stuart from 1715.⁴⁵ Against this background Barker's use of the marriage trope in the two patchwork narratives emerges as wholly her own. In place of the erotically charged Stuart romance favoured by other Jacobite writers she uses spinsterhood and a failure-of-marriage plot to explore by way of analogy the situation of the loyal subject when the ‘lost lover’ is truly, perhaps irretrievably lost.

Long before she began to make political use of the figure of the spinster, Barker had been fascinated by the literary possibilities of the image of the celibate woman. In Exilius, the virgin-princess Galecia belongs to the tradition of female martial valour which in the second half of the seventeenth century inspired the heroic self-fashionings of aristocratic women in France and England.⁴⁶ The heroic model of the femme forte continued to shape the otherwise more realistically conceived Galesia of Amours of Bosvil and Galesia, [BG] as when Galesia at one point fancies herself the champion of her sex, ‘rank'd in the Catalogue of Heroines’, for ‘ridding the World’ of the monstrous Bosvil (BG 31). But by the time Barker wrote A Patch-Work Screen for the Ladies [PWS] the heroic virgin had undergone a change of key to become the diminished figure of the spinster, slightly peculiar, out-of-step; an odd woman. Read in the context of the Stuart romance of the ‘lost lover’, her unmarriedness suggests by analogy a country separated from its ruler/husband; and we begin to understand why an author not notably enamoured of the possibilities of conjugal union should permit an otherwise independent-minded heroine, a character more attuned to the muses than to men,⁴⁷ to rue the collapse of one marriage proposal after another.

For Galesia's uncharacteristic regrets, so at odds with the ‘secret Disgust against Matrimony’ (PWS 133) expressed elsewhere in the narrative, are meant to supply a kind of allegorical shorthand for the trials and disappointments of the Jacobites since the period of wandering and exile began in 1688. ‘I could hope nothing, propose nothing, but I was cross'd or disappointed therein, e'er I could arrive at Accomplishment’, Galesia muses sadly, ‘I began to believe Providence had ordain'd for me a Single Life’ (PWS 139). She speaks here, I suggest, less as a woman than as a study in exemplary Jacobite quietism, a follower of Fénelon perhaps, passively resigned to an acceptance of God's will. As her auditor puts it, underscoring the Fénelonian point, Galesia has been granted a ‘Mind submissive and resign'd’ and in spite of her losses can ‘hope for more prosperous Days for the Time to come’ (PWS 140). She is at once repining England and Jacobite perseverance in a season of little hope.

Once their Jacobite underpinnings are recognized, elements of Patch-Work Screen that seem incomprehensible or even inept begin to take on meaning. Take, for example, the famous failure of the Galesia plot to achieve closure. The apparent irresolution has prompted a fair amount of commentary, both admiring and smug. The ‘book ends in media res’; the heroine ‘remains in the limbo of the unconcluded Patch-Work Screen’; her fate ‘is not resolved; one cannot make a finished screen of the ambiguous fragments’.⁴⁸ Patricia Meyer Spacks seems uncertain whether to chalk up the ‘ostentatious incoherence’ of the narrative method to incompetence or to an indifference to craft that amounts to a ‘disclaimer of serious intent’.⁴⁹ It is true Galesia's life-story does not have a happy ending or much of an ending at all, but there is a reason for this: the Stuart story still lacks the happy ending that will bring Galesia's to a close. Once the absence of closure is seen to be the analogue of a much greater failure of history then we are able to bring into view the ending that is there and that criticism has thus far conspicuously failed to engage: the lengthy ‘An Ode In Commemoration of the Nativity of Christ’, the final lines of which pray for the conversion of the ‘stubborn Jews’, a people blind, sin-hardened, and in thrall to ‘obstinate Delusions’ (PWS 172). The reference would have carried a strong political charge for readers attuned to the familiar typological equation between the Jews, unconverted after seventeen hundred years, and the no less obstinate English people:

Tho' suff'ring still, they still thy Laws despise,
Since Seventeen Cent'ries cannot make them wise:
Since from their rooted Sin they cannot part;
Melt (for Thou canst!) the hardest Heart,
And open Blindest Eyes:
Make All on Earth, as All in Heav'n, join,
Since All in Heav'n and Earth alike are Thine.

(PWS 173)

It is thus with a prayer for the conversion of the Jews that Barker brings closure, of sorts, to Galesia's strangely unfinished life-story. Such an ending, bizarre at first and ignored in all commentary on the novel, is seen to be, typologically speaking, wholly fitting: in Jacobite contexts the conversion of the Jews stood for that conversion of English hearts and minds that would usher in a Stuart restoration.⁵⁰

The Lining of the Patch Work Screen, published when Barker was 73 and Jacobitism an all but lost cause, is Barker's bleakest work. If Patch-Work Screen focuses upon the plight of the spinster, the loyal subject denied union with her lover/king, Lining of the Patch Work Screen uses a bigamy trope to express the troubles of the subject divided between de jure and de facto husbands/sovereigns and in this way to deepen her analysis of Jacobite existence in a time of defeat, compromise, and political illegitimacy. Galesia is now an old woman with no story of her own to tell; we first encounter her in the lodgings where she lives alone, deprived of even the ‘Society of Friends by [her] Fire-side’ (180). The narrative is an assemblage of stories of the loves, sufferings, and wanderings of survivors of the Jacobite diaspora, men and women of exemplary virtue who end up in Galesia's London lodgings where they reminisce about better days. The stories they tell, many of them set in Catholic countries, are concerned to a remarkable degree with convents, priests, nuns, conversions, and the happiness to be found in the ‘Society of holy Virgins’ (201); several recur to memories of St-Germain, a kind of Jacobite imaginary where ‘Inferiours are humble, Superiours are affable, the Women vertuous, the Men valiant, the Matrons prudent, Daughters obedient, Fathers obliging, Sons observant, Patrons readily assisting, Supplicants gratefully accepting’ (222). (In view of the neglect Barker evidently experienced at St-Germain one suspects that the idealized image of the reciprocal relationship between patrons and clients reflects at once long-standing irritation and self-preserving forgetting.) The battered but virtuous survivors—men and women of staunch old-fashioned virtue who with enormous patience suffer ‘Poverty, Prosecution and Punishment of all sorts’ (213)—seem themselves almost ghostly as they flicker in and out of the loosely connected tales, recalling a world that exists only in memory or imagination.

