published by Penguin Boo ks In The Lo ng Revolution Raymond WillIam. con Unua. the InquIry he began 10 .uc ceufuHy In Cu/tu,..a nd SodWy. ExaminIng the gradual chlnge whIch Is com Ing over our POlitical, economIc, Ind cultural I he I.y. speCial emphlils on the 'creative mInd' In ,.","",," '10 ,,,,,' soclll and Cultur., thIn king. After di.cussing the thecNy of culture he turns to • fascInating hIst orical .tudr of such Institullons as education .nd the pr. ss, tree...... development of . com mon Iinguage, Ind rev.... the links between Idea., mer.ry forms, and .octal hktory. The graduII emerge nce ot • common cuH ure " ..... Britain need., .nd Ray mOnd WillIams devotes the concluding ....y of the book to • dlscu" 'on of the ..... thl. h.s relched Ind the conflict. surrou nding It 'Clear • . . positive . • . Inllytlc, v.ry IntellJga nt'_ Richlrd t-Rtgglrt 'The book I have bee n waiting for .'nce 1145 '_ Richard Croumen
The cover showl
II
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(RI/ksmus'um 'Kr/jfler·MIJII,,', Ot/trlGo, For copyright r.asons this
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,
PELICAN BOOKS A762
THE LONG REVOLUTION Raymond Williams was born in '92' at the \Vclsh
border villa!;,! of randy, where his father
was a
railway signalman. He was educated at the "illnge Trinity College, Cambridge. After ,hew:lr, in which
,chool, at AbeTgaw:nny Grammar School, and at he sen'ed as an :lnli-tank captain in the Guards
Armoured Division, he became an adult education
tutor in I he Oxford Unh'ersity Deleg:lCY for Extr:l
Mural Studies until IgGl, when he was elccted
Fellow ofJesus College, Cambridge, where he is a. university lectUf(:r in English. In 19.H he was an editor of {,o/ifies and ufltu, and is now General Editor of the N.w Thinker's Library. He has pub lished a number of es:say!l in literary journals and is well known as a book_reviewer for the Guardian. His books include Drama/rom Ibstn f(l E/wl (in Penguins), Drama in l'erjormmlcI ('954), Culturt alld Scciefy '780'950, Th, LA..g HellO/II/tOil (1961), Communications (1962), MoJ.m Tmg.Jy (I!liS) and two novels, Berd" COlm/ry (in Penguins) and Stcond C.ntra/iolt. Raymond Willimru is married and has three ehildren.
� : t . � � THE LONG REOLUTION
/ftC
Raymond Williams
i
II
I
I I
PENGUIN BOOKS
PCZ>lUin Boob L.d, Harmo<.u.wo..lh Middl.,...", Entland P....in .. IIoob I"r L.d. Ri�, Vic..,..;a, "...lrali. Firs. publ""ed by Ch"uo o!t Win dllJ
Published in Pdico.tI ll<>ol. ,g6�
Caprr,s"'O Raymond
,!)Ii,
CONTENTS
Willianu, ,(l6'
Foreword
W)","3" LId,
Foreword to the Pelican Edition
Made and I'rin,ed ;n CroAl Uri'n;n loy c,,� &.
Introduction
LondOll, Kc�din., and r�kc"harn Se, in Mom"}",'" D:uke,.iUe
7 8 9
PART ONE
2 3
4
The Creative Mind
The Analysis of Culture
Individuals and Societies Images of Society
19 57 89 120
PART TWO
Education and British Society
2 3 4 5 6 7
The Growth of the Reading l'ublie The Growth of the Popular Press The Growth of 'Standard English'
The Social History of English Writers The Social History of Dramatic Forms
Realism and the Contemporary �ovcl
'45 '77 '95 237 2 54 2 71 3 00
PART THREE 11", book i. ",Id .ubj",,' .0 .be oond"io"
llta. i. ,11all n"', br ",ay of tradc, be len', ",·",ld,
hired
oul, or olherwi••
dispoow
of" i,hout .he publ"he", <""1'01 in any form of bindint o. 00'0""" ",h�r ,10= .ha. in whid, il is p"bllshw
Britain in the 19605
3'9
Notes to the Pelican Edition
3B5
Index
391
FOREWORD HAVE been helped b y many people in writing this book, and wish to record my thanks. I am e5pecially grateful to my wife, not only for much general help with the whole text, but for her detailed work in relation to Part Two, Chapter 5. I was greatly helped by my colleague Michael Carrin in dis
I
cussion of the problems ofwha! we mean by creati"it)', and for a time the discussion was so close and continuous that it became difficult to separate his ideas frommyo\\'n; I am sure, in any case, thar my accolillt as it stands owes much to him, though I cannot involve him in my errors. 1 was also helped
by Edward Thompson's criticism of an earlier draft of my history of the popular press, and am grateful to him for this as for much else. Olher friends, especially Stuart Hall aud I-I. P. Smith, have helped perhaps more than they know. 1
would also record my general indebtedness to the published works which I list at thc cnd. Parts of the book h;\\"e previously appeared in Partisan Rel,;ew (�ew York), J{UOL'Q Correl/le ({,Iilan), Jlol/lhl;' Rel'iew (New York), Uni;;ersities and Left Review, and Aew Ltft Rn·;ew. R.W.
FOREWORD TO T H E PELICAN ED I T I O N
I N TR O D U C T I O N
For this edition, 1 have marle a few revisions and amend ments, and added some notes, which arc indicated by as
Tilts book has bcen planned and written a s a continuation
terisks. These arc mainly for clarification or to bring some point up to date. I must thank all those who have written to me about the book, and those who have taken part in the public argument and discussion about it, which has been even more extensive than in the case of Culture and Socitry. The point was reached,
of the work begun in m)'
Cuflurt
afld Socitry, 1780-195°. I
described that book as 'an aecoum and an interpretation of our responses in thought and feeling to changes in English society since the late eighteenth century', and this, of course, was its main function, a critical history of ideas and values in this period of decisive change. Yet the method of the book, and in particular its concluding chapter, led to a further
quite early, when J could not do much more than listen, hut
intention: from analysing and illterprctillg thc ideas and values I moved to an allempt to reinterprct and extend them,
I have at least done that. The book is, of course, still controversial and difficult:
in tcrms of a still changing society and of my own experience in it.
rnorc so, for many reasons, than Culture and Soculy. The earlier
1 did not foresee, when I was working on Culture alld SQcit!y,
hook gathered and tried to restate an existing tradition,
that by the time it Wits published an important part of our
whereas this book is an attempt to reach new ground. Its
general social thinking would havc developed along lines
method is then much harder to grasp, for the method is in
which included my OWl} themes. The result of this de· veiopmenl was not only that the book was very cxtensivcly
this sense the substance. If readers have found parts of the book useful, as many have said, that in its own way is wei· come. But also, if the connexions I make and try to describe are not seen or not accepted, the book as a whole is bound to be difficult to bring into focus, and then its local difficulties are exaggerated. The many kinds of analysis which are necessary to the essential case carry their own additional problems. I do not want to argue any of the difficulties away, bul most of them belong, as I see it, to the intention, and I am especially grateful to those who, realizing this, have met me on that ground. Even where this, as in some cases, was the true source of the controversy, I found the recognition deeply encouraging.
R.W.
discussed-I have read more than futy thousand words of com· mellt on it, and taken part in vel·y many verbal discussions bUL also l/lat the Ijnes ofatgtUnenL opened up went in many
cases considerably beyond the scope of the book itself. I had planned and drafted much of the present book before Culture alld Society was published, but I have now considerably re·
vised it to take account of the discussion. I have kept, how· ever, to my own idcas of the further work that was necessary,
and have limited this book to what in any case I should have written about: questions in the theory of culture, historical analysis of certain cultural institutions and forms, and prob· lems of meaning and action in our contemporary cultural situation. I can work in these general fields only to the limit of my own interests, and do not suppose these to be ideally
complete. Indeed I have already risked an extension and
bllroductioll
Introductioll
variety of themes well beyond the limits of any kind of
expansion, in the world as a whole, is already greater than anyone had foreseen, and is indeed too rapid to be easily.
academic prudencc, for what secms to mc the good reason that there is no academic subject within which the questions I am interested in can be followed through; I hope one day there might be, for it was quitc obvious ii'orn thc discussion of Cutture alld Socielj' tim t the pressure of these questions was not only pcrsonal bur general.
IV!y title is taken from a sentence in Culture and Sociery, but
a further note 011 it might be useful. It seems to me that we
"
interpreted. Yet, whilcits aims and methods have been almost universally accepted, most of the world is still far behind the stage actually reached in the advanced countries, while in the advanced countries the sense of possibility i n the transforma tion of nature is being continually and rapidly extended. Thus the industrial revolution, in its broad sense, is also at a comparatively early stage. l\.10rcover, it is evident that its
are living through a long revolution, which our best dcscrip
correlation with the growth of democracy is by no means
tions only in part interpret. It is a genuine revolution,
simple. On the one hand it seems clear that industrial devel
transforming men and institutions; continually cxtended and deepened by the actions of millions, continually and vari ously opposed by explicit reaction and by the pressure of habitual forms and ideas. Yet it is a difficult revolution to
opmcnt is a powerful incentive to new kinds of democratic
define, and its uneven action is taking place over so long a period that it is almost impossible not to get lost in its exceptionally complicated process. The democratic revolution commands our political atten tion. Here the connicts are most explicit, and the questions of power involved make it very uneven and confused. Yet in
organization. On the other hand the apparent needs of industrial organization, at many levels from the process of accumulating capital to the status of the worker in a very extensive and divided technical system, sometimes delay, sometimes frustrate the aspiration to share in the making of decisions. The complex interaction between the democratic and industrial revolutions is at the centre of our most diffIcult social thinking. Yet there remains a third revolution, perhaps the most
any general view it is impossible to mistake the I·ising deter mination, almost cverywhere, that people should govern
difficult of all to interpret. \Ve speak of a cultural revolution, and we must certainly see the aspiration to extcnd the active
themselvcs, and make their own decisions, without conccs sion of this right to any particular group, nationality or class. In sixty years of this century thc politics of the world have
process of learning, with the skills of literacy and other
already been changed beyond recognition in any earlier terms. \Vhether in popular revolution, in the liberation movements of colonial peoples, or in the extension of parlia mentary suOi'age, the same basic demand is evident. Yet the demand has been and is being very powerfully resisted, not only by the weight of other traditions, but by violence and fraud. If we take the criterion that people should govern
advanced communication, to all people rather than to limited groups, as comparable in importance to the growth of democracy and the rise of scientific industry. This aspira tion has been and is being resisted, sometimes openly, sometimcs subtly, but as an aim it has been formally acknow ledged, almost universally. Of course, this revolution is at a very early stage. Bare literacy is still unattained by hundreds of millions, while in the advanccd countries the sense of possibility, in expanding education and in developing new
themselves (the methods by which they do so being Jess im
means of communication, is being revised and extended.
pOI·tant than this central fact) it is cvident that the democratic
Here, as in democracy and industry, whal we have done
revolut iOll is still at a very early stage.
seems little compared with what we are certain to try to do.
The industrial revolution, backed by immense scientific
Yet at this point it is particularly evident that we cannot
development, commands our economic attcntion. Its rate of
understand the process of ehangc in which wc arc involvcd if
bllroduclion
Introduction
we limit oUl'selves to thinking or the democratic, industrial, and cultUl'al revolutions as separate processes. Our whole
ard or living, a given school-leaving age and level or educa tion. These arc adequate as incentives to effort, and anyone
way orIire, from the shape of our cODUllW1ilies to the organ·
who knows their history knows that their achievement did
the family to the status of art and entertainment, is being
ization and content of education, and from the structure of
not simply evolve, but had to be worked and struggled ror, over generations. Hut it is characteristic of the historyorwhat
profoundly affected by the progress and interaction of democracy and industry, and by the extension of communi·
quite quickly absorbed, and either new expectations are
I sec as the long revolution thatsueh aims, once achicved , are
cations. This deeper cultural revolution is a large part of our
commonly defined, Of in their absence there is a mood of both stagnation and restlessness. FOI' a long time now we have
most significant living experience, and is being interpreted and indeed fought out, in very complex ways, in the world of art and ideas. Jt is when we try to correlate change or this
been hearing from every kind of ruling group that pcople arc llever satisfied, never even grateful. Indeed this thrust of
kind with the changes covered by the disciplines of politics, economics, and communications that we discover some of the
demand has bt..'C n so deeply learned, and is so deeply re...red,
most difficult but also some orthe most human questions.
that one can see, on all sides, a ruling philosophy of delayed and graded concessions, for, as has been said, today's con
Thcscalc ofthe whole process - the struggle for democracy, the development of indusu·y, the extension of comnum ica
own reasons for not wishing to recognize the true scale of the
cession is tomorrow's springboard. Ruling groups have their
tions, and the deep social and personal changes - is indeed too large to k.now or even imagine. In practice it is reduced to a
revolution, but elsewhere it is a genuine crisis of conscious�
series of disconnected or local changes, but while this is
ness, and anybody concerned with his own life and the lire of his society, in this process of general change, must obviously
reasonable, in the ordinary sense, it seems to me that this
do what he can to try to resolve and clarify. My own view is
scaling-down only disguises some of the deepest problems
thai we must keep trying to grasp the process as a whole, to sec it in new ways as a long revolution, irweare to understand
and tensions, which then appear only as scattered symptoms or restlessness and uncertainty. In a country like Britain, in
either the theoretical crisis, or oW" actual history, or the reality orour immediate condition and the terms of change.
which the long revolution is at a relatively advanced stage, it seems customary ror each generation to announce the com when the new young generation asserts that the revolution
A very large part of our intellectual life, to say nothing of our social practice, is, however, devoted to criticizing the long revolution, in this or that aspect, by many powerful
hasaflerall not occul'red. We are quite clearly in this situation
selective techniques. But as the revolution itself extends,
in the '960s, when the objectives fOf which many generations worked have been quite generally achieved, yet when the
irrelevant. In naming the great process of change the long
pletion of the revolution, and to be bewildered and angry
until nobody can escape it, this whole drift seems increasingly
revolution, r am trying to learn assent to it, an adequate
society has never been more radicaUy criticized, not only by particular writers and thinkers, in articulate ways, but also
assent ormind and spirit. J find increasingly that the values and meanings I need arc all in tillS process or change. lfit is pointed out, in traditional tenns, that democracy, industry, and extended communicatioll arc all means rather than ends,
more generally and in ways orten so inarticulate and COIl fused that old descriptions, such as cynicism, apathy, point· icssncss, are usually the best we can find to acknowledge them.
1 reply that this, precisely, is their revolutionary character,
We seem severely hindered, in such a situation, by the very practice of scaling-down. Thus certain expectations arc
and that (0 realize and accept this requires new ways of think
shaped and defined, as universal suffrage, a particular stand-
ing and reeling, new conceptions of relationships, which we
I
J Introductjon
Il/troducti01l
'4
must try to explore. This book is a record of such an attempt. In my first part I begin from an examination of the nature ofCfcativc activity, which I sec now as lhe necessary basis for extending the account of the relation between communic.'l tion and community which I tried to establish in Culture alld Society. Tlhen go back to examining certain theoretical prob lems in the definition and analysis of culture, and work a practical example. Following a lead from the discussion of communication, 1 then try to analyse the concepts
�
of' the
indiv dllal' and 'society' that we ordinarily use, and to
dcsCl'lbc certain typical relationships of this kind. I then extend this argument to a discussion of some of the existing concepts of our own society, and discuss some of the processes of social and cultural change. My second part is an account and analysis of the dcve1op . menl of cenain of our major cultural institutions, from
education to the press, and is completed by a series of essays
on the relation between certain forms in art and the gencral development of the society. I think much of this is useful simply as information brought together in the light of a common process, though 1 do not doubt that my factual aceoums will have to be revised as research continucs. The critical essays nre experimental and arguable, but attempt to develop the kind of inquiry represellled by my chapter on 'TIle Industrial Novel' in Culture and SoeielJ'. My third and concluding part retums to the theme of the long revolution, which I have outlined in this introduction
d
by attempting a description of ow· contemporary culture an
society in terms or what I sec as a panel'll of change. Briefly
I attempt to assess the progress of the long revolution in
Britain, � nd to c�nsider its next stages. I do not confine my . self to Brltlsh society because of any lack of interest in what is happening elsewhere, but because the kind of evidence I am interested in is only really available where one lives I think, howe\'er, tha� it could e ndc.Jed that Britain was v ry . . early III entenng tillS re\·olutlon, and that our society con sequently oITel's very rich material for the consideration of
?
�
some of its general problems. It is true also that the present
crisis in British society
'5
is sufficiently interesting in itself, and
of commanding importance to those of us invoked in it, \0 make this attempt to take bearings useful. ''''ith this book and Cultllre alld Socie!;', and with my novel Border Country which I believe to have, in its panieular and quite dife f rent way, an essential relevance to the two general books, I have completed a body of work which I set myself to do ten years ago. Other work will necessarily follow from this, but it feels likc the completion of a particular stage
in one's life, and while this need not interest anybody else, it is perhaps worth recording.
PART ONE
I THE CREATIVE MIND No word in English carries a morc consistently posItIve reference than 'creative', and obviously we should be glad
of this, when we think of tile values it secks to CXP1'CSS and the activities it offers to d escribe Yel, clearly, the vcry width of .
the reference involves not only difficulties of meaning, but also, through habit, a kind of unthinkillg rcpctitioH which at times makes the word seem useless. I propose to examine the significance of the 'creative' idea: first, by reviewing its history; second, b}f camp<1.ring its dC\'dopmcnt as a term in the arts with some important rceem scientific work on per ception and communication; third, by lo oking at it as a OUf contemporary discussioll of culture
possible key term in
- a discussion which centres Oil the relations between art and
learning, and the whole complex or our activities that wc call
Ollf society.
