The Real Mrs Beeton E-Book

Sheila Hardy

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Eliza Acton is the forgotten hero of our culinary past. A debt of gratitude to her is what Delia Smith, Elizabeth David and Mrs Beeton have in common. She was the original and best: the first cook to write recipes in a clear, modern format, one of the few Victorian ladies whose legacy has lasted well into the twenty-first century and whose recipes are still used in thousands of kitchens today. In this absorbing first biography, Sheila Hardy creates a richly painted narrative of how a young woman produced the first cookery book for general use and changed history. She provides a rich background to Eliza's success, not only as the little-known mother of modern cookery, but as a poet and a campaigner for healthy eating. She introduced us to curry, chorizo and gluten-free diets 150 years before they became fashionable. She knew Charles Dickens, and her family life was possibly an inspiration for several of his plots. She had a fascinating career, and this brilliantly researched biography is a must for anyone interested in food and cookery, or simply as an insight into the life of a modern lady who was years ahead of her time.

Leseprobe

For Jasmine, Mina and Katie Hardy with my love

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword by Delia Smith

Preface

ONE Beginnings

TWO The Family

THREE The Poet

FOUR Disaster and Change

FIVE The Second Career

SIX Combining the Ingredients

SEVEN The Literary Circle

EIGHT Fame and Fortune?

NINE The 1855 Edition

TEN The Last Attempt

ELEVEN Last Days

TWELVE Eliza’s Legacy

APPENDIX I Prices in the 1850s

APPENDIX II The Acton Family Tree

Notes

Sources

By the Same Author

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Over the years I have been truly amazed by the tremendous kindness of complete strangers who have not only responded to my sometimes strange requests for information, but have gone out of their way to help. This time the response has been overwhelming. When I first dreamed up the idea of the biography of Eliza Acton I tentatively approached Elizabeth Ray, the food writer and editor of the Southover Editions of Eliza Acton’s work, for her opinion. She not only gave her blessing but also most generously gave me her own notes and continued to answer my many questions. In the process I have gained a friend. Emboldened, and knowing of Delia Smith’s declared admiration for Eliza Acton, I asked her, and she kindly agreed, to write the foreword. Jyll Bradley, the playwright, generously arranged with the BBC for me to have a recording of her play, Before Beeton: the Eliza Acton Story. In Sarah Death I discovered another Acton fan; the translator of Fredrika Bremer’s work from the Swedish, she not only gave me free access to relevant articles, but also an introduction to an author who was unknown to me. Similarly, Dr Annie Gray went out of her way to share her enthusiasm for Eliza’s cooking, as well as answering my questions. No longer able to travel to do my own research, I have had to rely on people like Nancy Fulford of Reading University, who scoured the ledgers and account books in the Longman Specials Collections for entries about Eliza. Mr & Mrs Anthony Wilson of the Tonbridge Historical Society kindly gave their expert knowledge, as did Beverley Matthews, senior librarian of Tonbridge School. My sincere and grateful thanks to them and also to the following for their help and encouragement: Pamela Henderson, Peggy Troll and Gill Squirrel studied some of the poems and gave their opinion of them. Glennis & Roger Pritchard and Mollie & Gordon Bolton combed the churchyards in Hastings and Grundisburgh for me. Dr E. Cockayne again helped with medical queries. Alan Best found useful material in the newspapers. Tony Copsey allowed me the use of illustrations from his collection, while Michael Riordan, Annabel Peacock and Andrew Lusted all made valuable contributions. The Ipswich branch of the Suffolk Record Office and the East Sussex Record Office at Lewes were most helpful, as was the British Library, Camden Borough Library and the Camden Registrars, and Ann Bagnall of The Southover Press. Special thanks too to The State Library of South Australia, The National Library of Australia and the University of California Davis, all of whom offered not only prompt help and kindness but furthered my amazement at the wonders of email and the Internet. On a very personal note, I could not have completed this work without the assistance of my three ‘special research assistants’ – Patricia Burnham, as always, was in at the beginning and undertook a great deal of the genealogical research; Fiona Scorer took care of the research in London and much else, and then, just when I most needed help, a chance meeting with Rachel Field led to her offering to undertake additional local research, and, as it turned out, much more beside. To each and every one of you, including probably the most important, Sophie Bradshaw, who took the risk that Eliza Acton’s story should reach the public, please accept my deepest gratitude.