Indeed, Lining seems in some ways a study of what it means to live outside history. The distinction Marita Sturken draws between ‘history’ and ‘cultural memory’ in her work on national biography illuminates what is meant here by the phrase living outside history. History, in her usage, refers to ‘narratives that have been sanctioned in some way, that often tell a self-conscious story of the nation’, whereas cultural memory refers to stories ‘told outside official historical discourse, where individual memories are shared, often with political intent, to act as counter-memories to history’.⁵¹ By the time she began Lining, it seems to me, Barker had come to regard fiction-making as a vehicle for promulgating Jacobite ‘counter-memories’ meant to exist alongside and in opposition to official history, the latter increasingly used to prop up the values and world-view of the Whig regime. Both the Magdalen manuscript and the Galesia story told in Patch-Work Screen engage crucial moments in recent Stuart history, chronicling in direct fashion the fall of James and the early years of his exile (the Fidelia narrative) and the final years of the reign of Charles II (Patch-Work Screen), where Charles's death resonates with apocalyptic significance (‘as if Dooms-day had discharg'd it self of a Shower of black walking Animals’ (PWS 153)). Patch-Work Screen also projects, in coded and allusive ways, events of national history since the death of Anne, a recent past understood as a succession of failures to unite king and kingdom, true monarch and loyal subjects. But the intense nostalgia of Lining, the hagiographic treatment of wandering Jacobites, the characterization of Galesia as a winter's night spinster: all suggest a pronounced shift in purpose—a deliberate turning away from history toward the preservation (in Sturken's terms) of unsanctioned cultural memories, as in this final work Barker undertakes not to rewrite history so much as to devise a narrative framework capable of accommodating elements of Catholic and Jacobite experience omitted from or distorted in the stories Protestant Great Britain told about itself.

But if the narrative looks back nostalgically to an ideally virtuous world symbolized by St-Germain, it also engages in a tough-minded way problems of economic and social survival in the early Georgian England. Emblematic in this regard is the story of Mrs Goodwife, a supporter of James who took to small trading to support her husband and children after the family lost everything in the Irish campaign (218-21). But Barker is even more interested in issues of conflicted allegiance that exercised English Jacobites on an almost daily basis in the immediate post-Atterbury period. Lining includes a number of stories turning on bigamy (and near-bigamy), a plot vehicle that enabled her to imagine and work through the questions of legitimacy, fidelity, and troubled conscience facing those who, in rejecting the Protestant succession, were destined to be subject to one king while loyal to another. No fewer than five inset tales use a bigamy plot, including one that offers a highly compressed retelling of Behn's ‘The History of the Nun’—called by Barker ‘Philinda's Story out of the Book’ (214)—in which the heroine arrives at the less than satisfactory solution of killing in one night two husbands.⁵² As a means of giving form to the problems associated with divided loyalty two stories seem especially important. The first, the story of ‘Tangerine, the Gentleman Gypsie’, is concerned with the question of how to ‘come home’ to the political nation after years of disaffection. The title figure, a former soldier in Charles II's army whose wife married his brother in his absence, is an ageing gypsy-outlaw tired of wandering. An updated version of the gypsies and beggars used in the seventeenth century to figure the impoverished cavalier, Barker's Gentleman Gypsy is at once a wanderer in the Jacobite diaspora and a more metaphorical exile within the British political nation.⁵³ A chance meeting with his newly widowed wife affords him an opportunity to bring his wanderings to an end. A storyline involving a tangle of broken promises, violated vows, vagabondage, and disguise is brought to a satisfying comedic conclusion when the Gentleman Gypsy is reunited with his wife; while a spirited girl in disguise as a gypsy, his companion in his late wanderings, is at last allowed to marry her true love, who turns out to be the Gypsy's son. Bigamy—split allegiance—is resolved into lawful marriage, and the girl's ‘Extravagance in leaving her Father's House’ (237) has no serious consequences. This story ends with a pair of marriages and a dissolving of disguise: a happy ending to years of concealment, wandering, and uncertain loyalty. A tale of Jacobite wish-fulfilment, it would seem.

A later tale, however, Amarantha's ‘The Story of Bellemien’, uses the bigamy trope to grimmer purpose as part of a plot which would seem to express an ambivalent accommodation to the Hanoverian succession. The story involves a virtuous and loving young couple who marry secretly and then allow themselves to be persuaded by family pressures and financial exigency to renounce ‘their first conjugal Vows’ and commit bigamy. The narrator makes it clear we are to see the ‘unhappy couple’ as basically good, well-meaning people forced by the pressure of circumstances into criminality. Like the virtuous but troubled Jacobites they represent, the now doubly married man and woman seek to make the best of it. They try to bear patiently the ‘Yoke’ of these ‘new Espousals, which courted their acceptance’ (256), but nothing but trouble ensues. The man longs to return to his ‘true and lawful Wife’ (257), but when he does, he brings heartbreak to his second wife and infamy to his first, who is universally condemned as a whore. There can be, Barker seems to be suggesting, no satisfactory arrangement for Jacobites under present conditions. The tale is a working out in pessimistic, almost tragic terms of the Jacobite dilemma in the early Hanoverian era.

In the only extended discussion to date of Barker as Jacobite poet, Toni Bowers calls attention to elements of ‘disappointment, uncertainty, and dark regret’ in the St-Germain verse that in her view sit oddly with Barker's identity as one of the most uncompromising of Jacobites.⁵⁴ Bowers probably underestimates the extent to which Barker deliberately mythologizes herself in this verse, most of it from the 1690s, but her observation that Jacobites in general were caught up in a ‘crisis over the dissonant claims of principle and practical survival’ (859) contains a valuable insight that seems to be borne out by study of Barker's late prose fictions. I would locate the acute phase of that crisis later than Bowers does, however. If Barker can be taken as representative, then the difficult process of learning to live with the ideological muddle of compromise and divided allegiance may have belonged primarily to the period from 1716, when English Jacobites, Catholics most pressingly, were compelled to come to terms with the practical failure of the cause and with the retreat of the Catholic community into quietism. It was largely for this community apart that Barker wrote her patchwork narratives. Drawing upon the materials of her own life to tell the life-story of an odd woman, she created fictions of spinsterhood and bigamy in which dissident readers could find figures not only for the failure of the Stuart romance but also for their own alienated existence in Hanoverian Britain.

ROMANCE, READERS, COMMUNITIES OF THE BOOK

Recognition that Barker's career as a novelist is tied from beginning to end to Jacobite imperatives invites us to think more closely about the role of party politics in the formation of the novel and to consider the possibility that the early novel, often regarded as the most self-consciously modern of forms, was (in some of its manifestations at least) implicated in a conservative politics. Consideration of the Jacobite dimensions of her novels throws new light on the old question of who was reading the early novel and why. For whom was Barker writing or did she think she was writing? To whom might her works be expected to appeal? Who actually read her? What cultural needs did her novels serve? In 1974 Pat Rogers remarked the ‘notable lack of concrete research into the size and composition’ of the audience for the emergent novel.⁵⁵ A quarter-century later, despite some important work on the sociology of the early novel, the situation has not greatly changed. The extent to which the rise of the novel is linked with the rise of the middle class and the rise of a middle-class reading public is a matter ‘on which there is great interest and little definitive evidence’, Michael McKeon has observed; and in spite of a host of well-aired problems with the ‘triple rise’ thesis, scholars continue to seek links between the emergence of the genre and the development of a bourgeois public sphere, and, less abstractly, to posit for the early novel a spectrum of urban readers new to the pleasures of reading—the semi-literate maidservants and apprentices that feature regularly in many accounts.⁵⁶ The discovery that Barker's chief publisher, Edmund Curll, targetted her prose fictions for an elite provincial audience with Tory-Jacobite leanings complicates present understandings and suggests we may need to widen considerably our angle of vision so far as the audience for the early novel is concerned.⁵⁷ Analysis of Curll's marketing of her work also confronts us with an unappreciated side of a publisher seldom noted for his relations with Jacobites, genteel lady novelists, or a gentry clientele.