The history of the 'crcati\'e' idea is in many ways difficult to trace. It seems to me to begin, essentially, in the thought of the Renaiss.."lnce, but, when we look at these sources, we find its originators referring the idea to classical thought, as if una\\"are ofthe new emphasis they seem to be making. In any past writing, only pan of the original meaning is recovcrablc, a whole has come to us thl'Ough many
for the meaning as
minds, and cvcn when we havc distinguished t heir influcnce we find that the original significancc is, with its context, still partly withheld . Yet as [ read the authors, in particular
Aristotle and Plalo, on whom these Renaissance thinkers re lied, I see a distinction, an altered significance, which seems orrundamental importance. The acti\'ity being described is a common activity, but its description, essentially, has altered. "Ve speak now of the artist's aClivity as 'creation', but the
20
The
word used by Plato and Aristotle is the very different' imita� tion'. The general meaning of the Greek word mimesis is
either'doing what another has done', or'making something' like something dse'. In actual use it included the activities of the dancer, the singer, the musician, the paintcr, the sculplor, the actor, tile dramatist, and the common quality in these activities was seen as 'the representation ofsomcthing clse': •
imitation'. Aristotle wrotc:
The general origin of poctry was due to two causes each of them part of hum an nature. Im i tati on is n a tural to man from childhood , one of his advantages over the lower animals being this, that he is the most imitative creature in the wo rld, and learns at first by imitation. And it is also natural for all to deligh t in works of imita tion. The tn_th of this sccond poin t i s shown by experience: though tIle object! themselves may be painful to see, we d elight to vicw the most realistic representations ofthem in art, the forms f o r example of the lowest animals and of dead bodies. The e:Ol:l)1anation is to be found in a further fact: to be learning something is thc greatest of plcasures not only to the ph ilosopher bUI also to the rest of mankind, llowev er small their capacity for it; the reason of the delight in see ing the pic ture is that one is at the same time le3L"rling - gathering the meaning ofthings. It seems clear from this, as from the whole of his main argu� ment, that Aristotle considers art primarily as ;) representa� tion ohome hitherto-existing reality, The artist imitates this, and by his imitation, which is akin to our first process of learning, we gather tile meaning of the thing that isimitated. * Plato, similarly, described the artist as an 'imitator' of a pl"e�existing reality. God was the crcator ofthings; workmcn the artificers of things; artists the imitators of things. Thus, Plato and Aristotle agree on the fact of imitation, but go on to draw diflcrent conclusions from it. For Plato, although in the 1071 he describes the poet as divinely inspired, the act of imitation is at two removes from rcality (the Idea, then the material thing, then the imitation) and the famous discussion in the &pub/ic, proposing the censorship of poels, emphasizes the dangers of the influence of thc$C 'mere imitators' on the weaker parts ofthc mind.
The Creative Mind
umg ReUO/Ulion
The art of imitation is the worthless mistress of a worthless friend,
and the parcnt ofa wonhlcss progcny. .. . The imitative poet . . .. re':lemb1cs the painter in producing thingll that arc worthlcu when tried by the standard of truth, and he re':lemules him also in this, that he hold$ intercourse with a part ofthc soul which is like hirru;e1f, and not with the best parI. ... He excites a nd feeds this worthless part of the soul, and thus de�troys the rational part. Aristotle, on the other hand, not only emphasizes imitation as
part of the normal learning process, but introduces a new
principle, that of' the universal':
The poet's function is to describe, no t th e thing that has happened,
but a kind oflhing that might happen, i .e. what is possible as b eing probablc or nCCC$Sa ry.... Hcnce poetry is something more philo soph ic and of graver imporl than h��lOry, since its statements are of the nalurc ralhCI' of universals, whereas thos e of history are singulars. By a universal statcmcn t 1 mean one as to what such or such a kind of man will probably or necasarily say or do - which is the aim of poetry though it affixes proper nama to the characters; by a singular stalcment, onc as 10 wha t, say, Alc ibiades did or had donctohim.
Thus while Plato emphasizes the dangers of fiction, as tile imitation not even of ultimate reality but of mere appear� ances, Aristotle develops his concept of imitation as a form of learning towards ils dcfmition as the highest form of lcarning, in that it shows, through its universal statements, the perma� nent and the necessary. The immense intcllcctu..1.l tradition which flowed from Plato and Aristotle came to include not only these two oppos� ing valuations, but an extraordinary series of modifications, transvaluations, developments, and interpretations. Thus Platonism came to include a theory of art directly opposed to that of the Republic, arguing that the divinely inspired poet was able to teach the highest reality because he penetrated merc appearance, and embodied in his work the divine Idea. Aristotle's idea ofunivcrsals, which in context reads primarily as the embodiment of general truths about human nature, became identified, in many minds, as the same doctrine: the universals wcre the divine jeicas, and the poet embodied
The
Long Revo/lltioll
them. Still, however, even after these developments, the process ofart was'imitation' and not 'crcation'. From the excitement and confusion ofRenaissance thcory foul' doctrines of art emerged. The first defined art as an imitation of the hidden reality, thus making it a Jorm of
revelation; this was particularly uscful to some Christian thinkers, who could then see art as an allegory orthe mind of God. This devcloped into the idea of art as an esoteric
activity, and a high valuation of works of an allegorical or symbolic kind. The second doctrine, from much the same source but less afe f cted by Christian thinking, saw art as a perpetual imitation and embodiment ofthe 'Idea ofBeauty '.
This came to include, in practice, the idea of imitating, not slavishly yet seriously, earlier works of art in which this Idea of Beauty was embodied (this is the major tradition which became known as classicism). The third doctrine, developing some of the emphases of Aristotle, saw art as the ' idealization
of nature '; that is to say, showing things not as they arc but as they ought to be. This, "'vhile based on the same source as allegiance to the' Idea ofBeaury', moved not towards classic
ism, butLOwardsan important tradition ofexemplary, moral
izing and didactic works. The fourth doctrine, from which
the 'creative' emphasis primarily springs, sa'w nature as God's art (Tasso) and saw art as a rorm of energy which vies with nature. As Castelvetro put it: Art is not a thing different rrom nature, no,' can it pass bcyond the limits of nature; it sets out with the same purpose as that of naturc.
This purpose is a distinct lorm of creation. Nature is God's creation; art is man's creation. 'There are two creators,' Tasso wrote, 'God and the poet.' In any particular Renaissance workonc is likely to find the four doctrines that J have here distinguished, not as alterna tives, but frequently involved with each other, as the extreme ambiguity and vagueness of the terms makes easily possible. But in the more important writers the tendency towards a distinctly humanist theory of art is quite marked. For some centuries yet, the idea ofarl as creation, in a kind of rivalry
The Creative "{illd
'3
with God, would seem blasphemous. Yet, entangled as it was with both actual and false reliance on Plato and Aristotl�,
complicated asitwas by dife f rent kinds ofChristian tradition, the emergence of this idea can be seen as part of the new thinking of the Renaissance, and at the head of a linc which leads down to our day. In the English tradition, its classical statement is that of Sidney. All other 'arts' and 'sciences' (astronomy, mathematics, music, philosophy, law, history, grammar, rhetoric,
medicine, mctaphysics) are, Sidney
argues, tied to nature. Ondy the Poct, disdayning
to
be tied to any such subjection, lifted
up with thc vigor ofhis owncinvention, dooth growein drect anothcr nature, in making things either belt. er-lhen Nature bringeth forth, ot', quite a newe, formes such as ncver were in Nature, as the Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, FUt-ies, and mch like: so as hee gocth hand in hand with Nature, nO! inclosed Wilhillihenanow warrant of her guifts, but freely ranging ondy within the Zodiack ofhis ownewit, Nature nevcr set forth the earlh in so rich tapistr}' as divers poets ha\'C done, neither with pleasant rivers, fruilful trccs, swect smelling Aowcrs, nor whatsoever c1s may makc the too much lovcd earth morc lovely. Her world is brasen, the Poets only deliver a golden. But let those things alone and goc to man, for whom as the other things are, so it seemelh in him her uttermost cunning is imployed, and knowe whether shce ha'"c brought foorth so true a lover as Theagenes, so constant a (Head as Pybdes, so valiant a man as Orlando, so right a Prince as Xenophon's Cyrus, so excellent a man every way as Vil'gils Aeneas. :'>Ieither let this be jestingly couceived, because the works of the one be essenl.iall, the other, in imitation or fICtion; for any understanding knoweth the skiI of the Artificer stalldeth in that Idea or foreconce;tc oftbe work, and nOt ill the work it sdfe. And that the Poet hath that Idea is manifest, by delivering them forth in such exccllcllcie as hcc halh imagined them. ""hieh dcliyering ronh also is not wholie imaginative, as we arc WOl1t to sa}' by them that build Castles in the ayl'c; but so {'arrc substantially it worketh, not ondy to make a Cyrus, which had been but a par ticular cxcellcneic, as Naturc might have dOlle, but to bestow a Cyrus upon the worlde, to make many Cyrus's, if they wi! learne aright why and how that "1akcr madc him. Neythcr lct it be deemed too sawcic a comparison to ballanec thc
The Long Revoluton i
The Creative Mind
'5
highest poynt of man! wit with the effieaeie of Nature ; but rather give right honour to the heavenly l\1aker oflhat maker, who, having made man to his oWlle likene!, set him beyond and over all the
energy of the soul which is an approach to God. But i t assumes, a s a contrast wilh this, a n order o f natural seeing,
.....orkcs ofthat second uature, which in nothing he(:!heweth so much as in I'octrie, when with the force of a dh·ine breath he bringeth things forth far surpnssing her doings, with no small argument to thc incredulous of lhat first accursed fall of Adam, sith ollr erected wit makelh us know ,,'hat perfection is, and yc:t our infectc:d lI'ill keepeth us from reaching it.
Sidney also had assumed this, but had claimed that only the
The strands of many traditions can be seen in this, but the decisive novelty (it is not Sidney's, but of his period) is clear. This is the doctrine of man the creator, who 'with the force ofa divine breath ' brings forth ' things far surpassing' nature. Sidney glances back at one pan of Plato's teaching, to find this force given by God to one kind ofman, the poet. But the claim OCCllrs within a larger movement of thought, in which man s i asserting his right to break Qut of the order of nature : to see the rest of nature as subordinate to his creative will. For Sidney, poeu'y can be supenlatural because it is
an
energy of the soul which in discovering God is able to create beyond natural limits. But anothcr way of making the same claim is to asscrt a purely human crcativity, the powel's oflhe emergent mind. When imitation, the learning of realiry, becomes creation, man making new reality, a critical stage in art and thought has been reached. "
As we follow the historical argument, we find a growing complexity, as the implications of this claim are realized. In :r..1arvel!'s famous verse in The Cardtn, we arestill with Sidney, but the point is interestingly put: The Jl.lind, that Ocean whcre each kind Docs streight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending thesc, Far other \Vorlds, and other &a5, Annihilating all that'5 made To a green Thought in a green Shade.
This 'creation' is still, as the whole poem makes clear, an
' where each kind does streight its own rcsemblance find ', * poet could go beyond it. In Marvell this is a creative activity of the human mind as such. It is this emphasis that we must bear in mind as we watch the extraordinary flowcring of the creative idea in the development of what we now call Romantic thought. The attachment of' crcative' to the work of the artist remains the easiest to trace, Donnc spoke of poetry as ' a counterfeit Creation '. Mallet, in ! 728, spoke of the ' companion of the Muse, Creative Powcr, Imagination ', By the end of the eighteenlh century, this emphasis, with its key-word, 'imagination ', was becoming paramount. The main line runs as an emphasis on 'crcative imagination' as a general human faculty, which is seen at its highest in the poet. This is the basis of Shelley's Defence oj Poetry, which like Sidney's
Apologe i contains many strands of traditional
thought, but is most significant in relation to developing idcas of perception and imagination:
Man is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven, like the alternations of an ever-changing wind over an Aeolian lyre, which movc it by their motion to ever changing melody. But there s i a principle within the human being, and perhaps within all sentient beings, which aets otherwise than in the lyre, and produces not melody, alonc, but harmony, by an n i ternal adjustment of the sounds or motions thus excited to the impressions which excite them. II is as if thc lyre could accommo date ils chords to the motions of that which �Irikcs them, in a deter mined proportion ofsound.
This, of course, is still ' imitation ', with the addition of the organizing principle - what Shelley calls 'synthesis' - as the creative human act. The child and the savage imitate exter nal objects, and language and geslure, together with plastic or pictorial imitation, becomc the image of the combined cffect of those objects, and of his apprehcnsion ofthcm.
The
L()lIg Revolutioll
To be a poet is to carry to its highest fOlom this general
The Creatjve klil/d
'7
It is an eloquent argument, and remains important, but it fluctuates between imitative and creative ideas of pcreeption�
activity: to apprehend . . . the good which exi�ts . . , in the relation subsisting first between eldstence and lX-"rccplion, and secondly belween I>cr
ception and expression.
seeming to reserve real creation to secondary association; and i t tends towards a denial of general hwnan creativity, and its special reservation to the poet. It was, typically, Coleridge, in one of those extraordinary flashes of intelli
The poet docs this through the usc ofa language which is
gence, who extended the idea of creation to all perception:
vital1y metaphorical; thai is, i t marks Ihe before unapprehended
The primary IMAGINATION I hold
I"el:.tiorls of things
The ' authors
and perpetuates
their apprehension.
orl·evolutions in opinion' act similarly, for
theil' words ul\veil thc permanent analogy of things by imag(.'S which
partidpate in the lire oftruth.
human nalur(", as existing in the JIliud orthe creator, which is itself . the image ofall Olher minds.
be the living Power and
finite mind ofthe elema! aCI ofcrealion.
With this startling hypothesis, of which only later shall we see the full significance, the transformation of' imitative' into ' creative' theories reaches its next critical stage.
A pocm is the creation of actions according to the unchangeable forms of
10
prime Agent of all human perception, and as a repclition in the
'"
We must now turn aside to notice an effect of the ' creative' theory, as it existed before Coleridge, The claim that art represented a 'supcrior reality', essentially hi gher than that
I·lere Shelley retllrns 10 the emphasis of Sidney, which in other pans of his argument he had perhaps been moving
accessible to other human faculties, was, naturally enough,
beyond, I Ie returns again, but with altered emphasis, in his
contested. The basis of the opposition goes back to Plato, What the new thinkers called creation Plato had caUcd false
most famous definition:
hood, Art was fiction, and as such inferior to reality. The
All things exist as they are perceivcd; at least in reiaLion to the I>cr
i its own plac.·. and ofitselfcan make a Heavcn cipiel1t. ' The mind s of Hell, a Hell ofl-lea,·cl1.' But poetry dcfeat51he curse ,,·hich binds
persistence ofthis attitude needs no emphasis. It is a common place of modern thought, as anyone who says he prefers biographies to novels ' because at least they are true' will
to be subjected to the accident of surrounding impressions, And
affirm, \Vhat I want 10 observe is that the claim of an to
from before the scene ofthings, i t e(!uallycreatcs for us a being within
ferior fiction' have been, in modern thought, coulHerparts. If YOli rely on thc theory of art as imitation, this is inevitable,
us
whethcr j tspreads iIS OWl1 figured eurtai n. and!hdraws life'sdark \"eil OUI"
being. It makcsus the inhabitants ofa world 10 which the famil
liar world is chaos. It reproduces the comlllon Universe ofwhich we arc pOl"lions or percipients,
which we know. It creales anew the universe, after il has been anni.
hila!(.-d in our minds by the recurrence of impressions blunled by
reilc.'alion. IljU51ifies lhal bold and trueword ofTasso: Non Mcrita
nome di creatore, se non Iddio ed il Pocta (none merits the name of
creator, except God and the poet).
' superio.· reality' and its
contemptuous description as 'in
at a certain stage, E,'cn in a culture in ,..-hieh it is deeply accepted that there is a ' reality' beyond ' appearances ', it is
by no means certain that
the artist's singular ability to reach
and depict this will bc accepted. If a religion is the medium of belief in a ' higher reality', the anist's singularity wiH certainly not be conceded, although his role in depicting such a reality, in the accepted terms ofthe religion, will often be stressed. In such a case, however, this will not be a special
,s
Tk Creative
The Long Reoolution
humanist culture, for it embodies elements of both ways of thinking: that there is a reality beyond ordinary human
vision, and yet that man has supreme creative powers. But, in such a transition, the latter claim will be made on general
'9
It comprchends some bringcr of lhatjoy. Or in the night, imagining some fear,
kind of 'creative' act. The belief in artistic creation as the medium ora superior reality seems most likely to be held in a period of transition from a primarily rcligioHS to a primarily
Mind
II;
How easy is a bush suppos<.-o a bear. But all lhc Slory oflhe night told ovcr, And all their minds transfigured so together, f..-Iore witnesseth than fancy's imagcs, And grows to something of great constancy.
grounds, thus tending to challenge the artist's singularity.
The lines about thc poet are frequently quoted, ill the
Moreover, there will be clements in the assertion of human powers which will tcnd to devalue ' imagination ' , or at least
' creative' tradition to which they obviously belong, but it is less often observed that the conlext of the description is a
to make it ambiguous. The growth ofscepticism, which will
general description ofdelusion. The valuation seems to veer,
be part of the movement from a primarily religious culture,
even in the writing, and perhaps fairly represents a continu
will extend into this province, putting increasing emphasis upon the possibility of delusion or the idle construction of 'mere romance '. Historically, this has been the genera! development, for the artist's claim that he is a creator of superior reality has been counterpointed, from the begin· rung, by a stress on the possible delusions of imagination and the misleading elements offiction and romance. From the hundreds of possible examples, a famous passage from Shakespeare may be taken, for its ambiguity: T;
More strange than true. 1 never may believe These antique rabies, nor these rairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping ramasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover and the poet An: of imagination all compact. One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is lhe madman. The lover, all as frnntic, Sees Helcn's beauty in a brow of Egypt. The pact'S eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth 10 heaven, And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
ing line of belief: that delusion, or illusion, is common, but that there is a spccial catcgory of illusion, ll.�ed by anists, which is valuable.· Almost every possible variation orposition, in this confused debate, has in ract been taken up. In practice, since the beginning oftlte eighteenth century, we have seen an alrem alion, but only of emphasis, between a naive realism ' describing things as they really are', and the varying kin
Two strong emphases, nearer our own time, have been widely made. The growing beliefin a simple kind ofmaterial ism, usually accompanied by an explicit denial ofany kind of supernatural reality, any re.1.lilY beyond man's reach, has
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 1\ local 11abitation, and a name.
made room fOI' art in terms of its , reflection ofrcality' (imita
Such tricks hath strong imagination That if it would but apprehend some joy
selects,
tion) or, morc subtly, its ' organization or reality' organi�es (Shelley's 'synthesis')
� the artist
and thus gives
30
The LOlIg Revolutioll
TIle Creative Mind
meaning and value. The new psychology, on the other hand, particularly in Freud andJung, has repeated, in a different
InJung, on the other hand, there is a distinction between two kinds of artistic crcation, one ' psychological', drawn from
fonn, the claim that there is a reality beyond man's reach: the ' unconscious'. Or rather, beyond man's ordinary reach, and here might be the entry, either for a new science or for a
new definition of art. For Freud, the material of art was 'phantasy', which he contrasted with ' reality'. The artist is one who from a certain psychological disposition
3'
the materials of consciousness raised to intensity, the other 'visionary', drawn from ' timeless depths . , . the hinterland of man's mind', He further distinguishes the private personality
of the artist and the nature of his activity as an artist, whieh latter he sees as 'an impersonal ercative proccss '. The crca tive activity is a geneml hmnan process, ofwhich the artist is,
turns away from reality and transfers all his interest, and aU his
in his art, the impersonal embodiment, taking us back to
libido too, on to the creation ofllis wishes ill the life ofphantasy. . . .
that levd of exr�ericnce at which it is man who livcs, and not the
BUI the way back
10
rcality is found by the artist thus : he is not the
only one who has a life of phantasy; the intermediate world of
phantasy is sanctioned by general human consent. . . . But to those who are not artists the gratification that can be drawn from the
springs of phantasy is "cry limited. , , . A true artist has more at his disposal, FirSlofalihe undcrstands how toelaborale hisday-dreanu,
so that they lose that personal note which grales upon strange ears, . . . He knows too how to modify them sufficiently so that their origin in prohibited sources is not easily detected. Furthcr, he possesses the mysterious ability 10 mould his particular m:ltcrial until it expresses
individual.
