Our national conversation is overwhelmed by tittle-tattle, rumour and gossip. Last week, a salacious email listing George Osborne’s alleged improprieties was circulated among the Westminster bubble. Inevitably, it was then circulated to everybody else, too. Meanwhile, the internet is aflutter with rumours about the identity of a BBC journalist who’s alleged to have paid a teenager tens of thousands of pounds for sordid pictures – and this isn’t even the first sex scandal involving a broadcaster this year.
Foreign visitors were amazed at this insatiable desire to ridicule the private follies and foibles of high society
Some might think our modern obsession with grubby tales shows a lack of seriousness. But a love of gossip is nothing new among the English. In the 18th century, coffee houses emerged in which pontification was of a more high-minded sort than that found in the ale houses. They were also the source of many a spurious tale, usually about the new and growing high-minded classes which frequented them.
These whispers would often leak into the press, then beginning to flourish, and by the end of the century they were being illustrated by satirical printmakers, including the likes of James Gillray. With acerbic wit and superb skill, gossip and mockery became a form of art. New prints were pinned up in Piccadilly’s print shop windows and, according to one witness, Londoners went wild: ‘The enthusiasm is indescribable when the next drawing appears; it is a veritable madness. You have to make your way in through the crowd with your fists.’
Foreign visitors were amazed at this insatiable desire to ridicule the private follies and foibles of high society. ‘The English do not spare themselves’, one French visitor noted. ‘Their princes, their statesmen and churchmen are thus exhibited and hung up to ridicule, often with cleverness and humour, and a coarse sort of practical wit.’
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A notable example was during the election campaign of 1784. The seat of Westminster, where Charles James Fox staked his claim, was one of the most hotly contested. But it was Fox’s glamorous assistant who – over the five weeks of canvassing – scandalised and delighted London in equal measure. Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, was so ‘indefatigable in her canvass for Fox’, it was said she resorted to kissing butchers in exchange for votes. Covent Garden erupted with salacious anecdotes and a flurry of pamphlets, essays, prints and ballads flooded the coffee shops, brothels and taverns.
Although Georgiana was probably innocent, the damage was done. She was powerless to silence the vitriol, writing to her mother: ‘I shall go to Church today, but I am really vex’d (tho I don’t say so) at the abuse in the newspapers…’
Another gossip epidemic came in 1809. It surrounded Mary Anne Clarke, the mistress of Frederick, Duke of York. When word got out that Clarke had taken bribes in exchange for influencing the duke, London was outraged. She was called to parliament to testify. Arriving in a powder blue gown and carrying a large white muff, she proved to be an adept political operator (Wilberforce noted her to be ‘consummately impudent, and very clever: clearly got the better in the tussle’).
But, to the delight of the public, the inquiry provided a tantalising glimpse into the duke’s private life. This ‘exhibition of gallantries offensive to the public eye’ included the daily routine of his footman, who was required to deliver fresh sets of clothes to Gloucester Place where the liaisons with Clarke were taking place.
But Mistress Clarke’s performance was soon outshone by a more powerful force. The opposition benches, hungry to see the Duke’s downfall, began hosing thirsty Londoners with juicy gossip, often embellished. It would provide much new material with which to flood the London print shops. ‘The demand for this exciting pabulum,’ wrote a later commentator, ‘was sufficiently eager to induce the caricaturist to bring out a fresh pictorial satire almost daily, and sometimes two or more appeared on the same day, while the “delicate investigation” was proceeding, and the public interest in the circumstances remained at a boiling heat.’
These new satirical collections were so vast they were sold as catalogues and, drowning in this sea of ridicule, the duke resigned as commander-in-chief of the armed forces.
Sensationalism has thrived since the days of Gillray, despite attempts by governments to curtail malicious rumour. During the Whitechapel murders of 1888 to 1891, a morbid fascination propelled endless newspaper reporting, sustained by hoaxes, fake letters and preserved body parts. A few years later came a frenzy of press coverage during the various trials of Oscar Wilde. Wilde’s scandal had all the vital components we still love today: high society, politics and sex.
Just as the Georgians pressed their noses to those print shop windows, we too peer through our phone screens, avidly scrolling to satisfy our hunger for gossip. It is all, still, a veritable madness.
"gossip" - Google News
July 11, 2023 at 10:59AM
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The English have always loved gossip - The Spectator
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