Study of Curll's advertising strategies leaves no doubt that during the opening phase of her career as a novelist she was marketed as a Jacobite writer. At a time when much printed matter was sold unbound, the title-page was the bookseller's most important promotional resource, serving many of the same purposes of display as cover and dust-jacket do today. It provided copy for newspaper notices and was often posted by way of advertisement. Curll saw to it that the title-pages of Barker's earliest novels sent clear Jacobite signals. Bosvil and Galesia (1713), though not strictly speaking a Jacobite work, hints at the unknown author's ideological leanings with its announcement that the tale was related ‘in St. Germains Garden’.⁵⁸ A reader who glanced at the first paragraph would find in its openly Jacobite references confirmation of the hint. Not only is the ‘as-told-in-a-garden’ frame set beside the palace of the exiled Stuarts, but the Nine Years War (as we now call it) that furnishes its backdrop is described in terms only a Stuart adherent would use—as a conflict over ‘King James's Affairs’.⁵⁹Exilius; or, The Banish'd Roman, her next publication, could have proclaimed its Stuart allegiances more flagrantly only by entitling itself The Exiled Pretender.

Newspaper advertisements suggest also that Curll sought to draw Barker's first readers from the provincial gentry. One of his earliest attempts to promote Barker, a notice in the Post Boy of 23 May 1713 (No. 2814) for Love Intrigues (as it was then entitled), attributes the ‘Novel’ to ‘a Lady’: obviously Barker had yet to acquire a following or even a name. (The following year when Curll advertised Exilius in the Post Boy (14 Aug. 1714), the name of ‘Mrs. Jane Barker’ would figure prominently.) In what amounts to a fascinating instance of early niche marketing, Curll emphasizes distinctions of class. Love Intrigues is said to be ‘Dedicated to the Countess of Exeter’ and, even more remarkably, the notice is given this heading: ‘Advertisement to the Lincolnshire Gentry’. The appeal is to the social sense of a very specifically targetted readership and by extension to a broader range of readers who either belonged themselves to the upper reaches of the provincial social scale or were pleased to identify with those who did.⁶⁰

That the notice appeared in the Post Boy, a tri-weekly with strong Tory leanings and a large country readership, may suggest he was aiming for a politically disaffected readership as well. The Post Boy, under the editorship of Abel Roper, constituted the ‘staple printed diet’ of Tory sympathizers during the last four years of Anne's reign, according to J. A. Downie.⁶¹ It went out with the post to the provinces, where by one estimate it would have been seen by as many as 50,000 readers, including a sizeable number of Stuart loyalists.⁶² Indeed, if Paul Monod's estimates are reliable, at this time perhaps one in four members of the English landed classes would have possessed loyal sympathies.⁶³ Curll, always a canny interpreter of market trends, must have sensed the existence ‘out there’ of a considerable audience of men and women with at the very least a sentimental attachment to Jacobite principles.

This speculation finds support from the discovery that Curll marketed other Jacobite romances in the second decade of the century. In the aftermath of the Jacobite rebellion in 1715 he brought out Irish Tales (1716), a historical romance by Sarah Butler which a scholar of Irish literature has recently described as ‘a challenging fiction of contemporary political relevance: an Irish, Roman Catholic, and Jacobite work, published in Protestant, Hanoverian England, just four months after the execution of the leading Jacobite rebels for their parts in the Rebellion of 1715’.⁶⁴Irish Tales provides a superb example of Curll's use of the title-page to attract readers of Jacobite proclivities. This one names among its characters a ‘Banish'd Prince’, a ‘Constant Fair-One’, a ‘Depos'd Usurper’, while the pages that follow are populated by figures sure to stir Jacobite minds and hearts: a lover-hero who takes matters like oaths and loyalty to fathers very seriously indeed; a bloody-minded virgin-heroine active in the Irish resistance. One of the heroine's finest moments comes when, the only woman in a band of ‘counterfeit Ladies’, she takes part in a cross-dressed massacre: she joins a ‘Noble Train of suppos'd young Virgins’—stout young men really—who promise sex to gain entry to the usurper's court and then efficiently reduce the startled male courtiers to a ‘purple Deluge on the Floor’.⁶⁵ This is Jacobite resistance heroics at its campiest and in some ways most characteristic, and answers to the author's stated design of showing the ‘strange means by which Ireland was once deliver'd from the Tyranny of Turgesius and the Danes, by the Beauty of a Virgin’.⁶⁶ For reasons that must be left to other scholars to explore, the Jacobite imagination seems to have been especially stirred by displays of female martial heroics, almost as if women were expected to enact the derring-do denied their more compromised husbands and brothers.⁶⁷

The story, which is set in Gaelic Ireland between the late ninth and early eleventh centuries, during the time of the Danish invasions, uses events from the Irish past to recall more recent events, in particular James II's Irish expedition, here given a more satisfying conclusion than the one James provided in 1690 when he fled from the Boyne. The heroic plot celebrates resistance to tyranny and loyalty to one's lawful ruler. It focuses on the actions of the valiant ‘few’ who offered resistance to the slavish tyranny of an unlawful monarch, the ‘few’ who ‘knew not how to bow their Necks in subjection to any but a lawful Prince, or stoop to any thing beneath their free Liberties, and Obedience to their own Kings …’ (3). Historical parallels and an unmistakably Jacobite idiom must have made the politics of Irish Tales absolutely clear. Ross has argued otherwise, however. He thinks the Jacobite and Roman Catholic thrust of the novel would have been ‘almost wholly inaccessible’ to Butler's contemporaries.⁶⁸ My analysis of Curll's promotional strategies would suggest the converse, that there existed at this time a sizeable number of readers who would have sought out Irish Tales precisely for its political aspect. If so, then it is significant that among the titles advertised on the final leaf, Curll should give top billing to Barker's heroic romance. The notice for Exilius fills up nearly the entire first page—evidence that it was the leading work of Jacobite popular fiction in Curll's list at this time.⁶⁹