Thus, the' creative ' idea has undergone a fUl"ther develop
ment, Ihe ordin ari ly inaccessible reality being placed within
man himself, with the artist as a specially gifted person who is able to penetrate to this region. But the association with ' phantasy', especial ly in Freud, links with the ordinary
realist position, in which it is assmned that the material ofart
is different from and inferior to 'reality'. This has been
the ideas ofhis phantasy faithfully, and then he knows how to auaeh
countered, from the rcalist side in art, cither with the re
that, for a time at least, the repressions arc ombalanccd and dis
artist, in imitaling it, is doing: somethi n g valuable - imitating,
to this reAection of his phantasy-life
50
strong a stream of pleasure
pel!ed by it. When he can do all this he opens om to others the way
assertion that thematerial ofart isordinaryrcality, but that the
recording, and teaching; or with the claim that art is a spccial
b.'\ck to thecomfortand consolation oflheirowll uncollscious sources
kind of exploration and organization of reality, the artist
The ' gratitudc and admiration', it will be noted, are part
being primarily an' cmotional 'explorer, whcreas thescicntist, by contrast, is a ' rational' explorer. The extrcmc positions
A devclopmcllt of this position is fOWld in Hel'bel't Read,
a special kind of abnormal experience, devalucd as ' phan
If we picture tiLe regions of the mind as threc superimposed strata
material is ' ordinary evcryday reality', which the artist imitates or organizes. The linguistic curiosity, in this often
ofpleaslll'e, and so reaps their gratitude and admiration.
of the ' reality' to which the artist finds his way back,
have emergcd .:ts, on the one hanel, that the material of art is
who starts from Freud's account ofthe mind:
tasy' or valued as ' inspiration' j on the othcl' hand, that the
(we have already noted how inadequate such a picture must be), then continuing our metaphor we can imagine in certain rare cases a phenomenon comparable \\ hith
10
a 'fault'
n i
geology, as a rC$uit of
in onc part of the mind the brers become discontinuous, and
exposed to each other at unusual levels, . . . Some such hrpothesis
is necessary to cxplain that access, that lyrical intuition, which is
known as inspiration and whieh in all ages has been the rare posscs �ioll of those few individuals we reeoglli2e as artisu of genius.
angry debate, is that by all schools, and !i'om all assumptions, art and the artist are rcfel'l'ed to as ' creative'. I t would be a
brave man who would say, after even the briefcst rcvicw of the long inquiry into the natme of art, that he is s\U'e, once i checked, what 'creative' quile mcans. It is at lhis the habit s point that we can turn to reccnt work on perception, as a process ofthe brain and the ncrvous systcm,
It seems to me,
The Creative Milld
The Long Revolution certainly, that it enables
u.s
to take a decisive step forward,
in the necessary c1atification.
33
Young's sentence is the use of the word 'create' to describe
not merely the artist's activity, but the activity of every
human mind. The central fact of this new account of the activity of our
IV The brain ofeach one ofus docs liternlly create his or her own world.
brains is that each one of us has to learn to He. The growth of
every human being is a slow process oflearning what Young
This startling seUlence, from Professor J. Z. Young's Doubt Q/uJ Cerkiinly in Sciellte - Q Biologist's Reflections 01/ the Brain,
calls ' the rules ofsceing', without which we could not in any ordinary sense see the world around us. There is no reality of
the traditional discussion, the ' creative' emphasis had rested
open our eyes. The information that we receive through our
introduces clearly enough a new stage in the discussion. In c1carly cnough on an implied opposite, which
was
natural
seeing. A Platonist would express this as: Man - natural seeing - Appearances. Artist - exceptional seeing - Reality.
A Romantic would express it as: :Man - natural seeing - Reality. Artist - exceptional seeing - Superior Reality.
A typical modern account would be: Man - natural seeing - Reality. Artist - exceptional seeing - Art.
There arc indeed almost innumerable variations of expres sion of this relationship, for the word ' reality' can be used in
so many ways. But at the centre of all orthem is the common assumption: that there is an ordinary everyday kind of per ception, and that this can exceptionally be transcended by a
certain kind ofman oracertain kindofactivity. Most venions,
furthermore, would describe the product of the e\'eryday perception as ' reality ' - the things in themselves as they really an: - so that the product of the artist's perception must bcseen as in any ora number ofways an alteration (organiza tion, idealization, transcendence) of this 'reality' that is
shared by all other men. This way of thinking is so deeply built into our language and intellectual tradition that the necessary revaluation, in terms of what we now know about perception, is exceptionally difficult. The challenge in
familiar shapes, colours, and sounds, to which we merely
senses from the material world around
us
has to be inter
preted, according to certain human rules, before what we ordinarily call reality forms. The human brain has to per '
'
form this 'creative' activity before we can, as normal human
beings, see at all:
The visual receiving �ystem in its untrained state has only very limited powen. We are perhaps deceived by the fact that the eye is a sort ofcamera. Contrary to what we might suppose, the eyes and brain do not silnply record in a sort ofphotographic manner the pic tures t.hat pass in front ofus. The brain is not by any means a simple recording system like a film . . . . Many ofour affairs arc conducted 011 the assumption that our sense organs provide us with an accurate record, independent of ourseh·cs. What we are now beginning to realize is that much of this is an illusion, that we have to leam to see the world as we do.
That is Young's account, and he goes on: In some sense we literally create the world we speak about. . . . The point to grasp is that we t:allrlot speak simply as if there is a world around w of which our selllCS l give true infonnation. In trying to speak about what the world is like we must remembcr all the time that what weseeand what we say depends on what we have learned; we ounclves t:ome intothe process.
Or, as Sir Russell Brain puts it:
The sensory qualities ofnormal perception, such as colours, sounds, smells and touches arc generated by the brain ofthe percipient and arc unlike those external events which t:onstitute the states ofobjccts by which they arecaused. T-.
The Long Revolution
34
The Creatillt Alilld
The philosophical implications of lhis view arc both far� reaching and difficult, but there can be little doubt that henceforth we must start from the position that reality as we txptdellu it is i n this sense a human creation; that all our experience is a human version of the world we inhabit. This ve io has two main sources: the human brain as it has evolved, and the interpretations carried by our cultures. Man's version ofthe world he inhabits hasa central biological function: it is a form of interaction with his environment which allows him to maintain his life and to achieve greater control over the environment in which this mllst be done. "Ve 'see' in certain ways-that is, we interpret sensory inform· alion according {O certain rules - as a way ofli i ng. But these ways - these rules and interpretations - are, as a whole, neither fixed nor constant. \Ve can learn new rules and new interpretations, as a result of which we shall literally see in new ways. There are thus 111'0 scnscs in which we can speak of this activity as 'crea ti e ' Tbe cvolution of the human brain, and then the particular interpretations carried by particular culturcs, gi e us certain ' rules ' or 'modcls ', with out which no h m n being can 'sec' in the ordinary sense at all. In each individual, the learning of these rules, through inheritance and culture, is a kind of creation, i n tliat the distinctively Inunan world, the ordinary 'rea lity that his culture defines, forms only the rules are learned. Particular cultures carry particular ersions of reality, which they can be said to create, in the scnse that cultures carrying different rules (though on a common basis of the evoh-ed human brain) create their own worlds which their bearers ordinarily cxperience. But, further, there is not only variation betwccn cultures, but the indi\'iduals who bear these particular cu,] tural rules are capable ofaltering and extending thcm, bring ing in new or modified rules by which an extendcdol'diITerent rcality can bc e.'{perienced. Thus, new areas of reality can be 'revealed' or' created', and these need not be limited to any one individual, but can, in certain interesting ways, bc com municated, thus adding to the set of rules carried by the particular cultlU'e. rs
n
III
v
v
v
.
v
u
l
,
'
as
....
35
The effect ofthis new knowlcdge seems to me to be oflhe greatest importance, but I know fro� my own att�mpts to absorb it tlmt it is so difficult to grasp, any substantialscnse, that its application must meet with all kinds ofresistance and confusion. The formulation of the knowledge (for any de tailed account ofwhich the original accounts must be turned to) is in itself an errort towards a new interpretation, � new rule, which is very difficult either to learn or tocommumcate. Yet, if we have followcd the ' creative' idea thus far, we arc perhaps in an exceptionally favourablc position to under stand the natW'e of this enort, and to clarify it. The theories of' imitation' and of 'creation ' can best be seen as attempts to define the relationship between two na�ed areas of fact: 'reality' and ' art'. VYe have seen how vanous these definitions can be, but nevertheless we must observe, finally, that vinuaUy the whole body of the theory of art contains, and starts from, this assumed opposition between two distinct kinds ofthing. Art is the imitation of reality, and a form of learning or recor?, or dis this may be valued missed as mcre fiction - second-hand reproductIon - or falsehood. Art is creation, and this may be valued as revela tion or transcendencc, or dismissed as mere fancy or phan tasy. Jnail ofthese positions, the assumption ?fa. fWldament�1 duality is clear. High theory and low prcJudlce sharc tillS position equally. 1'lato or a l'uritan or a modern Pr�ctical Man can dismiss art as infcrior. Aristotle or a Renaissance theorist or a modern Romantic or aesthete can praise art as superior. Yet the long and often bitter dialog�e beh;een these contrasted positions leads now, not to a taklllg ofsides, but to a rejection of the premisses which both parties share. The contrast between art and reality can be secn, finally, as a false meaning. Sophisticated modern thinking about art, in a century which has seen a great variety and confusion of styles, has evoked a position which can be stated as follows. One kind of art, which we call representational or realistic or as
TIle Long Revolution naturalistic, offers an ordinary description or reproduction of reality, in the most common and objective tcrms. Another kind, less easily labelled but sometimes called romantic, offers not merely a representation ofreality, but this representation modified by the artist's subjective emotional reactions to it reality has been organized, selected, idealized, caricatured, by the artist's personal vision. A third kind, most commonly called abstract, is neither the reproduction of reality nor the subjectivc modification of reality, but the direct expression of purely ' aesthetic' experience, the representation in art, not of reality, but of the artist's vision. Some such classifica tion as this was obviously necessary, as an attempt to come to terms with the observable difference in modern artistic methods. But again we can now see that it is basically inade quate, because again it is based on the assumed duality : the separation of art and reality, or of man and the world he observes. The crucial importance of what we now know about per ception is that it opens the way to ending this duality, and thus transforming our thinking about art. The new facts about perception make it impossible for us to assume that there is any reality experienced by man into which man's own observations and interpretations do not enter. Thus the assumptions ofnaive realism - seeing the things as they really are, quite apart from our reactions to them - become impos sible. Yet equally, the facts of perception in no way lead us to a late form of idealism; they do not require us to suppose that there is no kind ofreality outside the human mind; they point rather to the insistence that all human experience is an interpretation of the non-human reality. But this, again, is not the duality of subject and object - the assumption on which almost all theories ofart arc based. We have to think, ralher, ofhuman experience as both objective and subjective, in one inseparable process. As Caudwell put it:
Body and ellvironment arc in constant determining relations. Per ception is not the decoding of tappings on the skin. It is a determin_ ing relation between neural and environmental electrons. Every par! of the body not only affects the other parts but is also in deter-
The Creative Mind
37
mining relations with the rcst of reality. It is dctennined by it and determincs it, this interchange producing development - the con.9I.antly changing series of interlocking events. . . . Of this multitude ofrelations . . . wedistinguisha certain group, changing as tlleworld changes, not with it or separately from it but in mutually determin ing intcraction with it. This selection, rich, highly organized and recent, we call the consciousness, or our ego. \Ve do not select it out. In the process of development it separates out, as life separated out, as suns and planets and the elements separated out from the process of becoming. Separated out, and still changing, it is consciousness, it is us in so far as we regard ourselves as conscious egos. But in separating out, it docs not completely separate out, any more than t any e1ementdid. It remains like them, in determining relation wih the rest of the Universe, and the study of the organization of this developed structure, of its inner relations and the relations of the system with all other systems in the Universe, is psychology. The difficulty of this conception hardly needs stressing, and to grasp it in any substantial way needs long effort. Yet it is interesting to see that we have approached this conception, not only through the science ofperception, but also through some of our traditional thinking about art as 'creation '. Coleridge, as I have noted earlier, was very near to it, when he wrote of' the primary imagination' as
the living Power and prime Agent of all human percepion t ...a repetition in the finite mind ofthe eternal act ofcreation. Yet the pull of earlier thinking limited even this, in the move ment towards personifying this process (a Power, an Agent), and in the implied opposition of the ' finite mind ' and a per sonified ' Creation'. We can look at this again in Young's conclusion, asa biologist :
Our shon experience oftime and existence does not warrant us in postulating any creation or beginning at all. To do so is our crude way oftalking about things, in tenns of the modc1 that speaks of the basic rcality oflife as an I, with a beginningand an end. Biological discovery has shown that this assumption ofa sudden beginning for each of us is not true. Our organization, the most essential and enduring thing about us, does not begin from nothing, but is passed on continually. . . . Perhaps instead of focusing on beginning as
The
uJIIg Revolution
The Cuo/illt Mind
the ac t of creation we should do exactly the opposite and centre our
speech on continuity. Thesensc in which wc do see creation is in the building of organization that goes on in the life of each individual,
�pcciaIl)', in thecaseofmcn, in our brains . . . . There appear to be Iwo gcncral laws ofthe universc : first, that ofassociation, ofbillding,
the tendcncy for randomly distributed processes to become linked together to fonn larger units; second is the law that such unity is not permanent, but sooncr
01'
later dissoh'�, providing fresh random
neSo'!. This certainly seems to be a general principle in biology and
we ha\'e seen how i t usefully describes the progress ofthc growth of our braill5 and of the whole organization of our sp(.'Cics, by alterna tion of aggregation and disaggregation. Each sped� remains in balance with its surroundings by alternate periods of development and death, followcd by replacement by a new version of the organi zati011. This is the Illeans by which life maintains, as i t were,
COIll
. . There is a rhythmic building by alternation of organization and disorder, a continuous munication with the lion-living world .
.
process of' creation '.
Thus man shares with all living creatures this fundamenml process, but in fact has evolved in such a way that his ' build ing of organization' is a continual process or learning and releal'lling, as compared with the rdatively fixed instinct mechanisms ofanimals. I t is man's naturc, and the history of his evolution, to be continually learning by the proccsses
described. Since this continuing organization and reorgani zation of consciousness is, ror man, the organization and reorganization ofreality- the consciousness a way orlearning
to control his environmen t - it is clear that there is a rcal sense in which man can be called a creator. All living rorms havecommunication systcmsofa kind, but
again, in man, the process of learning and relearning, which is made possible by social organization and tradition, has led
to a numbcr of communication-systems or great complexity and power. Gesture, language, music, mathematics are all systemsorthis kind. vVc can thinkorthcm as separate systems, yet to understand their nature, in any depth, we must see them in thcir context of tile whole process ofsocial lcaming. At one Ic\'cI we can oppose an to science, or emotion to reason, yet the activities describcd by these names are in fact
39
deeply related parts orthe whole human process. We cannot refer scicnce to the object and art to the subject, ror the view of human activity we are seeking to grasp rejects this duality of subject and object : the consciousness is part orthe reality, ancl the reality is part or the consciousness, in the whole process of our living organization. Coleridge spoke of 'sub stantial knowledge' as
the intui tion of things wllich ari�es when we possess oUl'sel"es as one
with the whole.
This realization, the capacity for 'substantial knowledge', is the highest form or human organization, though lhe proccss it succeeds in grasping is thc common rorm or our ordinary living. At a less organizcd le\'cI, we fall back on what Coleridge called ' abstract knowledge " when we
think ofoursel\'cs as separated beings, and place nature in antitheSis to thc mind, as objcct to subject, thing to tho\lgll1, death (0 lire.