FOREWORD

BY DELIA SMITH

When I first received this manuscript I could hardly believe what was before me! Why? Let me begin by quoting my own words: ‘Eliza Acton is the best cookery writer in the English language’. Her book Modern Cookery for Private Families, first published in 1845, has been a great inspiration – and had a great influence on me throughout my own years of cookery writing.

Yet, while I have studied her work very closely and often included her recipes in my own books, I have never had the least idea of who she was or where she came from. Though until now little has been known, Sheila Hardy has painstakingly researched and unravelled the mysterious background to this very accomplished and most significant cookery writer.

I personally am supremely grateful to have a much clearer understanding, and am pleased to have discovered a lot of what I had surmised to be affirmed. One thing I was convinced of was Eliza Acton never wrote a recipe she hadn’t cooked herself. What I did not know was that her book took ten years to complete. She was a gifted writer and communicator, which is now explained by the fact that she started life as a poet and teacher.

I am also thrilled to discover some similarities between my heroine and myself. She quite definitely had a very similar mission: to help the inexperienced in a clear and simple way; in her own words ‘which no other cookery book had yet done’. How I remember when I first started cooking – great cooks, great cookbooks, but I was so often left wondering … Eliza was actually the very first cookery writer to list precise amounts of ingredients at the end of her recipes.

In my early days the biggest puzzle for me was how on earth Mrs Beeton’s book managed to utterly eclipse Eliza’s far superior work. Now at last all is explained. I am deeply grateful to Sheila Hardy. This is an extremely important archive, not just for now but for anyone in future generations wishing to study the history of cooking in England.

PREFACE

It is ironic in an age when fast-food outlets flourish and supermarkets vie with each other to sell ready-prepared meals that can either be heated in a microwave oven or boiled in plastic bags in a saucepan; and when working women are said to have no time to cook a meal from scratch, if indeed they even know how to, that designer kitchens should be a major selling point in new houses and apartments and DIY chain stores sell ‘dream kitchens’ which once installed get very little use. What is even more difficult to understand is the plethora of TV programmes which feature cooking. Watching someone else cook has become a spectator sport. We sit in comfort on our sofas to be entertained by amateurs giving dinner parties, celebrity chefs showing how to create exotic dishes, or we are invited to share the agony of contestants pitting their skills against each other in a sort of X Factor for cooks. And when we are tired of watching, we can turn to the books produced by the TV chefs to gaze in wonder at the colourful illustrations and tantalise our taste buds as we read recipes, which we will never attempt to make. Those who do cook will have a shelf of such books but probably only one old favourite to which they continually refer. Cookery books make up a large part of today’s publishing market, but few of them will have the success and longevity as the two major works of Eliza Acton.

Most modern cookery writers and chefs accept that they owe much to the work done by Eliza Acton in the mid-years of the nineteenth century. Indeed, there are some who claim that she still remains the best cookery writer. Although her reputation was for a time eclipsed by Mrs Beeton, it is now acknowledged that that lady, during her short career, shamelessly plagiarised Acton’s work while her publisher husband developed and manipulated his wife’s name into a lucrative market brand. However, Acton’s work continued to be published well into the twentieth century both in this country and abroad. And, again ironically, it has been the growing interest in celebrity chefs and cookery writers which has helped revive Eliza Acton’s reputation and standing, leading to the publication in recent years of excellent reprints of her books.

Two features at least single her out from a long line of cookery writers. She was the first to produce a manual for general use in the home, one that encouraged the mistress of the house – and her daughters – as well as her cook, to understand the value of producing good, wholesome meals using fresh ingredients, cooked in the way best suited to them. Earlier male writers who worked as chefs in grand houses wrote books intended purely for wealthy households, where menus were lavish and cost unimportant and where there was a casual indifference to needless waste. But rarely, if ever, did any of these writers give specific instruction as to the exact quantities required for a dish or the length of time needed to prepare and then cook it. In her book, Acton followed the pattern of describing how the dish should be made, but then came her innovation. She was the first cookery writer, certainly in England, to add what we now take for granted: that all-important list of accurate measurements needed to produce a perfect result. She was indeed justified in calling her book Modern Cookery in All its Branches that later became known as Modern Cookery for Private Families, for she took into account the economic conditions which prevailed at the time; yet she also speaks clearly and soundly to the present age.