Another Curll-sponsored Jacobite romance from this same period offers additional insight into the appeal of these works in their political moment. This one, said to be ‘Done from the French by a Lady’, was first published in 1715 as the German Atalantis and was reissed in 1718 and again in 1721 with the even more pointed title Hanover Tales.⁷⁰ The action of this romance moves across a familiar Jacobite terrain—a kingdom in revolt, brave and noble men in exile, a haughty usurper, noble resistance to unlawful rule. Like all such politically encoded romances Hanover Tales offers imagined solutions to seemingly intractable political problems, but more directly than either Exilius or Irish Tales it seeks to promote acceptance of the change of state. Anxiety and confusion are displaced onto a fable in which contrasting feminine responses to thwarted love offer metaphors for responses to changes of state. Baritia (i.e. Britain) is the Jacobite figure. Torn between duty to her father and desire for a banished lover, refusing to marry without her father's (lawful) consent, she resolves to abandon herself to grief and sullen retirement. Happily, Baritia's father is eventually reconciled to the match and permits her to devote herself to her ‘faithful, tender, and most constant Love’ for her Fradonia (143). So far we have a fairly straightforward rendering of the Jacobite predicament brought to a satisfying wish-fulfilment conclusion. But the ideologically correct Jacobite response of Baritia in the novel's foreground is contrasted with that of Calista, who stands for accommodation to the Hanoverian regime. When her first beloved dies in battle she too devotes herself to grief, but when commanded to remarry by her parents she does so, albeit reluctantly, and to her surprise finds contentment in the new relationship. Hanover Tales, appropriately enough given its otherwise inexplicable title, is a fable of compromise and acceptance, permitting its conflicted readers the pleasures of identification with an uncompromisingly loyal Jacobite position while making available a respectable position of accommodation. Like other historical romances from 1715-20, and like the bigamy plots strongly featured in The Lining of the Patch Work Screen, the dual storyline offers a way, finally, of working through ambivalent feelings towards the Hanoverian succession.

We might now take up more fully the question of who read Jane Barker in this period and why by considering the nature of the Jacobite historical romance—Exilius, Irish Tales, and, in more complicated ways, Hanover Tales. Works such as these, coded, oblique, politically allusive, and intensely idealizing, would doubtless have supplied the ‘Jacobite faithful’ with the special ‘pleasures of complicity and solidarity’, as Valerie Rumbold has said of Mary Caesar's Jacobite writing.⁷¹ The escapist fantasy they delivered would have appealed, it seems likely, to a broader readership as well, one consisting of overlapping groups of political and cultural dissidents. At the core would have been a ‘self-sustaining, recognisable minority who rejected the social, political and religious order installed after 1688’—the Jacobite faithful—and around it a ‘shifting cloud of individuals, families and connexions’, not necessarily Jacobite, drawn for various reasons into opposition to the new Whig order.⁷² For readers such as these Jacobite historical romances, like their precursors the heroic romances of the seventeenth century, would have delivered alternative worlds of high principle and uncompromising ideals—a retreat from the sordid realities of the compromised Hanoverian present—as well as the pleasures of imagined resistance.

Few accounts of the early novel take notice of historical romances or their readers since by no stretch of the critical imagination can they be assimilated to any strand of the evolutionary ‘triple rise’. And herein, perhaps, lies part of their significance to scholars today. These romances serve to remind us that an insistent focus upon the urban middle-class reader is, in the words of Paul Hunter, a ‘vast simplification of the readership spectrum’. What distinguishes novel readership in the eighteenth century, he stresses, is ‘not its confinement to a particular class or group’ but rather ‘its social range’: the appeal of the novel ‘spanned the social classes and traditional divisions of readers’.⁷³ Yet even Hunter's examples tend to move us down the social scale, to the clerks, apprentices, and domestic servants presumed to be fairly recent recruits to the pleasures of reading. My work on Curll's marketing of Barker's novels suggests that we must also look up the scale, as well as out of London, if we are to develop a full and reliable picture of the early readership of popular fiction. The fact that Edmund Curll trafficked in Jacobite popular fiction during the opening years of the Georgian era is evidence of a robust demand for such wares.⁷⁴ With an uncertain political nation working through anxieties around the new succession, with some Jacobites and many Tories seeking face-saving ways to compromise with the new order, and with even Whigs unclear what to make of a German-speaking Lutheran monarch, Curll knew there was money to be made selling idealized nostalgic romances with a Jacobite edge. His doubtless well-calculated appeal in 1713 to ‘the Lincolnshire Gentry’ suggests as well that in his analysis the early market for prose fiction was more elite than many accounts would have us believe.⁷⁵

I would like to suggest by way of speculative conclusion that Barker's Jacobite fictions may have circulated through and served to promote bonding within politically estranged communities, or what have been called ‘subaltern counterpublics’.⁷⁶ If this is so, then further attention to the political orientation of early popular prose fictions might usefully complement and complicate the view of the novel as agent of national cultures and identities that appears to be gaining ground in recent accounts of the early novel. Deirdre Lynch and William Warner have made an intriguing case for the constitutive role of the novel in the formation of national imagined communities. Novels, they point out, are uniquely mobile. They are able to ‘circulate among a diverse readership within the nation’, crossing lines of gender and class and mobilizing desire by ‘triggering identification with a central character and transporting readers into alternate desires’. They thus serve to promote a sense of national belonging and unity: ‘When novel reading traverses the social boundaries within the nation, novels' popularity can seem an index of the nation's essential coherence’.⁷⁷ Yet in the case of Jacobite romances a different mechanism of identification seems to be at work.

The imaginative counter-worlds created in Jacobite historical romances promote identification not only with characters but also, perhaps more crucially, with other readers, making available communal recognitions serving to nourish a sense of kinship among constituents of various estranged communities—Tory, Catholic and Jacobite, male and female—and to support shared antipathies to the new order. The circulation of such romances among the disaffected may indeed have enabled the formation within the larger national community of ‘subaltern counterpublics’, or ‘parallel discursive arenas’, as Nancy Fraser puts it, in which ‘members of subordinated social groups invent and circulate counterdiscourses to formulate oppositional interpretations of their identities, interests, and needs’.⁷⁸ To acquire, say, Exilius with a view toward reading and then passing it on to another of the tribe of the politically righteous was to position oneself alongside imagined others at the cultural periphery. The popularity of Jacobite romance in its own moment suggests, we might say, the existence of a reading public that understood itself less in terms of unity and coherence than of national heterogeneity—a patchwork public, if you will.

Notes

1. The Galesia trilogy, as it is coming to be known, comprises The Amours of Bosvil and Galesia, first published as Love Intrigues (1713), A Patch-Work Screen for the Ladies (1723), and The Lining of the Patch Work Screen (1725; the title-page has 1726).