The antithesis or nature to the mind, 'as object to subject', we now know to be f."llse, yet so much orour thinking is based On it that to grasp the substantial unity, the scnSC or a whole
process, is to begin a long and difficult rcyolution in the mind. Yet it is certain Ihat thcol'ics oran which begin rrom the separated categories or ' artist' and ' reality' are, from now on, irrelevant. 'Ve ha\'e to reu'ace our stcps and look for new definitions.
v,
We learn to sce a thing b y learning to describe i t ; this is the normal process or perception, which can only be seen as com plete when we have interpreted the i�lcomillg sensory information either by a known configuratIOn or rule, or by
some new configuration which we can try to learn as a Hew rule. The process or interpretatioll is neither �rbitrary t:OI' . abstract; it is a central and necessary Vital funclion, by whtch we seek so 10 understand our environment that we can live more successfully in it. But to say that we see by learning to describe is in fact to relatc sct:ing to communication in a
The Long Revolution
The Creative Mind
fundamental way. We have many ways of describing, both
experience, in such a way that the t:."perience is re-created in
kinds of response, in gesturc, language, image, which we
'emotion ' but as a physical effect 011 the organism - on
certain new information for which the conventional descrip
brain. "Vc use rhythm for many ordinary purposes, but the
not merely a subsequent effort to desc!'ibe something known,
but literally a way ofseeing new things and new relationships
would be rnMe difficult to prove) comprise highly developed and exccptionally powerful rhythmic means, by which the
ofartists alone. The same effort is made, not only by scientists
made and is making these rhythms, as he has also ' made'
by learned rules - conventional descriptions - and by certain often literally feel ourselves crcating as we struggle to describe tions are inadequate. This vital descriptive effort - which is
- has often been observed, by artists, yet it is not the activity
4'
the person receiving it, not merely as an 'abstraction ' or an
the blood, on the breathing, on the physical patterns of the
arts
(I
would say all the arts, though in the \·isual arts this
communication of experience is actually achieved. Man has
and thinkers, but also, and necessarily, by everyone, The
colours. The dance of thc body, the movement of the voice,
ways in which a language changes, to amend old descriptions
means of transmitting
ordinary busincss of living. It is not in this activity that the sgecial function ofthe arts, or the special nature of the artist,
been felt, "gain and again, in actual expericnee of the arts,
effort to describe new cxperience, arc found in many others
other.
and new meanings is carried out in many ways
in art,
munication, but at this stage we encounter a further diffi
call an art is onc ofa number ofways of describing and com.
the sculpturc, the picture are, in their turn, 'objects ' which have to be interprcted and received. The sensory informa·
history of a language is a very good example of this, for the
or accommodate new ones, are truly social, in the most
can be disccrned. A vital imaginative life, and the decp
besides artists, and the communication of new descriptions _
thought, science, and in the ordinary social process. What we munieating, and most arts, quite elearly, arc developments
ofways commonly uscd - as dance from gesture, poetry from
the sounds ofinstruments are, like colours, fonTIs and pattcrns, OIU'
expcriencc in so powerful a way
that the experience can be literally livcd by others. This has
and we are now beginning to see how and why it is more
than a metaphor; it is a physical expcricnce as real as any Thus the arts arc ccrtain intense forms of gcneral com·
culty. For, of course, the speaking voice, the dancing body,
tion which comes to us from a painting is no more 'like' that
speech. Yet description is a function of communication, and we can best undcrstand the arts if we look at this vital rela.
painting than the sensory information which comes to us
reali:>;cd (thi� description bcing, in fact, putting the experi
any normal sense, it is scen. Wc realize, from this, the neces·
tionship, in which experience has LO be describcd to be
cnce into a communicablc form) and has then, bccause this is the biological purpose of the description, to be shared with another organism. The distinction of the arts is lhat in differ ent ways they command very powerful means ofthis sharing;
from a stone or a tree. The painting, like other visual
'objects ', has itsclfto bc interpreted and describcd before, in
sary social basis of any art, for nobody ean see (not under· stand, but see) the artist's actual work unlcss hc and the artist
can comc to sharc the complex details and means ofa lcarned communication system. But of course there are many
although again, in most arts, these means are developments
possible levels of communication, from absolute failure
Rhythm, as the most obvious ofthese means, may be taken
through partial failure and misinterpretation to something
from general communication.
as an examplc. 'Ve are only beginning to invcstigate this on
any scientific basis, but it seems clear from what we already
know that rhythm is a way of transmitting a description of
(which within a given culture would hardly cver occur)
like full reception. We may, as we put it, see the painting but not feel it. Something is coming through, but not at a signi. ficant level. This may be anybody's fault (the artist's as often
4'
The LOllg Revolution
The Creative AJilld
43
as the spectator's) but to stray into the usual recriminations is less' useful than to realize the namre and difficulty of what is
adequately while the new expcrience is still disorganized and
being attempted: the substantial communication of experi
cal pain'. The crcative agony, sometimes Lhought of as
ence from ont: organism to another. Art cannot exist unless a
hyperbole, is literally true. Further, the impulse to communi
disturbing, is biologically identical with what we call 'physi
working communication can be reached, and this communi
cate is a learned human response to disturbance orallY kind.
cation is an activity in Wllich ooth artist and spectator partici
For the individual, of course, the struggle is to communicate
pate.
successfully by describing adequately. The state often noticed
\Vhen art communicates,
a human experience is
actively offered and actively received. Below this activity
in artists, whcn the struggle for adequate description - a n
threshold there can be no arl. *
actual manipulation of words o r paint - seems primarily of
The nalUI'C of the artist"s activity, in this process, may be
personal importance, without regard to its cffect on others,
further defined. The artist shares with other men what is
is to be understood in this sense. For unless the description is
usually called the 'creative imagination ' : that is to say, the
adequate, there can be no relevant communication. To
capacity to find and organize new descriptions of experience.
think merdy of making contact with others, rather than of
Other men share with the artist the capacity
making contact with this precise experience, is irrelevant and
lO
transmit
these descriptions, l.vhich arc only in the ful! sense descrip
distracting.
tions when they are in a communicable form. The special
absorbed attcntion to prccise description, but of course it
nature of tile artist's work is his use ofa learned ski!! in a par
docs not follow that the de�cription is for its own sake; the
ticular kind of transmission of experience. His command of
attention, rathcl"; is a condition of relevant communication.
Genuine
communication
depends
on
this
this skill is his art (we remember that the traditional meaning
\Ve respond to disturbance not only by remaking ourselves,
of' art' was, precisely, ' s kill ' ) . But the purpose of the skill is
but, if we can, by changing the environment. Indeed thcse
similar to the purpose of all general human skiUs ofcommuni_
are parts ofa single process, as consciousncss and reality inter
cation: the transmission of valued experience. Thus the
penetrate. .rhe al'1i�t's way ofremaking himselr is, as in man
artist's impulse, like every human impulse to communicate, is the felt importance of his experience; but the artist's activity is the actual work of tr'\llsmission. There can be no
generally, by work, whieh is remaking the environment and,
in learning to work, rcmaking himself. This is so in the arts of language, sound, and mo\"ement, where the artist's trans
separation, in this view, between ' content' and 'form' ,
mission of experience is intended to alter existing real rela
because finding the form is literally finding the content - this
tionships.
is what is meant by the activity we have called ' describing'. It is, in the first instance, to every man, a matter of urgent
I t can be seen more simply in an art like that of the
sculptor, where an objcct is workcd on, in what scems a whole process of modelling expcricncc and yet discovcring the
personal impol"tance to ' describe' his experience, because
experience by the act of modelling. The artist works on the
this is literally a remaking of himself, a creative change in
material llntil it is 'right', but when the matcrial is right he
his persona! organization, to inelude and control the experi ence. This struggle to remake ourselves - to change om· pcrsonal organization so that wc may live in a propel" rela tion to our environment - is in fact often painful. Many neurologists would now say that the stage before dcseription is achie\"ed, the state of our actual organization before new sensory experience is comprehended, the effort to respond
also is right: the art-work has bcen made and the artist has rcmade himself, in a continuous process. In abstraction we can say that he has worked on the material llntil it retrans mits, to himselr, his expel'ience; or that he has discovered, by working on the material, a ncw kind ofexperience, which he has in effect learncd from it. But, difficult though it may be to hold ip the mind, the actual process is neither of these,
44
The Creative Mlnd
The LOllg Revolution
!t ,isneither subject working on object, nor object on subject:
45
sciously, to great and original works : a restl'iction that can
It IS, rather, a dynamic interaction, which in fact is a whole
hardly be observed by the critic, who has to live with art of all kinds. The best aesthetic definitions can seem quitc unreal
and continuous process. The man makes the shape, and the
arc followed by the delight and rest ofcompletion, and this is
as we turn back to the latest novel, the new book of poems, the eurrcnt play or film, the ordinary exhibition, And if this is true of the usual run of art, it is even more true ofthe really bad art, of which we all sec sufficient examples, The makers
not only how the artist lives and works, but how men live and work, in a long process, ending and beginning again.
of all kinds of art claim the ' ere�uive ' description, quite reasonably, though it is obvious that only a few of them
vn
'convey information about matters that were not a " subject for communication before ', It is customary to evade
The true importance ofOUf new understanding ofperception
this difficulty by sayil1g that wOI'ks which do not fit the
shape remakes the man, but these are merely alternative descriptions of one process, well known by artists and in fact central to man himself. The excitement and pain ofthe effort
definition are 'not art', ' not really art', or 'the products of poetasters '. But will this d o ? Almost all art works are the
and communication is that it verifies the creative activity of art in terms of a general human creativity. The word
result of the �ame general activity, the same kinds of skill, as produced Lear, Blake's Sunflower or van der Wcydcn's Pieta,
' c reative' was turned to because of the tradition, yet the forces which made the tradition led alse to use of the ' crea
The dispal'ity in value is not evidence of a fWldamentaIly
tive' idea in other fields. We must now note one effect of this
different practice and intention, especially since we find not
on the definition of art. J, Z. Young writes : TIle creative artist is
an
only great art and bad mt, but a range ofinfinite gradations between these, with no obvious line where a difference in
observer whose brain works in new ways,
i , I think, that aesthetic theory, kind can be drawn. The fact s even when profoundly enriched by new knowledge about perception and communication, has normally retained two
making it possible for him to COll\'Cy information to others about
matters that WCfe not a subject Cor communication before, It is by search for means of communication that we sharpen our powers of observation. The discoverir;:s of the artist and scicntist
arc
traditional ideas of what it is to b e ' creative'. It has retained,
exactly
in a curious way, the idea that the artist is specially inspired,
alikein thisrespect,
which offers an easy but false solution to the problem of
And again :
in art: 'we mean by art the work of those who arc l quaity artists, that is specially inspired, and not the work of those
er has his own way of communicating his observations,
The paint
who though they write, paint and compose are not artists, in
Original painters find new ways ofdoing this, new art-forms. These
that they arc not inspired ', This sounds very silly, spelled out, but we have all learned it, in effect. Secondly, the idea
literally enlarge the visioll both of the artist himself and of those who l�k at his painl!ngs. Artists have discovered new aspects of space . wah one symbol!sm,Jllst as physicists have with another.
of ' revelation " the discovery ofa 'superior reality', has been similarly retained, and of course leads us to believe that the work of the artist is to make new discoveries about the world
> Now tIllS IS a very useful and acceptable argument, so far as it >
goes, but there is a problem in the description ofvaluable art a s ' new', once we stop thinking about art in general and turn to ac:ual works. I t is quite common for philosophers and . SCientists to restrict their discussion of art, per aps uncon-
(' creative' equals 'new'). Yet this is a really disabling idea, exclusion ofa large amount of art, which t in that it forces he it is clearly our business to understand. Dy returning the ideas
�
to their place in the tradition, we can become conscious
,
TIll
Lcng Revolution
The Creative Milld
47
enough ofthem to reject them, and when we have dom:so, we
embodying known experiences. There is great danger in the
shall find that it is possible, as a part ofour ordinary account
assumption that art serves only on the frontiers ofknowledge. It serves on thcse frontiers, particularly in disturbed and
of perception and communication, to describe all art, and not merely selected examples. It is characteristic
of acsthetic theory that it tacitly
excludes communication, as a social fact. Yet communica tion is the crux of art, for any adequate description of experi ence must be more thall simple transmission; it must also include rcception and rcsponsc. However successfully an
rapidly changing societies. Yet it serves, also, at the very centre of societies. It is often through the art that the society e.-.:presses its sense of being a society. The artist, in this case,
is not the lonely explorer, but the voice of his commlUlity.
Even in our own complex society, certain artists seem near
artist may havc embodied his expcrience in a form capable of
the centre of common cxpc.·ience while others secm out on the frontiers, and it would be wrong to assumc that this
transmission, i t can be received by no other person without
difference is the diffcrenee between ' mediocre art' and
the further 'creative activity ' of all perception : the informa
'great art'.
Not all ' strange ' art, by any means, is found
tion transmitted by the work has to be interpreted, described, and taken into the organization of the spectator. It is not a
valuable, nor is all ' familiar' art found valueless. It seems better to speak of art in tcrms of the organization
question of ' inspired' or 'uninspired' transmission to a passive audience. It is,at every level, an offeringofexperience,
audience. ]fpeoplc ha\·e lived together, and come to share a
which may then be accepted, rejected, or ignored. Any art work that we are conscious of having seen at all we have in the simple sense received, but in every spectator's mind there is a further and crucial stage. The experience reaches the spectator in some sense, but cxaetly how, and with what effects? In certain cases, the artist's experience, described by his
work i n a given medium, will be accepted by the spectator in the sense that the means will be interpreted in the spec
of experience, especially in its effect on a spectator or an certain kind oforganization by which their minds have bcen trained to activity, we shall find that the processes of organ ization are in fact illStitutions, of which art is usually one. Young points out how the central building ora community, from mound to cathedral, is i n fact a means of communica tion : it both organizes and continues to express a common meaning b y which its people li\'e. The discovery of a means of communication is the discovery of a common meaning, and the artist's function, in many socicties, is to be skilled in
tator's mind, in thc artist's terms, in such a way ulat the
the means by which this meaning can continue to be ex
experience literally becomes part of him. Such experience, accessible through these means, is what Young refers to as
perienced and activated. The ]lIIman bodies which cany
the 'literal enlargement' of"ision, but 'enlargement' is not
perhaps the best word. Sometimes incleed it is a kind of extension, a new way ofsceing. But some experience of art,
including great art, is not ' new' in this sense. Our experi ence includes the apparcntly different quality of 'recogni tion' : that this, literally, is what we have always known. Now there need be no difficulty in this, i r we look at the history of art. In many societies it has been the flUletion of art to embody what we can call the common meanings ofthe
society. The artist is not describing new experiences, but
the meanings die, but either the lasting monumcnt, or the inherited and traditional artistic skills, embodied i n the
...·jve to making of certain images, patterns, rhythms, Sl u
continue the process of organization. It has to be a continual re-creation of mcaning, by the society as a whole and by
every individual in it. Even the skills themselves arc not com modities to be passivc\y inherited, but processes that have to be learned, as part
of any individual artist's growth : the
means and the meaning, in a whole process, have to find this personal verification. Yet the common experience which the meanings interpret will itself be changing, either slowly
The Long Revolution and hardly noticeably or at a variety of rates to one so rapid
The CreatilM
Milld
49
i n these conditions. For the artist, in such a case, is not simply
that the fact of change is a matter of general consciousness.
'copying' the common meanings ; the meanings are his owo,
The relationships between men and their environment
i n a deep realization, and yet the conditions for their com
achieved by descriptions .capable of being communicated.
munication are powerfully available. At the opposite extreme, where the relation between corn,mon and personal meanings
change, yet consciousness of these relationships has to be
The organization of received meanings has to be made com patible with possible new meanings that are emerging, and
is distant, the struggle to find means of communication will
this is a process of great complexity. It is not just a matter of
obviously be long and hard. In practice, the process of change in art is normally one of
'a society' changing, but of real changes in the personal organization of all its members. Moreover, though the
extension of meanings, or modification of means. Beyond a certain point, a new meaning could hardly be communi
members share an area of common meaning, the actual
cated at all, or perhaps even described; the pressure would
process of organization, in each individual, is necessarily
simply break up the artist's organization. The creative' act, of any artist, is i n any case the process of making a meaning
personal. According to his position within the complex of real relationships in the society, and according to an import ant degree of inherited individuality (the result ofa particu lar selection from the great complex of variable factors in human inheritance) the individual will lcam in his own way
<
active, by communicating an organized experience to others. We have to sec the process as Olle of many meanings being offered, by particular means, and only some of these mean
by interaction with the changing organization of his society.
ings being received. Often, the art ofa society changes with out awareness of discontinuity : an effective number of
Thus we sec a series of unique individuals, in real relation
individual offerings are takeo up and composed into new
ships, learning and contributing to a changing pattern. It is in this context that we must understand both change and failure in art.
common meanings, and there is no effective residue of rejected meanings to constitute challenge and tension. In our
The individual artist may either re-create common mean ings, in the quite literal sense that he builds his personal
not only to the rapidity of change in common experience but
own time, clearly, we have change of such complexity, due
organization in their terms, or he may create new meanings,
to the great extension and diversification of communities, that for a time at least discontinuity seems central, and we
in the sense that to organize his actual experience he has to
are primarily aware ofart as the series ofindividual offerings,
find new descriptions. For the individual artist, i n his actual
the making of common meanings being almost lost. It is in
work, these processes will be similar, for in either case he is
such a period that we develop theories of art which while
engaged in a substantial effort to make a particular form of
rightly stressing the individual offering neglect the reality of communication. A tension betvveen artist and audience is
experience so active in himsclfthat he can communicate itto others. Yet, in the proces� of communication, the exact
asswned as inevitable, and one form of this tension is des
degree of relation between his personal meanings and the
cribed in tcrms of the artist's function to describe 'new'
common meanings will be of vital importance. Where the
experience. In fact, however, even in this complex situation,
relation is very close, he will be able to draw in a direct way
a substantial number oftlle offered meanings aloe composed
on practised means of eorrununication, with which his
into new common meanings, though after initial disturbance
audience will be familiar. So far from this being simply ' conventional ' art, with the implication that it is less likely to
and with a time-lag that again makes us conscious of the fact of change. This is an ordinary process of growth, and of
be valuable, it is probable that most great art has been made
course, whether the meaning is new or not (in the sense of
TIlt Lollg Revolulioll
The Creative Alind
having never been previously described), it can be felt as
The various communication systems which human beings
5'
new (ill the sense of being freshly and personally experi
have de\'eloped make personal organization eyer mor.e
enecd). Hut to maintain gl"Owth, a significant area ofeommon
varied and complex. The special attachments of particular
description and "esponsc must be maintained, and one of
individuals to certain kinds of communication, the selection
the functions of arl, like other communication systems, is to
of certain classes of means which they "alue highly and in
rechargc this area, with our own living energy. �Iuch new
which they are capable ofbecoming highly skilled, al'C forms
art docs this, and also the art of earlier pcriods and of other places, which we have preserved for just this reaSOIl, as a
ofgrowth within the great range of genetic variety and social
means of re-creation ofa sense ofcommOtl experience. (How we usc this older
substitute for other kinds of communic;ltion, since when
inheritance and experience. \Ve cannot say that an is a
describing and communicating new cxpcricnce, and i n doing
successful it evidently communicates cXlwricnce which is not apparently communicable in other ways. \\'c mllst sec art, rather, as an extension of our capacily for organization : a
so may lead us to new kinds of response and activity. Hcre
vital faculty which allows particular areas of reality to be
also, arl from earlier periods and other places may succeed in communicating dcscriptions
described and communic.lled. To succeed in art is to convey an experience to othel'S in
us. ""et, whether it is communicating known forms oforgani
such a form that the experience is actively re-created - not
of tradition ) At the same time, other new art succceds i n .
zation Of moving us to ncw forms, art comes to us as part of our actual gl'OWlh, not entering a 'special area' of the mind, but acting 011 and interacting with our whole personal and
social oJ'ganiz'\tion. The distinction of value, in actual works of an, is always, in the first instance, in the actual power to communicate. Since the meaning and the mcans cannot be separated, it is on the artist's actual ability to live the expericnce that succeS5fui communication depends. By living the experience \I'e mcan that, whether or not it has been previously recorded, the artist has literally made i t part of himself, so deeply that his whole encrgy is available to describe it and transmit it to others. Bad an is then the
failure or relative failure ofthis kind ofpersonal organization,
which we know noll' 10 be morc than a figure ofspeech but an
' contemplated ', not. ' examined', not passively received, but by response to the means, actually lived through, by those to
whom it is oOCred. At this stage, a number of art works -
already fail, fundamentally because tht: artist's experience is insufficicntly organized and in consequence he cannot dis
cover the means by which thc experience cO\lld be shared. There arc absolute failures, in this sense, but there are also'
many partial !ililures or partial successes, in which certain parts of the experience come through, and call be shared as a lived rcality, while othcr parts reach us with diminished or i nsignificant strength. \Ve call often sec, in thecascsoffailure, how the process of organization, which is also descript ion, breaks down. \Vc sec the relapse to mere imitation of other works, i n general )laucrn or ill details of the pallern, and the
actual proeeS5 by which Ire live. Oil!' actHal human organi za tion is fot the purpose of communicating and in art as in
failure is not that the methods of the other works are i n trin
other kinds ofcommllnication
particular
,
,
mo,t notably sexual relation
ship, which is our fumbmental communicating process, in
which life is oITcrcd and accepted t e ability to communi cate is not a mall(T of abstract qualities, such as feeling, -
h
intelligence, or will, but is rooted in certain whole patterns of organization: success or failure is a matter of the whole self.