Eliza Acton was born in the last year of the eighteenth century, thus in many ways she belongs to the Georgian age. The decade preceding her birth had witnessed the French Revolution and England’s wars against France, Holland and Spain; while her early years were dominated by the impact of the struggle against Napoleon. Indeed, it can be said that she lived through some of the momentous events in British modern history: Trafalgar and Waterloo; the abolition of the slave trade – the campaigner Thomas Clarkson and his wife who lived just outside Ipswich were subscribers to her early work; the imposition of the Corn Laws; the deaths of three kings and the accession of a young queen; the coming of the railways; the Great Exhibition; the Crimean War; and in the year of her death (1859) the publication of Darwin’s The Origin of Species. What a source of historical information it would have been had she kept a diary of the daily happenings in her life, which also recorded events of national importance? We would have been able to read of the local celebratory ball held following the battle of Waterloo or the parties that were given for the marriage of the young Queen Victoria to her handsome consort Albert, as well as eyewitness accounts of starving rioters storming the flour mill just across the road from her home. Unfortunately, although she must have been a prolific letter writer and given the custom of the time she would have been unusual if she had not kept a diary, there is no archived store of letters or diaries.

So what is a biographer to do when it appears that her chosen subject has left nothing of a personal nature to posterity? Little has been written about Eliza Acton. A page or so is devoted to her on several sites on the Internet and she merits a mention in the Dictionary of National Biography. Thus we know when and where she was born and died, a brief note about her family and the fact that she started her writing career as a poet, having a volume of her poems published by subscription when she was 26. Although that book received good reviews and went into a second edition, later critics in the early twentieth century tended to dismiss her work as gloomy and sentimental. That she had talent as a writer is not in doubt; she also tried her hand at drama and had one of her plays produced in a London theatre. Given that this was the time when more and more women were able to earn a living writing novels for a market that was insatiable, it is surprising that Eliza Acton did not follow the same route as, for example, the Brontë sisters or Mrs Gaskell. So what turned her instead to writing about cookery? Legend has it that when she approached Thomas Longman to bring out a book of her new poems, the wily publisher, with a keen eye to the market and the great success his rival John Murray had enjoyed with Mrs Rundell’s cookery book, told her to bring him a cookery book not poetry. If that is only half true, it already gives us a clue as to the character of the woman who was ready to take up the challenge rather than go away in a huff or take to her bed with a fit of the vapours. But it also shows that unlike some of those writers who followed her, she already possessed an interest in the subject.

In the absence of letters and diaries we are forced to look for much of our biographical information from Eliza’s own written work. The poems are a great source for providing details of her relationships. From these we learn about her sisters and friends and, most importantly, about the great love affair that ended badly. And from her two books, Modern Cookery and The English Bread Book, we are able to pick up clues about her mature life, her wide circle of friends and acquaintances from all ranks of life. Every writer develops a ‘voice’ which should ring loud and strong throughout their work. It is when the reader can ‘hear’ the author talking to them, sharing ideas, offering opinions on all manner of subjects, that one knows that the book is successful. As one reads through the pages of Modern Cookery, one is not just being given a series of recipes, one is being made aware of Eliza’s views on important topics of her day, ranging from the importance of education, both general and domestic, for women of all classes; the ghastly sweatshop conditions in commercial bakeries; the cramped living conditions of the poor; to the importance of growing one’s own vegetables where possible. She was without doubt a campaigner, too, passionate about the poor nutrition of the nation as a whole; worried that the labourers and manual workers were insufficiently fed to do what was demanded of them, while richer men and women were destroying their health with an excess of food – but she is never strident. Gentle firmness is the line she adopts when standing at your elbow while you prepare a dish.

So, apart from Eliza’s own work, where else can we seek information about her? The obvious place is in the newspapers, both those published nationally and those local to where she lived, and these have been drawn on heavily and have helped to clear up certain misinformation about her and her family which has appeared over the years. Also very useful are the genealogical sites which provide birth, marriage and death records, and the censuses from 1841 onwards. These, along with other documents, have been used with care to unravel her family background. Had Eliza taken to novel writing instead of cookery, she would have found sufficient in her own family history to write at least a three-volume family saga. Take a large family of mainly daughters, well educated and living in comfortable surroundings in a lively garrison town; throw into the plot some of the girls becoming governesses, a love affair or two, a short-lived marriage, tragic deaths, acts of bravery, time spent in France, a possible illegitimate child, a couple of doctors, the equivalent of a moonlight flit, a financial crisis that altered everyone’s lives and there you would have had enough to keep Dickens going for weeks on end. It is said that Eliza met him – she certainly corresponded with him, but could she really have confided to him aspects of her family’s history which are echoed in at least two of his novels?