2. Recent years have seen an explosion of work on Jacobitism and literature. For non-canonical Jacobite verse, see Paul Monod, Jacobitism and the English People, 1688-1788 (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989), ch. 2, and Murray G. H. Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics in Eighteenth-Century Britain and Ireland (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1994). For Jacobitism in the mainstream tradition, see Howard Erskine-Hill, Poetry of Opposition and Revolution: Dryden to Wordsworth (Oxford: Clarendon P., 1996). For Dryden, see Alan Roper, Dryden's Poetic Kingdoms (New York: Barnes and Noble, 1965), 165-84; William J. Cameron, ‘John Dryden's Jacobitism’, in Harold Love (ed.), Restoration Literature: Critical Approaches (London: Methuen, 1972), 277-308. For Pope, see Douglas Brooks-Davies, Pope's Dunciad and the Queen of the Night: A Study in Emotional Jacobitism (Manchester: Manchester UP, 1985); Howard Erskine-Hill, ‘Pope: The Political Poet in his Time’, ECS 15 (1981-2), 123-48; John M. Aden, Pope's Once and Future Kings (Knoxville: U. of Tennessee P., 1978); John Morillo, ‘Seditious Anger: Achiles, James Stuart, and Jacobite Politics in Pope's Iliad Translation’, ECL 19 (1995), 38-58. For Swift, see Ian Higgins, Swift's Politics: A Study in Disaffection (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1994). For Anne Finch, see Charles H. Hinnant, ‘Anne Finch and Jacobitism: Approaching the Wellesley College Manuscript’, Journal of Family History, 21 (1996), 496-502. For an overview of novels of the 1740s having Jacobite themes, see Jerry C. Beasley, Novels of the 1740s (Athens: U. of Georgia P., 1982), 13-15. Although most were anti-Stuart, they ‘capitalized on the aura of romance’ surrounding the’Forty-Five’ (14).

3. Monod, Jacobitism, 11. The third wave was from 1745 to 1754.

4. Jerry Beasley, ‘Politics and Moral Idealism: The Achievement of Some Early Women Novelists’, in Mary Anne Schofield and Cecilia Macheski (eds.), Fetter'd or Free? British Women Novelists, 1670-1815 (Athens and London: Ohio UP, 1986), 216-36 (226), for example, describes Exilus as a ‘didactic romance’ with neither ‘hidden partisan interest’ nor reflections on ‘contemporary political history’. See also William H. McBurney, ‘Edmund Curll, Mrs. Jane Barker, and the English Novel’, Philological Quarterly, 37 (1958), 385-99, esp. 390.

5. Gwendolyn B. Needham, ‘Mary de la Riviére Manley, Tory Defender’, Huntington Library Quarterly, 12 (1948-9), 253-88 (263).

6. Although the political reference of the title has been recognized, no one has attempted a political reading. The only sustained discussion of Exilius to dare is Eleanor Wikborg, ‘The Expression of the Forbidden in Romance Form: Genre as Possibility in Jane Barker's Exilius’, Genre, 22 (1989), 3-19, which examines its rendering of female sexuality within the framework of romance.

7. The Monthly Catalogue No. 4 for Aug. 1714 lists as published that month ‘Mrs. Barker's New Entertaining Romance, call'd Exilius: Or, the banish'd Roman’ (25). Exilius was advertised 14 and 21 Aug. in the Post Man (No. 11050), and 14 Aug. in Post Boy (No. 3006), where it is said to be published 19 Aug. Queen Anne died 1 Aug.

8. Kathleen Wilson, The Sense of the People: Politics, Culture and Imperialism in England, 1715-1785 (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1995), 102. For ideological conflict in the post-succession years, see ch. 2.

9. Annabel Patterson, Censorship and Interpretation: The Conditions of Writing and Reading in Early Modern England (Madison: U. of Wisconsin P., 1984), 186, reports that de Scudéry may have used Tarquin in Clélie to represent Cromwell.

10. See Susan Staves, Players' Scepters: Fictions of Authority in the Restoration (Lincoln and London: U. of Nebraska P., 1979), and J. Douglas Canfield, ‘Royalism's Last Dramatic Stand: English Political Tragedy, 1679-89’, Studies in Philology, 82 (1985), 234-63.

11. Barker appears to have worked on the romance over a period of many years. Parts completed by 1687, when it was called Scipina, probably included the Egyptian episode (i. 103-14), which echoes crises from the 1680s, including the Exclusion Crisis (1678-83) and Monmouth's rebellion (1685). The history of the Queen of Egypt (i. 118-33), a monarch with secret Jewish—i.e. Roman Catholic—inclinations, may date from the 1680s as well. Vol. ii contains material suggestive of Barker's post-revolution preoccupations: the nature of cultural misrepresentations (ii. 41), the warming-pan columnies (ii. 55-6), prophecies about the triumphs of the house of Scipio (ii. 60-1), bitter reflections on the cheats and impostures practised by priests (ii. 89-90). Some of this material may have been written at St-Germain, or later.

12. The verses, printed in the second part of PR, are ‘To Mrs. Jane Barker, on her most Delightfull and Excellent Romance of Scipina, now in the Press’ (2. 29), by J[ohn] N[ewton]; ‘To the Incomparable Author, Mrs. Jane Barker, On her Excellent Romance of Scipina’, by an unidentified ‘Gentleman of St. John's College, Cambridge’ (2. 35), and ‘To my Ingenious Friend, Mrs. Jane Barker, on my Publishing her Romance of Scipina’ (2. 194), by Benjamin Crayle.

13. Ralph Straus, The Unspeakable Curll: Being Some Account of Edmund Curll Bookseller (London: Chapman and Hall, 1927), 229. The pamphlet was entitled The State of the Nation.

14. For which tradition see Lois Potter, Secret Rites and Secret Writing: Royalist Literature, 1641-1660 (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989), esp. ch. 3, and Patterson, Censorship, esp. ch. 4.

15. The dedication to the countess of Exeter, first printed in EN (1719), was undated until 1736 when it appeared in the ‘third edition’ of EN (no ‘second edition’ has been found). It is reprinted in Wilson, 2-4, as the dedication to what the editor calls Love Intrigues.

16. Dedication, EN (1736), sig. A2.

17. Patterson, Censorship, 25. We can hear a particularly pointed appeal to Jacobite sentiment in the dedication to the countess of Exeter: ‘It is in your Power, Madam, to dissipate all those Clouds of Tribulation which encircled these my Roman Lovers, from the Time of their Separation at Rome, 'till their Return to their Father's House in the Country’ (Wilson, 3).

18. The episode of the Mauritanians, who believe dead a prince standing among them, offers a sardonic gloss on the warming-pan fiction (Exilius, ii. 55-6). For other treatments of this fiction between 1688 and 1745, see Rachel J. Weil, ‘The Politics of Legitimacy: Women and the Warming-pan Scandal’, in Lois G. Schwoerer (ed.), The Revolution of 1688-1689: Changing Perspectives (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1992), 65-82.