sical ly inadequate, but that they are incongruolls wilh this experience ;
active
description
has
become
mechanical repetition. Such failure is common, but hardly less so than a kind lesS often noticed theorNically, where the
effort towards new descriptions is obvious, yet communica� tion fails. It has often been said that audiences mllst be patient, if they arc to learn an artist's 'new language ', but
The Long Revolution
this, while true, must not ean-y the implication that every new language can be learned, given time. To suppose this is to forget that for mcmbc,'S of the audience, as for artists, communication is a way of living: to receive and live an a!'list's experience is no casual activity, but an actual living change. We depend for our growth on new descriptions being offered, but whether we accepl them depends on our capacity to grow in slieh ways, and it is clear lhat some offered ways will be impossible to us, others acti,"dy rejected. Successful communication depends on the organization of audiences as
The Creative Mind
initially may become very successful,
53 as
the movement of
common experience finds its terms valuable. In unfavour
able cases, the work will simply be forgotten, however new and valuable it seemed to some people at the time. It is the same with the art of common meanings, fat" here again, while the mcanings still satisfy the art will be presCJ·ved to recharge them, but when the meanings really fail the art loses its power to move us, unless,
as
quite often happens, we take it
and reinterpret it according to meanings ofour own. We must remember, finally, that our increasing eonscious
well as artists, and while i t is right that we should hold our selves open to learn, it is necessary to remember that any
ness of the importance of art has led us to a complicated
response is part of a way of living, and that the selection of
changed its status. By recording and preserving, in our many
responses is a condition of any organization. In some cases we will be literally unable to ,"eeei\"e what is offered; we simply cannot sec the wodd, cannot respond to experience, in that way. Often, again, the power of the work will move us, yet still, later, we will reject it. For the experiCJ1Ce has to be fitted into our whoJc organization, and in some cases, after a proccss of comparison that may be prolonged over years, acceptance will not be possible. Again, an apparent failure may eventually succecd, or will be valued by some while rcjected by others. If we think of the real process of com munication, we can find something better than the popular (and sentimental) formula: artist's ncw language, initial resistance, eventual acceptance. For the history of art shows not only this sequence, but three other sequences : artist's new language, initial acceptance, continued acceptance ; artist's new language, initial acceptance, eventual rejection ; artist's new language, initial resistance, eventual rejection.
process of recording and preserving, which has i n effect techniques, we gain control over some of the inherent prob lems of communication, in particular that of unevenness. Communication is no longer, in most cases, a single act. The transmission is rccorded or stored, and we value certain communication-systems precisely because they are capable of this kind of permanence. The offering of experience is preserved, for long consideration, and communication can take place over a gap of a hundred gcnerations. Because of the complexity ofgrowth, it is obviously wise to keep alive as many offerings as possible, for we can never be sure in ad vance what may eventually be taken up, and this habit of storing expcrience has been central in man's whole organiza tion. However, we only use such stores, as we use new art, by the active process already describcd. Like new ways of seeing, old ways must be actively learned. VII!
And indeed this range is what we should expect, for commun ication is a process between real individuals, who arc all
To see art as a particular process in the gencral human
learning. Because of the range of these individuals, com
redefinition of the status of art and the finding of means to
munication will always be uneven, and when it is a matter of new descriptions this unevenness will be very marked. Whether the new descriptions will become a new general way of seeing will depend on the direction of the common expcrience. In favourable cases, a work that virtually failed
process ofcreative discovery and communication is at once a link it with our ordinary socia! life. The traditional definition of art as 'creative ' was profoundly important, as an emphasis, but when this was cxtended to a contrast between art and ordinary experiencc the consequences were very damaging. In modern industrial societies, particularly, it came to be
The Long Revolution
The Creative Mind
felt that art would be lost unless it was given this special
created by the brain and the patterns matcrialized by a
54
status, but the height of the claim ran parallel with a wide
spread practical rejection and exclusion. So powerful has
55
commun ity continually interact. The individual creative .
description is pan of the general process which creates con ventions and institutions, through which the meanings that
cerns that, in a natUt'ai mood of defence, the claim that art
COIl
are valued by the community are shared and made active.
is special and extraordinary has been UJ"gent and even des
This is thc true significance of our modern definition of
perate; even to question this produces reactions of extreme
culture, which insists on this community of process.
been the tendency to exclude art from serious practical
violence, from those who arc convinced that they are the sole defenders of art in a hostile world. The
5Uggestion
that
Communication is the process of making unique experi ence into common experience, and it is, above all, the claim
art and culture are ol'dinury provokes quite hysterical denials,
although, with every claim that they are essentially extra
tion,
Ol'dinary, the exclusion and hostility that arc complained of
ence'. The ability to live in a panicular way
are in p ractice reinforccd. The solution is not to pull art down to the level of other social activity as this is habitual ly con ceived. The emphasis that ma tters is tlmt there are,essentially,
no ' ordinary ' activitics, ifby ' ordinary ' we mean thc absence of crcative interpretation and effort. Art is ratified, in lhe
to live. For what wc basically say, in any kind of communica s i :
' I am living in this way because this is my experi
depends,
ul timatcly, on acceptance of this experience by others, in successful communication. Thus our descriptions of our experience come to compose a network of rclationships, and
all our communication systems, including the arts, arc liter ally parts of our social organization. Thc selection and
sec and do, the whole structure of our relationship s and
interpretation involved in our descriptions embody our attitudes, needs and interests, which we seek to validate by
descri ption and communication. \Ve Cfeate our human wodd as we havc thought of art being crcatcd. Art is a major
on an effort of learning,
making thcm clear to others. At the same time the descrip
means of precisely this creation. Thus the distinction of art from ordinary living, and the dismissal of art as u np ractical
action is our
end, by the fact of creativity in all our living. Everything we
illStitutions,
depends,
finally,
tions we receive from others embody their attitudes, needs and interests, and the long process of comparison and inter
vital associative life. Since our way of sceing
things is literally our way ofliving, thc process ofcommunica
or secondary (a ' leisure-time activity '), are alternative formulations of the same error. lfall reality must be learned
tion is in ["lct the process of community : the sharing of
nity. f fal l activity depends on responses learned by the shar ing ofdcscriptiom, we cannot set 'art' on one side ofa line and ' work ' on tlw other ; we cannot submit to be (li\-ided into
meanings, leading to the tensions and achievements of
by the effort to describe successfully, we cannot isolate ' reali ty ' and set art in opposition to it, for dignity or indig
'Aesthetic r-.ran' and ' Economic �Ian'.
The arts, likc other ways ofdescribing and communicating, are learned buman skills, which must bc knowll and prac
common meanings, and thence common activities and purposes ; thc offering, reception and comparison of JleW
growth and change. I t is oftbe utmost importance to realize this sense of eom munication as a whole social process. If we havc done 50, we can then usefully look at particular kinds and means of communication, which have, as it were, separated Ollt, but
not separated out al together. Thc fatally wrong approach,
tised in a community before their great power in conveying
to any such study, is from the assumption of separate orders,
experience can be used alld developed. Human community
as when we ordinarily assume that political inS1itutions and
grows by the discovery of common meanings and common
means ofcommunication. Over an active range, the p atterns
conventions areofa different and separate order from artistic institutions and conventions. Politics and art, together wilh
The umg Revo[utiO/l
science, religion, family life and the other categories we speak of as absolutes, belong in a whole world of active and inter
acting relationships, which is OUi' common associativc life. If
we begin from the whole texture, we can go on to study par
ticular activities, and their bearings on other kinds. Yet we begin, normally, from the categories themselvcs, and this
2
THE A N A L Y S I S O F CULTURE
has led again and again to a very damaging suppression of relationships. Each kind of activity in fact suffers, if it is
T U E R E arc three general categories i n the definition or
wholly abstracted and scparatcd. Politics, for example, has
culture. There is, first, tllc ' ideal ', in which culture is a state
gravely suffered by its separation from ordinary relationships,
or process of human pcrfcction, in terms of certain absolute
and we have seen the same process in economics, science,
or uni"'ersal values. The analysis of culture, ifsuch a defini
religion, and education. The abstraction of art has bccn i13
tion is accepted, is essentially the discovery and description,
promotion or rdegation to an area of special experience (emotion, beauty, phantasy, the imagination, the uncon
in lives and works, of those wilues which can be seen to com pose a timeless ordcr, or to have permanent reference to the
scious), which art in practice has nevcr confined itself to,
universal human condition. Then, second, there is the
ranging in fact from the most ordinary daily activities to
'documentary', in which culture is the body of intellectual
exceptional crises and intensities, and using a range ofmeans
and imaginative work, in which, in a detailed way, human
fl'om the words of the street and common popular stork'! to
thought and experience are varioLlsly recorded. The analysis
strange systems and imagc� which it has yet been ablc to make common property. It has been the purpose of this
of culture, from such a definition, is the activity of criticism, by which the nature of the thought and experience, the
review of creative activity to allow us to acknowledge this,
details of the language, form and convention in which these
which is thc real history of art and yet which we are kept
are active, arc described and valued. Such criticism can range from a process very similar to the ' idcal ' analysis, the
from by definitions and formulas that were stages in its intelpretation but that we must now move beyond. A further consequence of this sellSe of creative activity is that we are
discovery of' the best that has been thought and wrinen in the world', through a process which, while interested ill
helped, by what it shows of communication and community, to review the nature of our whole common lifc : the tcrms of
being studied (its clarification and valuation being the
this review are the terms of the definition of culture. When
principal end in view) to a kind of historical criticism which,
tradition, takes as its primary emphasis the particular work
we have grasped the fundamental relation between meanings
after analysis of particular works, seeks to relate them to the
arrived at by creative interprctation and description, and meanings embodied by conventions and institutions, we are
particular traditions and societies in which they appeared. l'inally, third, there is the 'social ' definition of culture, in
in a position to rcconcile the meanings ofculture as 'creative
which culture is a description of a particular way of life,
activit y ' and ' a whole way oflife', and this reconciliation is
which e.xpresses certain meanings and values not only in art
then a real cxtension of our powers to understand ourselves
and leaming but ;"\Iso in institutions and ordinary behaviour.
and our societies.
The analysis of culture, from such a definition, is the clari fication of the meanings and values implicit and explicit in a particular way of life, a particular culture. Such analysis will include the historical criticism already rcferred to, in
The Allarysis of Culture
Tlu Long Revolution which intellcctual and imaginative works are analysed in
59
human perfection, which implies a known ideal towards which we can move, but human evolution, 10 mean a process .
relation to particular traditions and societies, but will also include analysis ofdements in the way oflife tlmt to followers
ofgeneral growth of man as a kind, we are able to recognize
of the other definitions arc not ' cuI ture' at all: Ihc organiza
areas of fact which thc other definitions might exclude. For
tion of production, the struclun: of the family, the structure of institutions which express 01' govern social rel ationships,
covered in particular societies and by particular individuals,
the charactcristic forms through whit;h members of the society communicate. Again, such nn�lysis !'anges from an 'ideal' emphasis, thc discO\'ery of certain absolute or univer
sal,
01'
at Icast higher and lower, meanings and values,
through the ' documentary' emphasis, in which clarification of a particular way of life is the main cnd in view, to an emphasis which, from studying particular meanings and
it seems to me to be truc that meanings and values, dis and kept ali"e by social inheritance and by embodiment in particu lar kinds of work, have proved to be universal in the sense that when they arc learned, in any particular situation, Ihey can contribute radically to Lhe growth of man's powcrs
to enrich his life, 10 rf'gulate his environmcnt.
\Vc are
society, and to control his
most aware of these elemcnts in the
form of particular techniques, in medicine, production, and
,'alues, seeks not so much to compare these, as a way ofestab
communications, but it is clear not only that thesedepend on
lishing a scale, but by studying thcir modes of change to
more purely intellectual disciplines, which had to he wrought
discover certain general 'laws' or ' t rends', by which social
out in the creative handling ofexperience, but also that these disciplines in themselves, together with certain basic ethical
and culwral development as a whole can be bettcr under stood.
assumptions and certain major aft forms, have proved simi
J t secms to me that thcre is value in each of these kinds of
larly capableofbeing gathered into a general tradition which
definition. For it certainly scems nec('ssary {Q look for mean
seems to represent, through many variations and conflicts,
ings and values, the record of creative human activity, llot only in an and intellectual work, but also in institutions and
of this tradition as a general human culture, while adding
forms of behaviour. At the samc time, the degree to which we depend, in our knowledge of many past societies and past stages ofour own, on the body ofintcltectual and imaginative work whieh has retained its major communicative power, makes the description of culture in these terms, if not com
plete, at least reasonable It can indeed be at'gued that since we ha\'c 'society' for the broader description, we call .
properly restrict 'culture' to this more limited rcference. Yet there arc clements in the 'ide;) I ' definition which also seem to me valuable, and which encourage the retcntion of the broad refcrence. I find it vcry difficult, after the many comparative studies now on record, to identify the process
a line of common growth. It seems reasonable to speak that i t can only become active within particular societies, being shaped, as it clocos so, by more local and temporary
systems.
The variations of meaning and reference, in the use of culture as a term, must be seen, I am arguing, not simply as a disadvantage, which prevents any kind of neat and exclu sive definition, but as a gelluine complc.:'\ity, corresponding to real clements in experience. There is a significant reference
in each of the three main kinds of definition, and, iftbis is so, it is the n:lations between them that should claim our atten lion II seems to me that any adequate theory ofcultlire must .
include the three areas of fact to which the definitions point,
of human perfection with the discovery of' absolute' "alues,
ancl com'Crscly that any particular definition, within any
as these have been ordinarily defined. I accep( the criticism
of the categories, which would exclude reference to the
lhat these arc normally an extension of the values of a p ..r ticular tradition or society. Yet, if we call the process, not
olilers,
is inadequate. Thus an 'ideal' definition which
attempts to abstract the process it describes from its detailed
60
•
The Long Revolution
Tk Anarysis
of Culture
embodiment and shaping by particular societies - regarding
intense examples, passes beyond its context into the general
man's ideal development as somethingseparate from and even
growth of human consciousness. The dramatic form passes
opposed to his 'animal nature' or the satisfaction ofmaterial
beyond its context, and becomes an element in a major and
needs - seems to me unacceptable. A 'documentary' defini
general dramatic Iradition, in quite different societies. The
tion which sees value only in the written and painted records, and marks this area olffrom the rest orman's life in
play itself, a specific communication, sUl'vives the society and
society, is equally unacceptable. Again, a 'social' definition,
to speak directly to unimagincd audiences. Thus, while we
which treats either the general process or the body ofart and learning as a mere by-product, a passive reflection oCthe real
could not abstract the ideal value or the specific document, neither could we reduce these to explanation within the local
interests of the society) seems to me equally wrong. However
termsofa particular culture. lfwestudy real relations, in any
difficult it may be in practice, we have to lry to sec the
actual analysis, we reach the point where we see that we are
the religion which helped to shape it, and can be re-created
process as a whole, and to relate our particular studies, nnot
studying a general organization in a particular example, and
explicitly at least by ultimate reference, to the actual and
in this general organization there is no element that we can abstract and separate from the rest. It was certainly an error
complex organization. We can take one example, from analytic method, to illustrate this. If we take a particular work of art, say the Antigone of Sophocles, we can analyse it in ideal terms - the
to suppose that values
OJ"
art-works could be adequately
studied without reference to the particular society within which they were expressed, but it is equally an error to sup
discovery of certain absolute values, or in documentary
pose that the social explanation is determining, or that the
terms - the communication of certain values by certain
values and works arc mere by-products. We have got into
the first will point to the absolute value of reverence for the
the habit, since we realized how deeply works or values could be determined by the whole situation in which they are
dead; the second wi!! point to the expression ofcertain basic human tensions through the particular dramatic fonn of
form: 'what s i the relation of this art to this society ? ' But
chorus and double
'society', in this question, is a specious whole. Ifthe art is part
artistic means. Much will be gained from either analysis, for
kommos,
and the specific intensity of the
verse. Yet it is clear that neither analysis is complete. The reverence, as an absolute value, is limited in lhe play by the
expressed, of asking about these relationships in a standard
of the society, there is no solid whole, outside it, to which, by the form of our question, we concede priority. The art is
tenns of a particular kinship system and its conventional
there, as an activity, with the production, the trading, the
obligations - Antigone would do this for a brother but not for a husband. Similarly, the dramatic form, the metres of
politics, the raising of families. To study the relations adequately we must study them actively, seeing all the
the verse, not only have an artistic tradition behind them, the
activitics as particular and contemporary forms of human
work ofmany men, but can be seen to have been shaped, not
energy. Ifwe take any one of these activities, we can see how
only by the demands of the experience, but by the particular
many of the others arc reHected in it, in various ways accord·
social forms through which the dramatic tradition developed. We can accept such extensions of our original analysis, but
ing to the nature of the whole organi:.:ation. It seems likely, also, that the very fact that we can distingui�h any particular
we cannot goon to accept that, because of the extensions, the
activity, as scrving certain specific ends, suggests that without
value of reverence, or the dramatic form and the specific verse, have meaning only in Ihc contexts to whieh we have
this activity the whole of the human organization at that
assigned them. The learning of reverence, through such
cleal'ly related to the other activities, can be seen as expressing
place and time could not have bccn realized. Thus art, while
6,
TIlt Long Revolutioll
certain elements in the organization which, within that
organization's terms, could only ha\"c been expressed in this way. It is then not a question ofrelating the art to the society, but of studying all the activities and their interrelations,
without any concession of priority to any one orthcm we may choose to abstract. If we find, as often, that a particular
activity came radically to change the whole organization, we can still not say that it is to this activity that all the others must be related; wc canonlysludy thcvaryingways in which, within the changing organization, the particular activities and their interrelations were affected . Further, since the particular activities will be serving varying and sometimes
conflicting ends, the sort of change we must look for wiII rarely be of a simple kind: clements of pcrsistcnce, adjwl
ment, unconscious assimilation, active resistance, alternative
effort, will all normally be present, in parlicula.· activities and
in the whole organization. The analysis of culture, in the documentary sense, is of great importance because it can yield specific evidcnce about
the whole organization within which it was expressed. 'vVe
cannot say that we know a particular fOI'm or period of
society, and that we will sec how its art and theory relate to
it, for until we know these, we cannot really claim to know the society. This is a problem of mcthod, and is mentioned
here because a good deal of history has in fact been written Oil the assumption that the bases of the society, its political, economic, and ' socia! ' nrrangemenls, form the central COre
of facl'l, after which the art and theory cnn be adduced, for marginal illustration or 'correlation '. There has been a neat reversal of this procedure in the histories of literature, art,
science, and philosophy, when theseare dcscribcd as develop
ing by their own laws, and then something called tlle 'back ground' (what in general history was the central core) is sketched in. Obviously it is necessary, in exposition, to select
certain activities for emphasis, and it is entirely reasonable to trace particular lines ofdevclopment in temporary isolation.