The few facts known of Acton’s life have been repeated so often that they have passed into mythology. One of these is that her father, John, was related to the ancient family of Suffolk Actons, of whom, during Eliza’s childhood, the most direct descendant was Nathaniel Lee Acton of Bramford Hall. He was very active in the life of the town of Ipswich, attending social functions accompanied by his second wife, the former Penelope Rycroft, who like her predecessor had had her portrait painted by Romney. Our John Acton does not appear even in the remote branches of the Suffolk family tree, as we shall see later. The National Portrait Gallery has an etching by Spurgeon, taken from a portrait by Sir William Beechey, which has been copied on several occasions in publications and purports to be that of Eliza Acton. Quite how this mistake came about is hardly credible since the sketch plainly states that it is of Mrs Acton and it is dated c. 1803. Eliza was always referred to as ‘Miss’, but in any case, in 1803 she was only 4 years old. Neither is it likely that this was a portrait of her mother; it is almost certainly Mrs Nathaniel Lee Acton. Similar errors have been made about the number of sisters Eliza had and their marital status; how long Eliza spent in France and why; and other mysteries that will be unfolded later in what became almost a detective story.

For someone who was for some time a celebrity, why is it that none of her personal correspondence has survived? It would appear that of letters received by her, only four remain. It seems odd that she should have gone quite against the early nineteenth-century habit of keeping drafts of the letters she sent as well as those she received, especially as these were often copied to send on to others. Was it that in the years between 1840 to her death in 1859, she received so much from admiring readers that she hadn’t room to store it all, or if the correspondent sent her a new recipe, she simply copied it to her files and destroyed the actual letter? But surely, she must have replied to those letters, so it seems strange that all these have been lost. Perhaps these words will stir someone, somewhere, to look again at that cache of old letters so carefully preserved by great-great-grandmamma.

On the other hand, it may be that Eliza, knowing the growing trend for biography, and having never hidden behind either a pen name or the usual soubriquet of ‘a Lady’ or ‘a Gentlewoman’ as others did, was anxious that her family history should remain within the family. It is possible that on her death bed she instructed her sister to destroy all her personal papers, thus keeping secret forever both the name of her faithless lover and if she really did give birth to a child out of wedlock.

Note: Nowadays, the word ‘receipt’ signifies the document which verifies payment for a purchase. Well into the first half of the nineteenth century, the word was still being used, as it long had, to describe the contents or make-up of either a dish in cooking or a prescription for a medicine. Since Eliza used it in her books, I have followed her example rather than substituting the more modern version ‘recipe’. Certain items mentioned will also have changed, not least the decimalisation of both currency and weights. Eliza’s original imperial weights have been retained throughout, but for anyone tempted to try her splendid receipts, it is worth noting that in her day, a pint was the equivalent to 16 fluid ounces rather than 20 as now. That might make the world of difference to your pudding!

ONE

BEGINNINGS

Right from the outset, Eliza Acton stood out from the rest her family. Unlike her six sisters and three brothers, she was born not in the East Anglian port of Ipswich but in Battle, near the historically famous south coast town of Hastings. It was there on 5 June 1799 that she was baptised in the parish church within a year of the marriage of her parents, John and Elizabeth, née Mercer, which had taken place in the bride’s home parish of East Farleigh in Kent. It has long been supposed that John was in some way related to the old established Suffolk Acton family, mainly because that might account for how he came to be working in Ipswich. And the fact that Eliza was born in Sussex rather than Suffolk has been glossed over by suggesting that John had been visiting there in order to sort out the financial affairs of an uncle, believed to be the town clerk of Hastings.

However, that was not the case at all. John himself was born in Hastings in 1775, one of the seven children of Joseph Acton and Elizabeth née Slatter of Tonbridge in Kent. Elizabeth’s mother owned property in Battle where several of her late husband’s family still lived, which may explain how Joseph came to meet her. Both Eliza’s grandmothers were linked with these towns in Kent, which were later to feature in Eliza’s life. But perhaps more importantly they both probably had some money in their own right. And it was not his uncle, but John’s father Joseph who, among other things, was the town clerk of Hastings. There is no baptismal record for Joseph Acton in East Sussex so his early years are still shrouded in mystery, and it was not until 1762 that he first appears in any official record of the town. He had by then completed his training to be an attorney at law, so he was probably around 21 years old. In order to make a living that would enable him eventually to marry and have a family, he would have needed more than the fees gained from drawing up wills, conveyancing property and sorting out legal problems for individual clients. The solution to this was to take on some form of paid office under the Crown. In order to do that, he had to swear both the oath of allegiance to the Crown and also prove that he was a communicant member of the Church of England. At this period both Catholics and Dissenters were unable ‘to bear any office, receive pay or hold office from the Crown’. So those aspiring to such positions were expected to present themselves at their parish church and ‘receive the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper according to the usage of the Church of England’. The actual wording of the document refers to the specific denial of the belief in the transubstantiation of the bread and wine used in the service, which was intended to flush out any covert Roman Catholic. In order to receive the all-important Sacramental Certificate, the officiating minister and his churchwarden had to sign that they had witnessed the applicant actually receiving the bread and wine, and just to make doubly sure that all was in order, two independent witnesses from the congregation were required to make an affirmation. Many of those listed as being in receipt of Sacramental Certificates were excise officers, customs officers and local mayors, but when Joseph, described as ‘of Battle’, made his profession of faith in Westham church on 1 October 1762, he was about to become town clerk of Pevensey.