19. A similar ad. PB, No. 4459 (25 Feb.), quotes from Barker's preface: she undertook the translation so that the ‘Protestant Reader might not be depriv'd of the most Useful and Profitable Book of Devotion in the World’.

20. According to POAS, v. 206, the countess was reputed to be devoted ‘to the forms and ceremonies thought to be “papist” by less rigid Anglicans’. She was Anne Hatton, second wife of Daniel Finch, second earl of Nottingham, dismissed from office in 1716 when he tried to dissuade the king from executing the Scottish lords; they made their home at Burley-on-the-Hill, near Oakham, Rutland, not twenty miles from Wilsthorp. The dedication may reflect political sympathy with a local powerful family that suffered for its opposition, Barker's Catholicizing programme, or (probably) both.

21. It is the only Curll publication to be listed in a bibliography of 18th-cent. Catholic publications running to nearly 3,000 items: see F. Blom, J. Blom, F. Korsten, G. Scott, English Catholic Books 1701-1800: A Bibliography (Aldershot, Hampshire: Scolar P., 1996), item 1039. The volume has an engraved frontispiece of the Crucifixion by Michael van der Gucht. Catholic historian and bibliographer Geoffrey Scott reports that such engravings were becoming quite rare in English Catholic books by this time, bibliographic evidence that the translation was probably destined for a Protestant readership. Barker never published under Catholic auspices or engaged in open Catholic apologetics or controversy. For the latter, see Robert Blackey, ‘A War of Words: The Significance of the Propaganda Conflict Between English Catholics and Protestants, 1715-1745’, Catholic Historical Review, 58 (1973), 534-55.

22. James Herbert Davis, Jr., Fénelon (Boston: G. K. Hall-Twayne, 1979), 108.

23. A. T. Gable, ‘The Prince and the Mirror, Louis XIV, Fénelon, Royal Narcissism and the Legacy of Machiavelli’, Seventeenth-Century French Studies, 15 (1993), 243-68 (244). For a summary of the impact and influence of Télémaque generally, see Davis, Fénelon, 107-10.

24. She might, for example, have published with an established Catholic bookseller such as Thomas Meighan, who the year before had published for a Catholic readership a Fénelon devotional manual, Pious Reflections for Every Day of the Month (1717). This and Christian Pilgrimage are the only Fénelon titles from the decade listed in Blom, English Catholic Books, out of only five for the entire century.

25. For the 1715 statute and registration, see Edgar E. Estcourt and John Orlebar Payne, The English Catholic Nonjurors of 1715: Being a Summary of the Register of their Estates (London: Burns and Oates, [1885]). The LAO holds two documents relating to Barker's registration of her estate: ‘Schedules and Letters of Attorney, 1717’ and ‘Kesteven Quarter Sessions. Papists' Estates. Rolls. 1717’; both bear her signature. The same information is recorded in documents in the PRO: FEC 1/1200 (Abstracts of Papists Estates) and FEC 1/1201 (Returns).

26. Colin Haydon, Anti-Catholicism in Eighteenth-Century England, c.1714-80: A Political and Social Study (Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 1993), 104. My account of the post-15 reprisals and their effects on the Catholic community draws from Haydon, 103-16.

27. For the movement to recognize the legitimacy of George I, see Haydon, Anti-Catholicism, 104-5, and Geoffrey Scott, Gothic Rage Undone: English Monks in the Age of Enlightenment (Bath: Downside Abbey, 1992), 56-7.

28. Geoffrey Holmes and Daniel Szechi, The Age of Oligarchy: Pre-industrial Britain, 1722-1783 (London and New York: Longman, 1993), 90.

29. ‘Dedication’, iii; ‘The Translator to the Reader’, sig. Bv.

30. Blom, English Catholic Books, xxiv. In 1715, for example, Whitelocke Bulstrode composed a preface for some essays written by his Catholic father, Sir Richard Bulstrode, during the latter's exile at St-Germain, intended to ‘“soften” the Catholic nature of the work’. The collection is entitled Miscellaneous Essays. With the Life and Conversion of St. Mary Magdalen (London: Jonas Browne, 1715). The Anglican non-juror George Hickes attempted something similar in the previous decade in his translation of Instructions for the Education of a Daughter, By the Author of Telemachus (London: Jonah Bowyer, 1707). His dedication to the duchess of Ormonde stresses the absence of everything mainstream English readers might find suspect in Catholicism: one finds no ‘Superstition’ or ‘Indiscreet Zeal’, no recourse to images, saints, angels, relics, beads, or prayers for the dead.

31. Blom, English Catholic Books, xiii.

32. For anti-Catholicism in the early Georgian period, see Haydon, Anti-Catholicism, esp. chs. 3 and 4.

33. Scott, Gothic Rage, 129.

34. [Andrew Ramsay], The Life of François de Salignac De la Motte Fénelon, Archbishop and Duke of Cambray (London: Paul Vaillant and James Woodman, 1723), 241. For an account of the Life (which, however, underplays its Jacobite implications) see G. D. Henderson, Chevalier Ramsay (London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1952), ch. 7.

35. Scott, Gothic Rage, 128. See also 114-15.

36. She may have resided in St-Germain and Rome for part of these years. A letter from her nephew Timon Connock to John Hay, dated 20 Feb. 1720, Royal Archives, Stuart Papers 46/14, expresses mortification that his ‘poor Ant’—unfortunately she goes unnamed—had ‘taken the desperate resolution’ of leaving St-Germain to starve in Rome (where the Pretender now made his court). Since Timon had at least one other aunt living at St-Germain, it is impossible to know whether the letter concerns Jane. I am grateful to Edward Corp for sharing this letter.

37. Letter of 19 Mar. 1718 from London; BL Stowe MS 232, ‘Jacobite Correspondence, 1717-1719’. For a transcription and translation of the letter from the original French, see Doc. Rec. 26, 37 n. 88. During this time, when mail across the Channel was closely watched, it was standard practice to open suspected letters, copy out their contents, and send them on. See G. V. Bennett, The Tory Crisis in Church and State, 1688-1730: The Career of Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester (Oxford: Clarendon P., 1975), 211.

38. PWS was advertised 13 June 1723 in the Evening Post (No. 2165) as ‘This day … publish'd’ and, somewhat unusually, was steadily promoted in the EP over the next three months, at least ten more ads appearing. PWS was listed in the Monthly Catalogue No. 4, June 1723, 2, its inset tales amusingly Curllicized as, for example, ‘The Religious Adulterer’, ‘The Perfidious Adultress’, and, my favourite, ‘The Unaccountable Wife; or the Matrimonial Bawd’.

39. Lining was advertised in the Monthly Catalogue No. 30, Oct. 1725, 111, described as ‘a Collection of Novels recommending virtuous Love’ for the ‘farther Entertainment of the Ladies’.