But the history of a culture, slowly built up from such par ticular work, can only be written when the active relations
Tile Allalysis � CultuTe
arc restored, and the activities seen in a genuine parity.
Cultural history must be more than thc sum of the particular
histories, for it is with the relations between them, the par ticular forms of the whole organization, that concerned. I would then define
it is especially the theory of culture as the
study of relationships betwtcn clemcnts in a whole way of
life. The analysis of culture is tht attempt to discovcr the
nature of the organization which is the complex of these
rclationships. Analysis of particular works or institutions is, in this context, analysis of their essential kind oforganization
�
the relationships which works or instiwtions embody as part
li� ati�n as a whole. A key-word, in such analysis, ?fthe orgal . . IS pattern : It IS With the dIscovery of patterns ofa character
istic kind that any useful cultural analysis begins, and it s i with the relationships between these patterns, which some
tines reveal unexpected identities and correspondences in � hilhcrto . separ.ate � considered activities, sometimes again reyeal discontinUIties of all unexpected kind, that general
!
cult ural analysis is concerned. I t is ?nly in Ollr OWI lime and place that we can expect to � knolV, LJ\ any substan\i,d way, the general organil':ation. \Ve can learn a great deal of the life of other places and times but
�
certain elements, it sccms to me, will always be irreco\'er ble. Even those that can be recovercd are recovered in abstrac
tion, and this is of crucial importance. \Ve leal'll each clemcnt as a precipitate, but in the Jiving experience of the
time every clement was in solution, an inseparable part of a complex whole. The most difTicult thing to get hold of in studying any p.lst period, is this felt sense ofthe quality ofI.ife at a particular place and time: a sensc of the ways in which t�<: parli<:ular acti\·itics combi�ed into a way of thinking and hVlIlg. We can go some way III restoring the outlines of a particular oJ'ganization of life ; we can even recover what
Fromm calls the 'social character' or Benedict the 'pattern of eul.ture' . The social <;:haractcr - a valued system of . chavlour al�d attitudes IS talJ�ht formally alld informally; . both an Ideal and a mode. fhe 'pattern of culture' is a It IS selection and configuration of interests and activities, and a
�J
-
The Long JUvoiution
65
particular valuation orthem, producing a distinct organiza
a period, taking thesc to include characteristic approaches
tion, a 'way oflife'. Yet even these, as we recover them, are
and tones in argumenl, arc ofmajor importance. For here,
usually abstract. Possibly, however, wc can gain the sense of a further common clement, which s i neither the character nor
anywhere, this characteristic is likely to be expressed; often
if
not consciously, but by the fact that here, in the only examples
the pattern, but as it were the actual experience through
wc have ofrccorded communication that outlives its bearers,
which these were lived. This is potentially of very great
the nctual living sense, the deep community that makes the communication possible, is naturally drawn upon. I do not
imporlance, and 1 think the fact is that we arc most conscious of such contact in the arts of a period. It can happen that
mean that the structure of feeling, any more than the social
when we have measured these against the external charaeter
charactcr, is posscssed,in the same way by the many indi
isticsofthe period, and then allowed for individual variations,
viduals in the community. But I think it is a vcry deep and
there is still some important common clement that we cannot
very wide possession, in all actual communities, precisely because il is on it that communication depends. And what is
easily place.
1 think we can best understand this if we think
orany similar analysis ofa way oflife that we ourselves share.
For we find here a particular sense of life, a particular com munity of e.xperience hardly needing expression, through
particularly interesting is that it docs not seem to be, in any
formal sensc, learned. One generation may train its successor, with reasonable success, in the social character or the general
which the characteristics of our way of life that an cxtemal analyst could describc arc in some way passed, giving them a
cultural pattern, but thc new gcncration will have its own
particular and characteristic colour. We are usually most aware ofrhis when we notice the contrasts between genera
' from' anywhere. For here, most distinctly, the changing organization is enacted in the organism: the new generation
tions, who nevcr talk quite ' the same language ', or when we
responds in its own ways to the unique world it is inheriting,
read an account of our lives by someonc from outside the
taking up many continuities, that can ue traced, and repro ducing many aspects of the organization, which can be
community, or watch the small differences in style, of speech
structure of feeling, which will not appear to have come
or behaviour, in someone who has learncd our ways yet was
separately described, yet feeling ils whole lifc in ccrtain ways
not bred in them. Almost any formal description would be
differently, and shaping its creative respollse into a new
too crude to express this ncvertheless quite distinct sense ofa
structure offeding.
particular and native style. And if this is so, in a way oflife
Once the carriers of such a structure die, the nearest we
we know intimately, il will surely be so whcn weourseJves are
can get to this vital clement is in the documentary culture, from poems to buildings and dress-fashions, and it is this
in the position of the visitor, the learner, thc guest from a different generation : the position, in fnct, that we are all in,
relation that gives significance to thc definition of culture in
when we study any past period. Though it can be turned to
documcntary terms. This in no way means that the docu
trivial account, the fact of such a characteristic
is neither
ment! arc autonomous. It s i simply lhat, as previously argucd,
The term I would suggest to describe it is structure riffttling :
whole organization, which is more than the sum of its separ able parts. What we are looking for, always, is the actual life
trivial nor marginal; it feels quite ccntral .
it is as firm and definitc as 'structure' suggests, yet it operates in the most delicate and least tangible parts of our activity. In onescnse, this structure offecling is the culturc ofa period :
\
The Ana�sis rif Culture
the significance of an activity must be sought in tcrms of the
that the whole organization
is there to express. The signi
ficance of documentary culture is that, morc clearly than
it is the particular living result of all the elements in the
anything clse, it expresses that lifc to us in direct terms, when
general organization. And it is in this respect that the arts of
the living witnesses arc silent. At the same time, if we reflect T-c
66
The Long Revolution
on the nature ofa structure offccling, and see how it can fail
to be fully understood even by living people in close contact
with it, with ample material at their disposal, including the contemporary arts, we shall not suppose that we can ever do more than make an approach, an approximation, using any channels.
The Analysis of Clllture
absorbed into a selective tradition; and both are diffcrent from the cuiture as lived.
It is very important to try to understand thc operation of a selective tradition. To some extent, the selection begins within the period itself; from the whole body of activities, ccrtain things arc selected for value and emphasis. In general
We need to distinguish three levels of culture, even in its
this selection will rcflect the organization of the period as a
�ost ge�cral definition. There is the lived culture of a par ticular time and place, only fully accessible to those living
phases will later be confirmed. 'We see this elearly enough in
whole, though this docs not mean that the values and em
of
the case of past periods, but we never really believe it about
every kind, from art to the most everyday facts: the ul. t�re of a period. Tl crc is also, as the factor connecting
nineteen-fifties; the fastest reader, giving twenty hours a day
tradition.
to this activity alone, could not do it. Yet it is clear, in print
in that time and place. There is the recorded culture
�
�
hved culture and period cultures, the culture oCthe selective
'�hen .it is no longer being lived, but in a narrower way
survives
111
. Its records, thc culture of a pcriod can be very
carefully studicd, untit we feel that we have reasonably clear ideas of its cultural work, its social character, its general patterns of activity and value, and in part of its slrueture of feeling. Yet the survival is governed, nOt by the period itself
:
but by new periods, which gradually compose a tradition
Even most specialists in a period know only a part of even its records. One can say wilil confidence, for example, that nobody really knows the ninetcenth-century novel; nobody has read, or could have read, all its examples, over the whole �ange from printed volumes to penny serials. The real special Ist may know some hundreds; the ordinary specialist some what less; educated readers a decreasing number: though all will have clear ideas on the subject. A selective process, of a
�
quite drastic ind, is at once evident, and this is true ofevery . field of activity. Equally, of course, no nineteenth-century readei" would have read all the novels ; no individual in the society would have known more than a selcction of its facts. But everyone living in the period would have had something which, I have argued, no later individual can wholly recover: that sense of the life within which the novels were written and which we now approach through our selection. Theor� etically, a period is recorded; in practice. this record is
our own. We can take an example from the novels of the last decade. Nobody has read all the English novels of the
and in education, not only that certain general character istics of the novel in this period have been set down, but also that a reasonably agreed short list has been made, of what seem to be the best and most relevant works. Irwe lake the list as containing perhaps thirty titles (already a very drastic selection indeed) we may suppose that in fifty years the specialist in the novel of the J 9505 will know these thirty, and
the general reader will know perhaps five or six. Yet we can
surely be quite certain that, once the T950S have passed, another selective process will be begun. As well as reducing the number ofworks, this new process will also aiter, in some cases drastically, the expressed valuations. It is true lilat when fifty years have passed it is likely that reasonably per
manent valuations will have been arrived at, though these may continue to fluctuate. Yet to anyofus who had lived this long process tbrough, it would remain (rue that elements im portant to us had been neglected. vVe would say. in a vul nerable elderly way, ' I don't understand why these young people don't read X any more ', but also, more firmly, 'No, that isn't really what it was like; it is your version '.- Since
any period includcs at least lhree generations, we are always seeing e.. "amplcsor this, and one complicating factOI" is that none of us stay still, e\'en in our most significant period. : many of the adjustments we should not protest against,
68
The limg Revolution
many of the omissions, distortions and reinterpretations we should accept or not even notice, because we had been part of the change which brought them about. But then, when living witnesses had gone, a further change would occur. The lived cuhure wowd not only have been fined down 10 selected documents; it would be used, in its reduced form, partly as a contribution (inevitably quitesma,ll) to the general line of human growth; partly for historical reconstruction ; partiy, again, as a way of having done with us, of naming and placing a particular stage oflhe past. The selective tradi· tion thus creates, at one level, a general human culture; at another level, the historical record ofa particular society ; at a third level, most difficult to accept and assess, a rejection of considerable areas of what was once a living culture. Within a given society, selection will be governed by many kinds of special interest, including class interests. Just as the actual social situation will largely govern contemporary selection, so the development of the society, the process of historical change, will largely determine the selective tradi tion. The traditional culture of a society will always tcnd to correspond to its cOlltemporary system ofintercsts and values, for itis nolan absolute body ofwork but a continual selection and interpretation. In theory, and to a limited extent in practice, those institutions which are formally concerned with keeping the tradition alive (in particular the institutions ofeducation and scholarship) are committed to the tradition as a whole, and not to some selection from it according to contemporary interests. The importance Oflhis commitment is very great, because we see again and again, in the workings of a selective tradition, reversals and re-discoveries, returns to work apparently abandoned as dead, and clearly this is only possible if there are institutions whose business it is to keep large areas ofpast culture, ifnot alive, at least available. It is natural and inevitable that the selective tradition should follow the lines of growth of a society, but because sueh growth is complex and continuous, the relevanee of past work, in any future situation, is unforeseeable. There is a natural pressure on academic institutions to follow the lines
The Ana{)osis oj Culture
69
ofgrowth of a society, but a wise society, while ensuring this kind of relevance, will encourage the institutions to give sufficient resources to the ordinary work of preservation, and to resist the criticism, which any particular period may make with great confidence, that much of this activity is irrelevant and useless. It s i often an obstacle to the growth of a society Lhat so many academic institutions are, to an important e:dent, self-perpetuating and resistant to change. The changes have to be made, in new institutions ifnecessary, but if we properly understand thc process of the selective tradition, and look at it over a sufficiently long period to get a real sense of historical change and fluctuation, the corresponding value of such perpetuation will be appreciated. In a society as a whole, and in all its particular activities, the cultural tradition can be seen as a continual selection and re�seleetion ofancestors. Particular lines will be drawn, often for as long as a cel1lury, and then suddenly with some new stage in growth these will be cancelled or weakened, and new lines drawn. In the analysis of contemporary culture, the existing state of the selective tradition is of vital import ance, for it is often true that some change in Lhis tradition establishing new lines with the past, breaking or re-drawing e.'l:isting lines - is a radical kind of contemporary change. We tend to underestimate the extent to which the cultural tradi tion is not only a selection but also an interpretation. We see most past work through our own experience, without even making the effort to see it in something like its original tenus. What analysis can do is not so mueh to reverse this, returning a work to its period, as to make the interpretation conscious, by showing historical alternativcs; to relate the interpreta tion to the particular contemporary values on which it rests ; and, by exploring the real patterns of the work, confront us with the real nature of the choices we are making. vVe shall find, in SQme cases, that weare keeping the work alivebecause it is a genuine contribution to cultural growth. We shall find, in other cases, lhat we are using the work in a particular way for our own reasons, and it is better to know this than to
The LOllg RefJolution
The Analjosis if Culture
surrender to the mysticism of the ' great valuer, Time'. To put on to Time, the abstraction, the responsibility for our own acti\·e choices is to suppress a cemral part of ou!· experi ence. The more actively al! cultural work can be related, either to the whole organization within which it was e. ...pressed, or to the contemporary organization within which it is used, the more clearly shall we see its true values. Thus ' documentary' analysis will lead out to 'social' analysis, whether in a lived cultmc, a past pcriod, or in the selective tradition which is itself:l social o,"ganization. And the dis covery of permanent contributions will icad to the same kind of general analysis, if we accept the process at this level, not as human perfection (a movement towards determined values), but as a parl of man's general evolution, to which many individuals and groups contribute. Every clcmcnt that we analyse wil! be in this sense active: that it will be seen in certain feal relations, at many different levels. In describing these relations, the rcal cultmal process will cmcrge.
Violation ', illustratcd by a large woodcut and backed by a dctailed story. The total circulation of newspapers of this kind, at the end of the dccade, was about 275,000, as com pared with a total of 60,000 for the daily papers. If we are cxamining the actual culture of the period, we must begin from this fact, rather than from the isolation of TIle Times which its continuing importance in a lI'adition of high politics has brought about. In thc case oflitemtme, the working ofthe selective tradi tion is similarly obvious. We think of the period as that of Dickens, Thackeray, Charlottc and Emily BroniC, at the upper levels ofthe novel, and ofElizabeth Gaskell, Kingsley, Disracli, in a subsidiary range. "Ve know also, as 'period' allthor�, Lytton, Marryat, Reade. Dickens, of course, was very Widely rcad at the time. Pickwick, to take one cxample, had sold 40,000 copies a number in periodical publication, and later examples climbed to 70,000 and abovc. Yet if we look at the othcr most widely read writers of the period, we find thc following list, in order ofpopularity, givcn by W. H. Smith's bookstalls, opened in 1848: Lytton, Marryat, G. P. R. James, James Grant, Miss Sinclair, Haliburton Mrs Tmllope, Lever, Mrs Gaskell, Jane Austen. The tw most popular series ofcheap novels, the Parlour and Railway Libraries ( t 847 and 1849), included as their leading authors G. P. R. Jamcs (47 titles) , Lytton (19), Mn; Marsh (16), Marryat ( 1 5) , Ainsworth (14), Mrs Gore (IO), Grant (8), Grattan (8), Maxwell (7), Mrs Trollopc (7), Emma Robin son (6), Mayne Reid (6), W. Carleton (6), Jane Austen (6), Mrs Grey (6). A list oftitles from these authors gives an idea of the range : Agillcollrl, Lost Days rifPom�ii, lHidshipman Easy,
n
Any thcoretical account of the analysis of culture must sub mit to be tested in the course of actual analysis. I propose to take one period, the I 840S in England, and to examine, in the context of its culture, the theoretical mcthods and concepts I have been discussing. The first and most striking fact, as we bcgin to study the 1 8405 in a direct way, is the degree to which the selectivc tradition has worked on it. A simple example is in the field of newspapcrs, for it is customary to think of The Times as the c1mracleriSlic paper of the period, and to draw our ideas of early Victorian journalism from its practice. Certainly The Times was thc leading daily paper, but the most widely read ncwspapers in this decade were the Sunday papcrs, Dispatch, Chrollicle, L/o)'d's Weekljo and News of the World. These had what we can now recognize as a distinctly 'Sunday paper' selcction of news: Bell's PellllY Dispatch ( 1 842) is sub-titled Sporting and Police Ca,{ette, and Newspaper if Romal/ct, and a characteristic headlinc is' Daring Conspiracy and Attcmpted
•
71
�
..
Tower ofLolldol/, ROII/allct of War, Heiress ifBruges, Starin/rom Waterloo, Rifugtt ill America, Scalp Hllllters, Rody file Rouer, Pride alld Prejlldice, The Little Wife. In 1 8s 1 The Times commcnted:
Every additiOIl to the stock was positively made on the assumption that persons of the OCHer class who constitute the larger portion of railway readers lose their accustomed taste the moment they ellter the station.