The following year when he again made the declaration he was described as Joseph Acton, gent, a prized appellation that was to remain in all future records. By 1768 he was the acting coroner for Rye, having the previous year become the deputy steward of the Manor of Wilmington, a position he held until 1786. To these he added the position of town clerk of Hastings in 1767, by which time he had settled in that town and his eldest son Walter was the first of his seven children to be baptised in All Saints church in December of that year. Joseph continued as town clerk until 1781. In addition to acting as solicitor to several private families in the area, he was also made steward of the Manor of Mayfield in 1772. A very busy man, it would appear he was both respected – he had been made a Freeman – and had made a good living. In time, his eldest son Walter would follow his father’s profession in the law and young John was being educated to join him.

It would seem, however, that Joseph was not as skilful in his personal financial dealings as he should have been, and when he died in 1788 there was a shock in store for the family. Having had much experience in drawing up wills for others, his own was a fine example of business-like brevity. Unexpectedly, he starts his bequests by leaving to his wife not his estate, but all the wood, coal, liquors and provisions that were in his house at the time of his death. He then gets straight to the point: he is in debt, having borrowed from various sources unspecified sums which he knows he is unable to repay. Honourably, he wishes all these debts to be repaid in full and the only way this can be done is by selling everything he possesses: ‘all and every my messuages [houses with land attached and outbuildings], buildings, lands, tenements and hereditaments [inherited property] as well as all my goods, chattels, rights, credits and all my real and personal estate whatsoever and wheresoever’. He appointed four gentlemen friends as trustees, requesting that they sell for the best possible price the whole lot or as much of it as would be necessary to repay all debts, funeral expenses and legal fees. Whatever was left was to go to his widow, but in the event that she should die before settlement had been made – and as a lawyer Joseph was fully aware of how long settlement could take – then the residue was to be shared equally among his children. The trustees were also appointed guardians of any child under the age of 21, which was all four of those living, although Walter had almost reached his majority.

On the few facts available to us, it would seem that the widow and her family were to be left homeless and destitute, but it is doubtful that this was the case, even if they had to move from the family home to somewhere smaller. Elizabeth did have some money of her own, as well as relations with businesses in Battle, and they no doubt would have offered assistance. Had 13-year-old John not been destined for the law as his father intended, he might well have found himself apprenticed to his uncle George Slatter, learning the diverse business of grocer, cheesemonger, dealer in china and seller of wines and spirits. That, however, might have been preferable to working for his aunt, Mrs John Slatter, who was a butcher. Instead, in the years that followed, John armed himself with the skills that would find him employment in business: knowledge of the law, accountancy and the ability to read and write documents. It is possible that he joined his brother Walter as a solicitor before embarking on an early marriage, but there are hints that he and Walter had a disagreement, which left John seeking to move away from Hastings.1 Perhaps, it was through his uncle George’s connection with the wine trade that John eventually secured the position with Trotman, Halliday & Studd of Ipswich and thus began his career of handling the business side of running a brewery. However it came about, by 1800 Mr and Mrs Acton and the baby Eliza had left Sussex and taken up residence in the house that adjoined St Peter’s Brewery in Dock Street, Ipswich.