40. There were risings in 1708, 1715, and 1719. For a readable narrative overview, see Bruce Lenman, The Jacobite Risings in Britain 1689-1746 (London: Eyre Methuen, 1980), and Frank McLynn, The Jacobites (London and New York: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1985).

41. Lenman, Jacobite Risings, 195.

42. Toni Bowers, ‘Jacobite Difference and the Poetry of Jane Barker’, ELH 64 (1997), 857-69 (859). Barker's ambivalence has much in common with that of Mary Caesar, whose unpublished autobiographical writings, begun in 1724, have been described by Valerie Rumbold as a ‘poignant attempt to integrate an increasingly negative experience of life with a faith in the ultimate triumph of Jacobite virtue’: see ‘The Jacobite Vision of Mary Caesar’, in Isobel Grundy and Susan Wiseman (eds.), Women, Writing, History 1640-1740 (Athens: U. of Georgia P., 1992), 178-98 (178).

43. Howard Erskine-Hill, ‘Literature and the Jacobite Cause: Was there a Rhetoric of Jacobitism?’, in Eveline Cruickshanks (ed.), Ideology and Conspiracy: Aspects of Jacobitism, 1689-1759 (Edinburgh: John Donald, 1982), 49-69.

44. In the Mag. MS poem, ‘On The kings birth-day, writ at St-Germains. 1694:’ (fos. 42r-v) Barker imagines England as a wayward wife who promises to renounce her sexual crimes to ensure her husband's, i.e. James's, return.

45. Monod, Jacobitism, 62-9. The use of love song to address the exiled Stuart monarch can be traced back to at least 1694: see Pittock, Poetry and Jacobite Politics, 48. For examples of the translation of political affairs into amatory terms in contemporary poetry, see Erskine-Hill, Poetry of Opposition, 71-4.

46. Barash, EWP, esp. 32-40.

47. See, for example, the ode ‘The Necessity of Fate’ (PWS 141), to which Galesia's mother responds by saying, 143, in what reads very like a benediction, ‘if there be a fatal Necessity that it must be so, e'en go on, and make thyself easy with thy fantastick Companions the Muses’.

48. Patricia Meyer Spacks, Imagining a Self: Autobiography and Novel in Eighteenth-Century England (Cambridge and London: Harvard UP, 1976), 66; Josephine Greider, ‘Introd.’, A Patch-Work Screen for the Ladies, ed. Josephine Greider (New York and London: Garland, 1973), 12; Mary Anne Schofield, Masking and Unmasking the Female Mind: Disguising Romances in Feminine Fiction, 1713-1799 (Newark: U. of Delaware P., and London and Toronto: Associated UPs, 1990), 75.

49. Spacks, Imagining, 69.

50. In a discussion of her poetry John T. Shawcross, ‘Jane Barker’, Seventeenth-Century British Nondramatic Poets, DLB, 3rd ser. (Detroit, Washington, DC, London: Gale-Bruccoli Clark Layman, 1993), 131. 5, notes the reference to the conversion of the Jews but does not remark its political significance.

51. Marita Sturken, ‘Memory, Reenactment, and the Image’, in Mary Rhiel and David Suchoff (eds.), The Seductions of Biography (New York and London: Routledge, 1996), 31-41 (31).

52. For a discussion that emphasizes the differences in the two versions, see Jacqueline Pearson, ‘The History of The History of the Nun’, in Heidi Hutner (ed.), Rereading Aphra Behn: History, Theory, and Criticism (Charlottesville and London: UP of Virginia, 1993), 234-52. Other bigamy tales, all from Lining, include the story of Capt. Manly (182-202); the story of Tangerine, the Gentleman Gypsie, based on the 1698 Behn story ‘The Wandering Beauty’ (229-37); the story of double bigamy told by Amarantha (254-60); and an episode of near-bigamy included in the seduction-and-abandonment history of Malhurissa (261-6). There is, finally, a rather bizarre retelling of the story of the Portuguese nun (223-6) which, while not a bigamy story as such, involves vow-breaking on the part of a nun, who on her deathbed reflects upon the story of her ‘criminal Marriage’ (225).

53. For 17th-cent. usages, see Potter, Secret Rites, 103-4.

54. Bowers, ‘Jacobite Difference’, 868.

55. Pat Rogers, The Augustan Vision (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1974), 250.

56. Michael McKeon, The Origins of the English Novel 1600-1740 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1987), 51. For a good summary of the difficulties that have emerged in connection with the ‘triple-rise’ thesis, see J. A. Downie, ‘The Making of the English Novel’, Eighteenth-Century Fiction, 9 (1997), 249-66. For an argument for the construction at around this time of an ‘indeterminate but alluring “general reader”’ of the novel, see William B. Warner, ‘Formulating Fiction: Romancing the General Reader in Early Modern Britain’, in Deidre Lynch and William B. Warner (eds.), Cultural Institutions of the Novel (Durham, NC, and London: Duke UP, 1996), 279-305.

57. McKeon, Origins, 52, makes a similar point: ‘on the evidence of subscription lists, at least, a very large proportion of the readership of Defoe, the Spectator, and other “middle class” publications belongs to the nobility and gentry’.

58. This failed courtship tale belongs, we are told, to Galesia's ‘early Years’—to the extent that the story draws upon Barker's own experience this would set it in the early 1670s—but the heroine's confusion, her inability to make sense of the changing attachments of her incomprehensible lover, may catch something of the quality that Erskine-Hill, Poetry of Opposition, 20, detects in the (Jacobite) dramas Dryden wrote in the decade after the Revolution, which focus ‘upon people in conflict or bewildered in situations where not only values, but even the facts, are uncertain’. BG incorporates poems that can be dated with probability to the 1690s. It seems likely the narrative was at least partly written at St-Germain.

59. ‘King James's Affairs having so turn'd Things in Europe, that the War between France and the Allies was almost like a Civil War: Friend against Friend, Brother against Brother; Father against Son’: Love Intrigues: Or, the History of the Amours of Bosvil and Galesia, As Related to Lucasia, in St. Germains Garden. A Novel (London: E. Curll and C. Crownfield, 1713).

60. Cf. McBurney's speculation, ‘Edmund Curll’, 387, that Curll's publication of BG may have been motivated by a desire to supply high-toned reading matter for his newly opened bookshop in fashionable Tunbridge Wells.