The Long Reoo/utioll
The Al1afys;s of Culture
However this may be, it s i clear that the fiction mentioned
73
from 1849, the rise of the music-halls. Moreover, these
was not merely the reading of the degraded poor, but that,
changes at the institutional levcl, in distribution, relate to a .
at least for railwayjourneys, this was the taste of' persons of
variety ofcauses that take us far out into the whole history of
the better class '. lfwe take the whole range of readers, we must include an author not yet mentioned, G. W. M.
the period. Thus, tcchnical changes (in newspapers, devel
Reynolds, of whom
blocking on cloth) pl'ovided part of the basis of the printed
The Bookseller at
his death said that he
oped steam-printing and rotary presses; in books, ink
was ' the most popular wI·iter ofour time', having previously
expansion. The railway boom led to new reading needs and,
said timt h c had written more and sold in far greater numbers than Dickens. Reynolds was at his height in the new popular
more centrally, to new points of distribution, Yet the kind
periodicals of the 18405, the
and his own
equally attract our attention. There is an important increase,
Re;'l1olds' Miscellatry, in which appeared such typical works as Mysteries ifthe lnquisition and Mysteries qf the Court rif London.
profitable businesses : Lloyd and Bell, in newspapers and
umdoll Joumal
ofpeople who made usc ofthese technical opportunities must in this decade, in the entry of pure speculators into these
We must add to this list ofthe reading ohhe period what has
periodicals, combining (as did Reynolds more seriously) a
been described as a ' huge trade ' in pornographic books, illegally produced and distributed from the ' filthy cellars
generalized radicalism with a sharp commcreial instinct; or,
of Holywell Street '. We must also add the works of Carlyle,
theatres by men not directly concerned with the drama, but
Ruskin, Macaulay, Mill, Thomas Arnold, Pugin, and of
finding commercial opportunity in building and letting to actor-managers and companies, a method that has had a
Tennyson,
Browning,
Clough,
lVlatthew
Arnold
and
in the theatre, the essential beginning of the ownership of
Rossetti, as selections from a great body of philosophical,
profound effeet on English theatrical development. Again,
historical, religious and poetic writing. The operation of
a large part of the impetus to cheap periodical publishing
the selective tradition, to compose what we now think
was the desire to control the development of working-class
of as the characteristic work of the period, hardly needs
opinion, and in this the observable shift from popular educa
stressing. Already, from looking at the document:l, weare necessarily
tionaljournals to family magazines (the latter the immediate ancestors of the women's magazines of our own time) is
Jed out to the social history of the period, We come to see
significant. Respectable schemes of moral and domestic
establishment ofa popular Sunday press as the most suecess�
improvement became deeply entangled with the teaching and implication ofparticular social values, in the interests of
ful element in journalism; the growth ofnew kinds ofpcriod� ical, combining sensational and romantic fiction with
necessary parts of the real cultural process that we must
recipes, household hints, and advice to correspondents, as
examine.
certain crucial changes in cultural institutions : the effective
opposed to the more sober ' popular education > journals of the previous decade (the Penny
the existing class society. These changes, in a wide field, are
As we move into this wider field, we see, ofcourse, that the selective tradition operates hcre as in the documents. The
Magazine ceased publication the new-type London Journal
institutional developments just noted, representing a critical
began) ; the coming of cheap fiction, at one level with the
phase in the commercial organization of popular culture,
'penny dreadful ', from 1841, at another with half�crown and shilling Parlour and Railway Libraries ; important changes
interest us primarily because they relate to a subsequent major trend. So also do developments of a different kind, in
in the theatre, with the ending of the monopoly of the Patent ' Theatres in 1843, the development of minor theatres and,
Bil! in t845), public libraries (limited provisions in 1850),
in 1845, the year in which
the same field; the beginnings of public museums (a limited
The Long RevoluliOli 74 and public parks (allowed from the rates in 1847). The fierce controversy surrounding these innovations (from the charges of extravagance to the anxious pleas that the working people must be 'civilized') tends to drop away, in our minds, according to subsequent interpretations. The complexity we have to grasp, in the: field of cultural institutions, is tl�at this decade brought crucial developments in the commercial exploitation of culture, in its valuable popular e;'l:pansion, and in enlightened public provision. This is the reality that various strands of the selective tradition tend to reduce, seeking always a single line ofdevciopment. This is true also of the general political and social history of the period . As J sec it, it is dominated by seven features. There is the crucial Free Trade victory in the Repeal of the Corn Laws, in 1846. There is the virtual re-creation of a new-style Tory Party, under Disraeli, with some influence from the ideas ofYoung England. There is the Chartist move ment, among othel' things a major stage in the development ofworking-elass political consciousness. There is the factory legislation, culminating in the Ten Hours Bill of 1847. There is the complicatcd story of the punitive Poor Law and the attempts to amend its opcration in 1844 and 1847, and, linked with this by Chadwick, the fight for the Public Health Act of 1848. Therc is thc important re-involvement of the churches, in different ways, in social conflict. There is the major expansion in heavy industries and in capital invest ment, notably in the railways. Other factors might ea�ily �e added, but already from these wc can observe two pomts analysis. First, that these ' factors' composc a single story, though one ofgreat complexity and conflict: several ofthcm arc obviously linked, and none ofthem, in the real life ofth.e period, can be considen.-d in isolation. Second, that each subject to highly selective interpretation, according to sub sequent directions and commitments. The case of Char�ism is the most obvious example. Fcw would now regard It as dangerous and wicked, as it was widely regarded at t�le time: too many of its principles have becn subsequently bUilt into the ' British way of life' for it to be easy openly to agree III
IS
The Alltllysis of Culture
75 with :Macaulay, for example, that universal suffrage is 'in compatible with the vcry cxistence ofcivilization', Yet other selective imagcs of the movement remain powerful: that, like the General Strike of '926, it was a tragic example of' the wrong way to gel change', the right way being the actually succecding phase; 01', again, that it was muddled and even ridiculous, with its oddly mixed supporters and its monster petitions which were simply disregarded. But the fact is that we have noadequatc history ofChartism ; we ha\'e substitutes for such a history, on one or other of the partial versions thrown up by the selective tradition. \"'e sec fWIll this, also, the importance of our theoretical obscrvation on one aspect of the working of the selective tradition: that it is not only affected, even governed, by subsequent main lines ofgrowth, but also changes, as it wefe retrospectively, in terms of subsequent change. Thc attention now given to the growth ofworking-elass movements in the nineteenth century would have seemed absurd in 18Bo, and is governed, now, less by thc material itself than by the knowledge of the fruition of thesc movements, or commitment to them. The stress on economic history has a similar basis ofretrospective change. Tn the case of literature, the working of the selective tradi tion necds separate examination. To a considerable extent it is tl'lle that the work we now know from the 18405 is the best work of the period : that repeated reading, in a variety of situations, has sifted the good from the Icssgood and bad. Yet there are other factors. r.,'lrs Gaskell and probably Disraeli slIn'ive by thiscritel'ion, but in both their cases there arc other affl.'(;. ting clements: in 1\'lrs Caskell the documentary interest that is uscful to a social history prcoccupied by this period; in Disracii, the fact of his subsequent fame in politics. Kingsley's novels, in my view, would not have sUl-vivcd on literary merit at all, but again they have some documentary interest, and his contribution to intellectual history, in Christian Socialism, has been thought important. Thackeray, Dickens, and Chal'lotte Brontcsurvive on strict literary merit, but we see that their best works have carried inferior works that in olhcr authors would have vanished. Emily Bronte
The Long Revolution would now be said by many critics to be the finest novelist of the decade, but Wuthering Heighlt, for a long time, was carried by the fame of Charlotte, and its major importance, now, is related to changes in twentieth-century Iitcrature, moving towards the theme and language of Wuthering Heights and away from the main fictional tradition ofthe decade in which i t was written. In verse, we read Tcnnyson and Browning for their
intrinsic
interest,
though
their reputations have
violently fluctuated, but 1 do not think wc should re.'l.d many
of Matthew Arnold's 1 849 poems ifhc had not subscquently acquired a reputation of a different kind. We rcad Carlyle,
Ruskin, and Mill because, in spite ofobvious faults, they are major writers and additionally belong to living intellcctual traditions . But, where we read Thomas Arnold, it is because ofhis educational importance ; where we read Pugin, we have had toremake his significance, with our own emphasis on the relations between art and society; where we read Macaulay, we read perhaps with less interest, not because his ability seems less, but because his way of thinking seems increasingly irrelevant. Thus the selective tradition, which we can be certain will continue to change, is in part the emphasis of works of general value, in part the usc of past work in tenns of OUl· own growth. The selective tradition which relates to this period
s i different from the period itself, just as the
period culture, consciously studied, is necessarily different from the culture as lived.
The work of conscious reconstruction, and of the selective tradition, tends to specialization of different classes of aetiv· ity, and we must look now at the area ofrdations bctween these, to sec if our theoretical description of such relations
s i
valid. We have already seen one important class ofrelation ships, in the field of cultural institutions. Such factors in the society as the class situation (particularly the range of middle-class attitudes to the dissident working class), the technical expansion which followed from the growth of an industrial economy, and the kinds ofownership and distribu tion natural to such an economy, can be seen to have affected such institutions as the press, book publishing, and the
r
The Alla{ytis !if Culture
77
theatre, and the form of these institutions, with the purposes they expressed, had observable effects on some cultural work: new styles in journalism, changes in the novel be<;.1.use of serial publication, some adaptation ofmaterial in tenns ofthe new publics being reached. With this kind of interrdation we arc reasonably familiar, but it is not the only kind. . A second kind, in which, knowing the society, we look for . Its direct reflection in cultural work, is, in this period, quite
�
clear. f th� seven general features listed, from the political and socaal history of the 18-1-05, all are extensively reflected in contemporary literature, particularly in the novel. Ifwe read
only i\lOry Barloll, S)'bil, COllingsby, Dombey ami SOli read AlIolI Locke, Past alld Presti/I, we move directly into th worl of C artism, factory legislation, the Poor Law, the railways, the lIlvolvemcnt of the churches (the decade produce d several novels of the crisis of religious bclief and affiliation)
�
�
d �
�nd the I?Olit.ic� of Free Trade and Young England. Th mtcl:rclatlOll IS Im o t;mt, a�ain it is not the only kind, p � . and IIl eed,. lfwe limit rclatJonshlps to this dircet description and dlscllsslon, we shall find it difficult to estimate even these.
?
�)Ul
The further area of relations, that we must now examine that described and interpreted by sllch concepts as th . soc�al character and the structure of feeling. Thc dominan t SOCial cha �aeter ofthe period can be briefly outlinoo. There is . �hc b � llef III the value of work, and this is seen in relation to . �I\{hvldual effort, with a sirong attachmcnt to success gained i assumed, but social position �n .these t�rrns. A elass society s IS mcreasmgly defined by actual status rather than by birth. The poor arcsecn as the victims oftheir own failings, and it is strongly he.ld that the best among them will climb out oftheir class. punitive Poor Law is necessary in order to stimulate e ort ; If a man could fall back on relief, without grave hard . ship III the form of separation from his family, minimum .
IS
�
�
�
Slst�nancc, and such work as Slone-breaking or oakum ! plckl.ng, he would not make the necessary effort to provide fol' hlm.self. In this and a wider ficld, suffering is in onc sense ennobling, in that it teaches humility and courage, and leads
78
The Long Revolutioll
The Analysis ofCulture
to the hard dedication to duty. Thrift, sobriety, and piety are the princip al virtues, and the family is their central institu tion. The sanctity of m arriage is absolute, and adultery and fornication are unpardonable. Duty includes helping the weak provided that the hclp is not of such a kind as to confirm the weakness : condoning sexual error, and comforting the poor, are weaknesses by this definition. Training to. the prevailing virtues must be necessarily severe, but there IS an obligation to see that the institutions for such training are strengthened.
This can be fairly called the dominant social character of the period, if we look at its characteristic legislation, the
terms in which this was argued, the majority content ofpublic
writing and speaking, and the characters of the men �ost admired. Yet, of course, as a social character, it varied5on
siderably in success of transmission, and was subject to many
personal variations. The more serious difficulty arises as we
look more closely at the period and re alize that alternative social characters were in fact active, and that these affected, in important ways, the whole life of the time. A social character is the abstract of a dominant group, and there can be no doubt that the character described a developed form of the morality of the industrial and commercial middle class - was at this time the most powerful. At the same time, there were other social characters with substantial bases in the society. The aristocratic character was visibly weakening, but its variations - that birth mattered more than moneYi that work was not the sole social value and that civilization involved play; that sobriety and chastity, at least in young men, were not cardinal virtues but might even be a sign of meanness or dullness - arc still alive in the period, all in -
practice, some in theory. In attitudes to the poor, this character is ambiguous : it includes a strcss on charity, as part of one's station, very different from punitive rehabilitation, but also a brutality, a willingness to cut down troublemakers, a natural habit of repression, which again differ from the middle-class attitude. The 1 840S are very interesting in this respect, for they show the interaction of different social
characters:
Tory charity
79 against 'Whig rehabilitation;
brutalily and repression against positive civilization through institution. Somc of the best criticism of the 'Whig Poor Law came from Tories with a conscious aristocratic ideal, as most notably in Young England. Brutality and repression are ready, in crisis, but as comparcd with the twenties and thir ties, arc being stcadily abandoned in favour of positive l egislation. Play may be frowned on by the social character, but the decade shows a large increase in light entertainment, from cheap novcls to the music-halls. Kotonlyisthe dominant social char act er different, in many ways, from the life lived in its shadow, but altcmative social characters Icad to the real connicts of the time. This is a central difficulty of the social character concept, for in stressing a dominant abstrac tion it seriously undcrestimates the historical process of change and conflict, which are found even when, as in the 18405, such a social character is very strong. For we must add another alternative, of major importance: the developing social character of the working class, different in important respects from its competitors. As the victims ofreprcssion and punitive rehabilitation, of the gospel ofsuccess and the pride ofbirth, ofthe real nature of work and the exposure to suffer ing, working-class people were beg inning to formulate alter native ideals. They had important allies from the interaction ofthe other systems, and could be a major force either in the Corn Laws repeal or in the Facto ry legislation, when these were sponsored by different sections of the ruling class. Blit the 1840S show an important development of independent aims, though these arc to be realized, mainly, through alliance with other groups. Thus Chanism is an ideal beyond the terms of any dominant group in the society, and is more than an expression of democratic aspirations; is also an assertion of an individual dignity transcending class. The Ten Hours Bill, in working-class minds, was more than a good piece ofpaternal lcgislation on wOl'k: it was also the claim to leisure, and hence again to a wider life. At the same time, in their own developing organizations, the most radicaJ criticism of all was being made: the refusal of
The uJ/lg /Uvolutioll 80 a society based either on birth or on individual success, the conception of a society based on mutual aid and co-operation. ''''c can then distinguish three social characters operative in the period, and it is with the study of relations between them that we enter the reality of the whole life. All contribute to the growth of the society: the aristocratic ideals tempering the harshness ofmiddle-dass ideals al lhcrr worst; working class ideals entering into a fruitful and decisive combination with middle-class ideals at their best. The middle-class social character remains dominant, and both aristocrats and working people. in many respects, come to terms with it. But equally, the middle-class social character as it entered the forties is in many respects modified as the forties end. The values of work and self-help, of social position by status rather than birth, of the sanctity of marriage and the empha sis on thrift, sobriety and charity, are still dominant. But punitive rehabilitation, and the attitudes to weakness and suffering on which it rests, have been, while not rejected, joined by a major ideal of public service, in which the effort towards civilization is actively promoted by a genuine altruism and the making of positive institutions. This is one level of change, and such analysis s i necessary uwe are to explore the reality of the social character. In some respects, the structure offecling corresponds to the dominant social character, but it is also an e.">pression of the interaction described. Again, howevcr, the structure of feeling is not uniform throughout the society ; it is primarily evident in the dominant productive group. At this level, however, it is different from any of the distinguishable social characters, for it has to deal not only with the public ideals but with their omissions and consequences, as lived. Ifwe look a t the fiction of the forties, we shall see this dearly. The popular fiction of the periodicals, so carefully studied by Dalziel, is very interesting in this context. At first sight wc find what we expect : the unshakcable assumptions ofa class socicty, but with the strL'SS on wealth rather than birth (aristocrats, indeed, being often personally vicious) ; the con-
The Allalysis rif Culture
e.
viction that the poor arc so by their own faults - their stu pidity and depravity stressed, their mutual help ignored; the ab�lute $.'\nctity of marriage, the manipulation of plot to
brmg sexual offenders to actual suffering; the fight against weakness, however terrible, as one of the main creators of humble virtue. All this, oftcn consciously didactic is the ' d"Ireet expression of the dominant social character, and the assumptions tend to bcshared by the pious 'improving' fiction (cf. Mrs Tonna's Helm Flutwood) and by the sensational fiction which the improvers condemned. But then we arc reminded of the extent to which popular fiction retains older systems of value, often through stereotyped conventions of character. The 'fashionable novel' of high life only becamc unfashionable late in the decade. The typical hcro is some times the successful exponent of self-help, but often he is an older type, the cultivated gcntleman, the soldier governed by a code of honour, even the man who finds pleasure a blessing and work a curse. To the earlier hero, loss ofincomc and the need to work were misfortunes to be endured · to have a safe fortune was undoubtedly best. The new attit�de to work came in only slowly, for understandable reasons. (Ordinary middle-class life was still thought too plain and dull for a really interesting novel.) Further' heroes of either kind are capable ofstrong overt emotion; lhey can burst into public tears, or even swoon, as strong men used to do but were 50011 to do no more. Heroines have morc continuity: they are weak, dependent, and shown as glad to be so, and of course they arc beautiful and chaste. One interesting factor, obviously rdated to a continuing general attitude in the period, is that schools, almost without exception, arc shown as terrible: not only arc they places oftemptation and wicked ness me�n, crucl and educationally ridiculous, but also they ? are mfel'lor to the home and family, as a way of bringing up children. This is perhaps the last period in which a majority or English public opinion believed that home education was the ideal. From the sixteenth century, this belicf had been gaining ground, and its complete reversal, with the new public-school ethos after Arnold, is of considerable general
s,
The Long Revolution
importance. Bul the new attitude does not appear in fiction until Tom Brown'! Schooldays in 1857. I n the popular fiction of the forties, then, we find many marks ofolder ways offeeling, as well as faithful reproduction of certain standard feelings of the approved social character. We find also, in an interesting way. the interaction between these and actual experience. The crucial point, in this period, s i in the field of success and money. The confident assertions
� suO:-ering,
resigne dcath,
III winch
The Analysis ifGullare
83
there is a convenient, often spectacular
the unloving partner shows great qualitics of
care, duty, and piety; and then, of course, the real love can be consummated. In money, the process is similar: legacies, at the crucial moment, tum up from almost anywhere, and fortunes are.restored. Nobody has to go against the principle that money IS central tosueccss, but equally very few have to be bound by the ethie preached to the poor: that the deserv
of the social character, that success followed effort, and that
ing prosper by effon. This element of cheating marks one crucial point of difTerence between the social character and
consciously, with a practical world in which things were not
the actual structure of feeling. The use of the Empire is similar but more complex. Of
wealth was the mark of respect, had to contend, if only un so simple. The confidence of this fiction is often only super ficial. What comes through with great force is a pervasive atmosphere of instability and debt. A normal element, in these stories, is the loss of fortune, and this is hardly ever presented in terms consistent with the social character: that success or failure correspond to personal quality. Debt and ruin haunt this apparelltly confident world, and in a majority of cases simply happen to the characters, as a result of a process outside thcm. At one level, the assumptions of the social character arc maintained : ifyou lose your fortune, you get out of the way - you cannot embarrass yourself or your friends by staying. But this ruthless code is ordinarily con· fined to subsidiary characters : the parents ofhero or heroine. For the people who matter, somc other expedient is neces sary. It is found, over the whole range of fiction, by h\'o devices : the unexpccted legacy, and the Empire. These devices are extremcly interesting, both at the level of magic and at the lcvel of developing attitudes necessary to the society. Magic is indeed necessary, to postpone the conflict be tween the ethic and the experience. I t is widely used in sexual siruations, where hero or heroine is tied to an unloved wife or husband, while the true lover waits in the wings. Solutions involving infidelity or brcaking the marriage are normally unthinkable, and so a formula is evolved, for standard use: the unsuitable partncr is not merely unloved, but alcoholic or insanc; at a gi" en point, and after the required amount of
course there were actual legacies, and these evcntually changed the self-help ethic, in its simplest form: the magic, at this stage, lay in their timing. But the Empire was a more universally available escapc·route: black sheep could be lost in it; ruined or misunderstood heroes could go out and return with fortunes ; lhe weak of every kind could be trans ferred to it, to make a new life. Often indeed, the Empire is the source of the unexpected legacy, and the two devices arc joined. It is clear that the usc of the Empire relates to real factors in the society. At a simple level, going out to the new lands CQuid be seen as self-help and enterprise of the purest kinds. Also, in the new lands, there was a great need for labourers, and emigration as a solution to working·class prob lems waS being widely urged, often by the most humane critics of the existing system. In 1840, 90,000 people a year were emigrating, and in 1850 three times as many. In a different way, in terms of capital and trade, the Empire had been one of the levers of industrialization, and was to prove one mnjor way of keeping the capitalist system viable. These factors arc reAcctcd in fiction, though not to the same extent as later in the century, when Imperialism had become a conscious policy. Meanwhile, alongside this reAection ofreal factors, there was the use as magic : characters whose desti nies could not be workcd out within the system as given were simply put on the boat, a simpler way ofresolving the conflict between ethic and experience than any radical questioning
The Long Revolution
84
of the ethic. This method had the additional advantage that it was consonant with another main element of the structure of feeling: that there could be no gencral solllt on . t� the social problems of the time; there could e only mdlvld�lal . solutions, the rescue by legacy 01' emigration, thc resolutIOn
�
�
by some timely change of heart. . Now the fascinating thing about the struClUre offeeling as described is that it is present in almost all the novels we now read as litcralUre' as wcll as in the now disregarded popular fiction. This is true of the reflections and of the magic. Disraeli seems daring in dramatizing the two-nation PI'O
�
lem in the love of an aristocrat and a Chartist girl, but Sybil, following the pattern of almost all pOOl' heroines in such situations in lhe periodicals, is discovered in the end to be 'really' a dispossessed aristocrat. (T e uniting of. the two . nations is in fact, in Disraeli, the combmatlon ofagncultural
�
and industrial property, a very sanguinc political forecast,
and the same pattern is followed in Conillgsby, where the young aristocrat marries the Lancashire manufacturer's daughter, and is elected for an industrial constituency.) Mrs Gaskell, though refusing the popula� fiction that the. poor suffere .by their own faults, succeeds In Mary BartOli III compromISing working-class organization with murder, and steers all her
�
loved characters to Canada. Kingsley, in Altoll Lotte, s��ds his Chartist hero to America.And thescarelhehumanecntlcs, in many ways dissenting from the so.cial character, but
remaining bound by the structure offechng. The same corrcspondence is evident in novels less con cerned with the problems of the society. The novels of Charlotte and Anne Bronte are, in terms ofplot and structme of feeling, virtually identical with many slories in the per.i . odicals : the governess-heroine, the insane Wife or alcohohc husband the resolution through resignation, duty, and ickells, similarly, uses the situations, the feelings, magic.