Ipswich was very different to the small town of Hastings. Situated at the meeting of the River Gipping with the tidal estuary of the Orwell, the town had a history stretching back to prehistoric times. On the flat land around the two rivers settlement had grown up, sheltered by hills which provided plentiful freshwater springs. Today, the almost circular central shopping area still follows the street patterns laid down in early medieval times. If John Acton came back today, he would still be able to find his way from Dock Street, over Stoke Bridge, past St Peter’s church and up to the Cornhill at the centre of the town. The town’s prosperity had always lain with its port activity. In the years when East Anglia was the centre of the woollen trade, most of its produce was exported through Ipswich. Shipyards lined the banks of the Orwell building both commercial and naval vessels. Trade flourished with other parts of the country, fresh meat, dairy products and meat, for example, being carried regularly to feed London’s population. Ipswich ships carried coal from Newcastle around the coast, while other vessels ventured up to Greenland to fish for whales to satisfy the eighteenth-century demand for lighting oil. The import and export trade carried by foreign ships meant that Ipswich inhabitants were quite accustomed to hearing foreign voices in their shops and inns. The town, too, became home to exiles from the Continent, Flemish weavers, Huguenot silk workers from France, Jews from Holland – all had something to contribute to the life of the town and all tended to settle in the already overcrowded parish of St Clement on the town side of the docks.

When the Actons arrived, the town was experiencing a further increase in its population, this time from a great influx of the military for the town had long been a garrison for holding troops waiting to be shipped to fight against England’s enemies on the Continent. And there had been several of these during the latter part of the eighteenth century. Housing troops temporarily had always been a problem, but now it had been realised that requisitioning inns and taverns and empty commercial buildings, as well as large private houses, was, for many reasons, not the best way to solve it. So the decision had been taken to erect a permanent purpose-built barracks on land to the west of the town in the parish of St Matthews. The building, completed in 1795, was soon in use and would continue to be so once the war against France was announced. When Nelson’s wife, Fanny,2 was waiting in Bath prior to moving into their newly acquired home on the outskirts of Ipswich in 1798, she was perturbed to receive news that requisitioning was in operation again in the town. She wrote to beg that her correspondent should place a bed in the house (indicating its occupancy) and to let it be known that she was coming very shortly. But even the new barracks was not sufficient to house the number of troops who would occupy the town over the next twenty years and Eliza would have grown up with soldiers almost next door in a commandeered Maltings building.

It was not only the military – and their hangers-on – who had swelled the town’s population. Many who had suddenly found that living in London was becoming too expensive, moved their households to Ipswich where the rents were lower and the cost of living much less. These incomers added to the town’s already growing middle class, as well as the county gentry from the surrounding countryside who looked to Ipswich to provide them with social activities. The annual race week which was held in July was perhaps the highlight of the social calendar, but throughout the summer there were many opportunities for gatherings: balls, breakfast parties (held late morning), fête champêtres, concerts in the Assembly Rooms and stage plays at the newly built theatre in Tankard Street. Those like the prosperous brewer John Cobbold, who lived with his second wife Elizabeth at his estate called Holywells, frequently entertained guests both within their home and at outdoor parties in the extensive grounds overlooking the Orwell. Mrs Cobbold, herself a multi-talented woman, did much to encourage the artistic life of the town. She regularly gave concerts to showcase local talent, encouraging young singers and musicians, or providing budding poets and playwrights with an opportunity to present their work to an audience. It was she who encouraged both the young artists Gainsborough and Constable. Her influence on the cultural life of the town was far-reaching, ill deserving Charles Dickens’ cruel satire of her in The Pickwick Papers.3

But while those with money and free time sought amusement, there were other incomers to the town. The decline in agricultural jobs and the demand for labour in the developing industries within the town had brought an influx of the labouring classes seeking employment. That there was insufficient work to go round soon became apparent and a huge strain was placed on the individual town parishes, which were responsible for providing Poor Relief. If the Actons had arrived at the beginning of January 1800, they must have been appalled by the numbers of starving people seen in the streets. Robert Trotman, John Acton’s new employer, an elected bailiff of the town on several occasions, had just been made treasurer for the Public Fund for Relieving the Distress of the Poor. As money and donations in kind poured in, the immediate need was to provide warm sustenance in the form of soup. So dire was the situation that The Ipswich Journal devoted almost a whole page to the ingredients that went into the soup. Meat, preferably on the bone, was stewed until the bones were clean, at which point they would be split to extract the marrow from them. Potatoes, white cabbage, peas – coarse field peas that were the basis of pease pudding – barley and onions were added to the mixture. That the directions for the making of the soup were so detailed suggests that the recipe was included for other towns and villages in the area to copy, and even that it was intended for a more personal use. Certainly in her later years, Eliza Acton would have appreciated the care that was taken in the preparation of the soup and the understanding that good nourishment was vitally important for health.