61. J. A. Downie, Robert Harley and the Press: Propaganda and Public Opinion in the Age of Swift and Defoe (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1979), 162. He gives the circulation figures for the PB at 3,000 for each issue during the Harley years, describing it as oriented toward ‘tory country gentlemen’ (7); for the role of PB in the Tory propaganda machine, see 162-4. The other two tri-weeklies, the Post Man and George Ridpath's Flying Post were Whiggish. The other main Tory press organ at this time was the Examiner, edited for a period in 1711 by Mrs Manley. R. B. Walker, ‘Advertising in London Newspapers, 1650-1750’, Business History, 15 (1973), 112-30, distinguishes the Tory readership of the PB from that of the Gazette, the official government newspaper, on the basis of its advertising profile: the Gazette catered to ‘the country gentry’ while the ‘less specialized’ PB would have included readers of ‘the more middling sort’ as well (120). For circulation figures, see James R. Sutherland, ‘The Circulation of Newspapers and Literary Periodicals, 1700-30’, Library, 4th ser. 15 (1934), 110-24 (111).

62. Geoffrey Holmes, British Politics in the Age of Anne (London: Macmillan and New York: St Martin's, 1967), 30.

63. Monod, Jacobitism, 271. He arrives at these estimates by figuring that between 7 and 10 per cent of the aristocracy and gentry were Catholic and most of these loyal (on some level) to the Stuarts through the 1760s; perhaps 1 per cent were nonjurors; juring Anglicans with Stuart sympathies would have brought the number to about one in four, with great variations in different counties.

64. Ian Campbell Ross, ‘“One of the Principal Nations in Europe”: The Representation of Ireland in Sarah Butler's Irish Tales’, Eighteenth-Century Fiction, 7 (1994), 1-16 (4). According to McBurney, ‘Edmund Curll’, 398, it was advertised in The Post Man, 30 June 1716. Irish Tales: or, Instructive Histories for the Happy Conduct of Life, published in London for Curll and J. Hooke in 1716, was reissued in 1718 as Milesian Tales. The BL catalogue attributes it to Charles Gildon, who signed the dedication. Ross, 6, who so far as I know has written the only reliable modern discussion of the novel, regards Butler as an actual person but one about whom our lack of knowledge is ‘nearly total’; he speculates, 7, that she was of high social rank and Catholic, but finds no evidence she was one of the Ormonde Butlers: ‘All we know for certain, on the authority of Charles Gildon in his “Epistle Dedicatory” to Irish Tales, is that Sarah Butler was dead by 1716’.

65. Sarah Butler, Irish Tales: or, Instructive Histories for the Happy Conduct of Life (London: E. Curll and J. Hooke, 1716), 70, 66, 75.

66. Irish Tales, preface, [xix]. Cross-dressing themes as well as displays of female heroics figure importantly in Jacobite resistance lore. For Colonel Parker's escape in 1694 from the Tower in women's clothes supplied by his wife, see Jane Garrett, The Triumphs of Providence: The Assassination Plot, 1696 (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1980), 48-9; for Lord Nithsdale's in 1716, see William Fraser, The Book of Carlaverock: Memoirs of the Maxwells, Earls of Nithsdale, Lords Maxwell & Herries, 2 vols. (Edinburgh, 1873). Accounts of the episode, which stressed the ingenuity, skill, and intrepidity of Lady Nithsdale in engineering her husband's escape from the Tower, are said to have ‘created a deep sensation at the Court in London, and throughout the kingdom’ (Book, i. 437).

67. For an early verse rendering of this theme, see Dryden's ‘The Lady's Song’ (written c.1691, published 1704), discussed by Anne Barbeau Gardiner, ‘A Jacobite Song by John Dryden’, Yale University Library Gazette, 61 (1986), 49-54. Cf. the manuscript poem from the 1690s, ‘The Female Heroine. Or the Loyall Fair One's Noble Resolution’, which calls upon women to take up the heroism no longer practised by men: ‘Come Brisk Lasses let's unite ❙ Arm, Arm your selves, your foes to fight, ❙ Let us Perform Heroick Deeds ❙ And Cast off all our Female Weeds’ in order to ‘redeem our Mangled Laws’ and place the ‘Lawfull King’ on the throne. The speaker rejoices that ‘our Great King by female strength, ❙ From Exile was brought home at length’ (Yale, Osborn b. 111, pp. 53, 54). Another version is found in Bod., MS Firth d. 13, fo. 43.

68. Ross, ‘One of the Principle’, 16.

69. Its twenty-three lines give titles for the eight interlocking tales making up Exilius, supplied no doubt by Curll—titles such as ‘Clelia and Marcellus: Or, The Constant Lovers’, ‘The Lucky Escape: Or, The Fate of Ismenus’, and ‘Piso: Or, The Lewd Courtier’. The one other book mentioned on the page, receiving only three lines of type, is BG, sporting here the title ‘The Sincere Virgin: Or, The Amours of Bosvil and Galesia. A Novel’.

70. The German Atlantis: Being, A Secret History of Many Surprizing Intrigues, and Adventures transacted in several Foreign Courts. Written by a Lady, no publisher named. The Monthly Catalogue for Feb. 1715 advertises it as published by Curll. The unsigned author's ‘advertisement’ (1715) calls attention to the political charge of the title while seeming to disavow political intent: ‘It is hoped no Offence will be taken at the Title, since none is intended by it, and therefore 'tis best to conclude with the Royal Motto, Evil be to him that Evil thinks’. Although German Atalantis (or Hanover Tales) is sometimes attributed to Mary Hearne, a signed receipt in the Upcott Collection (BL Add. MS 38,728, fo. 37r) indicates its author was one Robert Busby.

71. Rumbold, ‘Jacobite Vision’, 179.

72. Daniel Szechi, The Jacobites: Britain and Europe 1688-1788 (Manchester and New York: Manchester UP, 1994), 12.

73. J. Paul Hunter, ‘The Novel and Social/Cultural History’, in John Richetti (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Eighteenth-Century Novel (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996), 19.

74. Cheryl Turner, Living by the Pen: Women Writers in the Eighteenth Century (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), 50; McBurney, ‘Edmund Curll’, 386, writes: ‘any publishing venture by Curll was a strong indication that a lucrative market for such a product existed’.

75. Pat Rogers, Robinson Crusoe (London: Allen and Unwin, 1979), 102, speculated that in 1710-29 the audience for popular fiction probably overlapped ‘with the traditional literary public’ more than we might have imagined. Subsequent work on subscription publication and dedications in the first half of the century lends support to this speculation. See W. A. Speak, ‘Politicians, Peers, and Publication by Subscription 1700-50’, in Isabel Rivers (ed.), Books and their Readers in Eighteenth-Century England (Leicester: Leicester UP and St Martin's P., 1982), 47-68; Pat Rogers, ‘Book Dedications in Britain 1700-1799’. British Journal for Eighteenth-Century Studies, 16 (1993), 213-33.

76. The phrase is from Nancy Fraser, ‘Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy’, in Craig Calhoun (ed.), Habermas and the Public Sphere (Cambridge, Mass., and London: MIT P., 1992), 109-42 (123).

77. Lynch and Warner, ‘Introduction’, Cultural Institutions of the Novel, 4.

78. Fraser, ‘Rethinking’, 123.