D
and the magic of periodical fiction again and again.
. This conncxion between the popular structure of feelmg
and that used in the literature of the time is ofmajor import ance in the analysis of culture. It is here, at a level even more
The A'IQ�sis of Culture
85
important than that of institutions, that the real relations within the whole culture arc made clear : relations that can easily be neglected when only the best writing survives, or when this is studied outside its social context. Yet the con ncxion must be carefully defined. Often it is simply that in the good novel the ordinary situations andfeelings arc worked through to their maximum intensity. In other cases, though the framework is retained, one element of the experience floods through the work, in such a way as to make it relevant in its own right, outside the conventional terms. This is true of Elizabeth Gaskell, in the early parts of Mary Barton; of Charioltc Bronte, taking lonely personal desire to an inten sity that really questions the conventions by which it is opposed ; of Dickens, certainly, in that the conventional figure of the orphan, or the child exposed by loss of fortune, comes to transcend the system to which he refers, and to embody many of the deepest feelings in the real experience of the time. These are the creative clements, though the conncxion with the ordinary structure offeeling is still clear. The orphan, the exposed child, lhe lonely governess, the girl from a poor family: these are the figures which express the deepest response to the reality of the way of life. In the ordinary fiction, they were conventional figures ; in the literature they emerge carrying an irresistible authenticity, not merely as exemplars of the accidents of the social system, but as expressions of a gllleral judgement of the human quality of the whole way of life. Here, in the 18405, is the first body of fiction (apart from occasional earlier examples, in Godwin and perhaps Ricllardson) expressing, even through the conventional forms, a radical human dissent. At the level
of social character, the society might be confident of its assumptions and its future, but these lonely exposed figures secm to us, at least, the personal and social reality of the system which in part the social character rationalized. Man alone, afraid, a victim : this is the enduring experience. The magic solutions will be grasped at, in many cases, in the end, but the intensity of the central cxperience is on record and sun'ives them. And it is at this point that we find lhelinkwith
The L01Ig RelJolutiQIl
86
a novcl likc WlIlhtrillg Heigllts, which rejccts so much more of the conventional structure. Here, at a peak of intensity, the arc broken complicated barriers of a system of relationships The tment. commi through, finally, by an absolute human essential the and death, through commitment is realized tragedy, embodied elsewhere in individual figures who may, by magic, be rescued from it, becomes the form of the whole raised to work. The creative clements in the other fiction arc y ordinar the outside right work the takes a wholeness which feeling. new a leaches and g, aCfedin e structur Art reflects its society and works it social character through to its reality in experience. But also art creates, by new per ceptions and responses, elements which the society, as such, is not able to realize, Ifwe compare art with its society, we find a series ofreal relationships showing its deep and central connexions with the rest of the general life, We find descrip tion, discussion, exposition through plot, and experience of the social character. \Ve find also, in certain ehal'aeteristic forms and deviecs, (:vidence of the deadlocks and unsolved problems of the socicty: oflcn admitted to consciousness for the first time in this way, Part of this evidence will show a false consciousness, designed to prevent any substantial recognition; part again a deep desire, as yet uncharted, to move beyond this As George Eliot wrote, recording this latter feeling, in 1848: ,
The day win come when thcre will be a temple of while marble, whcre sweet ineensc and anthems shall risc to the memory of e\'cry man and woman who has had a deep Ahmmg, a presentiment, a yearning, 01' a clear vision of the lime when this miserable reign of Mammon shall end - when men shall be no longer ' like the fishes of the �ea' - society no more like a face one half ofwhich - the side ofprof(:ssioll, of lip-f ith - is f:lir and God-like, the Olher half - the side of deeds and institutions - with a hard old wrinkled skin pw;:kered illlo the sneer ofa :...Iephistophelcs,
a
afl, much of the magic, of the 1840s, expressed :r ...luch of the a this desire, And at this point we find out'Sdves moving into and art of son process which cannot be the simple compari society, but which must start from the recognition that all
87 Tfw Anarysis of Culture the acts ofmen compose a general reality within which both art and what we ordinarily call society arc comprised, We . do not now compare the art with the society; we compare , both With the whole complex of human actions and feelings, \-Ye find some art expressing feelings which the society in its g ne�al character, cOuld n t express, These may e the ? , cleauve respons�s which bnng new feelings to light, They may be also the Simple record of omissions : the nourishment or attempted nourishment of human needs unsatisfied, An e�ement I the 18405 that we have not yet noted shows � this kmd of eVidence clearly, The characteristic verse of Tenny son and Arnold in the decade, from il10Tle d'AT/hIiT and Ulyssu to Forsaken MeTman, is a late phase Oflhat part of the RomanlJc moveme t whicJ sought to express, through � � other places and othcr tImes, a nchness not evident in ordin_ ary eOIll:mporary life, That this poetry is weaker than that of Colendge and Keats, which it formally resemb les seems to mark a further and perhaps disastrous moving aw y from , �h� encrg�es of the actual lifc; yet the impulse is charactcr_ IStlC, and m strengt], and weakncss 10 " " ce that " d Icates expenen , stud� of the seclety alone could not adduce, Then again we , . ca� Imk wuh thIS thc general romanticizing of the past at a �rtou,s level in Car/yle, at a popular levcl in thc form f thc 1Ist rtc 1 novel, ?gain a Romantic creation and at a high 1ev � � productIOn and popularity in the cady 1840S bcglllllln to fade i n the later years, Linking the wea � , romant�,e�sm of exottc colollr and richness with the stron ro�a� ttclSm of the vision ofa fuller human life is the sense o omsslOn, from the bleak rcality and dominant � ideals of the pe '� Jod ?f certain basic human necds, The magic and tinsel : �fI Ileglt l ��tc t,heatre and music-hall, the ornate furnishing t Ie GOthiCism III architecturc, belong in the same category A d 1848, the last year of the Chartists, is also the first rear o the P,:c Raphaelite Brotherhood, I t is not that we cannot cl� te thIS art to the rest of the general life, but that we sec it Y liS very contrast with the main features of the socicty ,a an c1e�ent of thc general human ol'ganization which found . exprcsslon III Ihis specific Way, and which must be SCI in
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88
The Long Rnwlutioll
parity with the other elements, culture as a whole.
if we are to analyse the
Finally, as we look at the whole period, we rec�ize that its creative activities are to be found. not only 10 art but,
following the main lines of the society, in industry and engin . v kinds of sOCial cering, and, questioning the society, ill ne�
institution. We cannot undcr$land any penod of the Indus-
trial Revolution if we fail to recognize the real miracle that
�
was being worked, by human skill and effort. Again an
again, even by critics of the society, the excitement of thtS extraordinary release of man's powers was acknowledged
and shared. The society CQuid not have been acceptable �o anybody, without that. 'These are our poems ' Carlyle sal .' in 1842, looking at onc of the new locomollves, and thiS clement, now so easily overlooked, is central to the whole
�
culture.
In a quite different way, in new institutions, the slow
creation ofdifferent imagL"s ofcommunity, different fo�ms of relationship, by the newly-orga�izing workers an by middle
�
class reformers, marks a reaching-out of the mmd of co� parable importance. We cannot understand ��en the crea�lVe . . part of a culture without reference to activities of thIS kmd, in industry and institutions, which are � strong and .as valuable an expression of direct human feeling as the major art and thought.
To make a complete analysis of the culture of the 18405
would go far beyond the scope and intention oflhis chapter.
I have simply looked at this fascinating decade as a way of
considering what any such analysis involves. I ha�e o.nly . indicated the ways in which it might begin, but I think It IS
clear that analysis of the kind described is feasible, and that
the exploration of rdations between apparently separate elements ohhe way oflife can be illuminating. In any event, as we follow the analysis through, and as we see the ways in
which it could be continued, we can decide for ourselves
the extent to which the main theoretical approach, and the theoretical distinctions which follow from ii, arevalid.
3
I
I
I N D I V I D U A L S AND S O C I E T I E S W I:!. arc seeking to define and consider one central principle :
that of the C5Sential relation, the true interaction, between
patterns learned and created in the mind and patterns com municated and made active i n relationships, conventions
�
and institutions. Culture is our name for this process and i
results, and then within this process we discover problems that have becn the subject of traditional debate and that we
may look at again in this new way. Among such problems,
that ofthe relationship hetween an individual and his society
is evident and crucial. I t has heen discussed through the whole series of systems of thinking that compose our tradition
�
�nd it is still widely discussed, from current experience, sillc
11 seems to be agreed thai precisely this issue is at the centre of
the conflicts of our time. Yet of course we approach the
experience through lhe descriptions we have learned: in a
morc or less conscious way if we know parts of the vast body
of accumulated theory in the matter; still, in effect, if we know none of the theory directly, yet find it embedded in the
very language and forms of relationship through which we arc bound to live. When we examine actual relationships, we start from the descriptions we have learned. When we
speak of ' the individual ' and of 'society', we are using
descriptions which embody particular interpretatioll5 of the experience to which they refcr: interpretations which gained
currency at a particular point in history, yet which have now
virtually established themselves in our minds as absolutes.
By a special effort, we may become conscious of the indi <
vidual' and 'society' as 'no more than descriptions', yet still
so much actual expcrience and behaviour is tied to them that the realization can seem merely academic. There arc times,
howcver, when there is so high a tension between experience
TIll: Long Revolution
go
.
forced to examin.e t c dcscnp and description that we arc for new dcscnptlons, not so them nd beyo ( 5 and to seck of but as literally a problem � c as a maHer of theory ways our at th rs yca som fol' me � behaviour. It has seemed to , , te, ua\and cle �y are madequa ofthinking about ' thc individ, ure, cult ut abo unkmg le. In tl confusing, and at times sten i�sue as name , ] have fo�nd this ut abo ctly dire than rather g ,�d of expenence changm my own descriptions of th . , a\oC I t wha Ifn IS possible, from quite radically. r wanI 10 sec about culture, to reconsid. er and d min tive crea .... ,h" . sal·d abou' ' pose to review the maIO descn this traditional debate. I prop of recent them on ct effe the ine tions historically, to exam nd es, and to offer some ame work in a number of disciplin . riptions ments and possible new desc
�h
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,
at the the historical exa�in�tion We can eonvcniently begin now wc tlon scflp dc the as rged . . point where ' individual ' eme by datmg a ce flcn expC an to date havc It is always difficult d or a appcars - eithcr a new wor conc pt' but when a word hed reac been has particular stag: new sense of a word - a ge. han c of ss USne Cl COnS a . . ? i the nearcst we can get to that s k mg, and thm l leva me in , ble' pal·a ' I ndividual' meant ' inse ut ext ortheologleal argumen� abo its main use was in the cont how am expl to was ort eff ity. The the nature of the Holy Trin yet as existing in his own nature b l·ng could be thought of The . hole of an indivisible \� xi ting by this nature as part r fie ds ?f expenenee, and othc to nded c.xte lem logical prob r of used to mdl�ate a membc. 'individual' became a term at t rm � flhe Jly I plcx com The � ies. � some group, kind, or spec g h;m IS that ry, for it is the \IlIt once apparent in this histo � fhe s. clas ofa illp bers s onts mem defined, yet defined in term �nt ned y a word tha� has m separable entity is being defi e - IS confelled nam r cula paru a tity ' inseparable ' : an iden s. TI�e - the fact of common Slam by a realization of identity e m ehan � is tion rip ern desc . . crucial history of the mod , the mdl al as a vldu of k thin to emphasis which enabled us ediate reference, by the vcry kind of absolute, without imm
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91
Individllals al/d Societies
structure of the tcrm, to the group ofwhich he is a member. And this change, so far as we can now trace it ill the imper fectly recorded history of the word itseJf, seems to have taken place in England in the late sixteenth and earlv seventeenth centuries. Slowly, and with many ambigl1iti�, since that time, we have learned to think of' the individual in his own right', where previously to describe an individual was to give an example orthe group ofwhich he was a member, and so 10 oITer a particular description of that group and of the relationships within it. * This scmantic change, in ilSclfvcry difficult to trace, seems clearer in its context of an actual change in relationships, in our long and uneven gl·owth fi·om the medieval world. In describing this we are of coursc reducing a whole area of complicated experience to a few simple patterns, but our sense of the general change is within these limits probably accur:ltc.
The basis of the new sense of 'individual , can be
intercstingly explored in the history of the idea of the indi vidual soul, and we arc probably right to see in the con Il"Oversies of the Reformation an extension of ideils inhel'ent
in the Chrisli
�
way personal : a man's direct and individual relationship witl� God. I n either way o[thinking, the problem ofpersollal destmy was rcal, but at one extreme this could be seen as an
example of common destiny, important primarily as indi cating this common destiny, whilc at the otherextremt:: il was the individual destiny, in its own right, which elaimed prim ary at tcntion. One destiny was appl·ehendcd tlwough the . compllcatcd structure of relationships of a total order; the other through onedireci relationship, between the individual
and his Cod. Whcn we speal- of the 'individualism' of Protestan � Ihi nking, we do not mean that the fact of a per . mOl'e real than in previous systems, but that sollal destllly IS
the relationships within which the destiny is realized are differently defined. A change ill the conception of relation_ ships - crudely from man-church-God 10 man-God
_
is
/ The LoIlg Revolution
92
�
recorded by the new sense ofwhal it is to. be ' an indivi ual'. There is a similar and related change III the conceptlOll of man's individual ' position ' in life. To speak of a position implies relationships, and we are still VCI"y cameio.us of this. But there is an evident change, between medlCval and modern thinking, in this difficult conception of 'man
�n
society ', .Most accounts of medieval society stress the way m which a man was defined by his position in the socia1 order: an ' individual' in the old sense, defined by his membership
ofagroup. As Erich Fromm has pul i t : ' a peJ"SO� was ideotical . with his role in society; he was a peasant, an artISan, a knight, and not all illdividuol who happened to have this or that occupa tion '. We can see that this must to a large extent have been true, in a rigid society in which the possi )il ty of' beco�i�g . something else' was comparauvely very hmlTcd . As mobility
� �
increased, and at least some men could change thcir �tatus,
the idea ofbeing an individual in a senseseparablc from one's
social role obviously gained in strength. The growth of
�
;
capitalism, and the great soci 1 ch�n�c� asso iated with it, encouraged certain men to see the iIldlvldual as a source of economic activity, by his 'free enlerprisc '. lt was less a mat ter ofperforming a certain function within a fixed ordcl than : of initiating certain kinds of aCliv ty, cho�s ng partJcul?r . directions. The social and geograpll1cal mobility to wluch ill
!
�
some cases these changes gave rise Icd to a redefinition ofthe
1 am' - by extension to 'what I want 10 be' and ' what by my own errorts ] have become '. Yet t.his is
individual - 'what
still a definition ofan individual in his social or economic role,
and we can all observe that this kind of definition has per sisted into our own times. I think, among many examples, of the magistrate's qucstion to William Morris in the dock, in 1885: MrSaunders : "" hal are you? I aman artist,and a literarYlnan, prettywdl known,
Prisoner:
I think, throughout Europe.
The curtness of the question, and yet Morris's immediate undcrstanding of it, stick in my mind, for I know my own
Individuals and Societies
93 rcaction, that the nly answer to 'what are you ? ' is ' a man', � . yet with the ccnamty that the answer would be cons idered msolent, :u consider the ques tion insolent. And in rejecting the question ' what are you ?', thinking ofthe more acceptab le �u�stion ' who arey ou ? ' and then 'what is your work ?', I am . hVlllg out ti llS particular history, in whic h we have become increasingly conscio � of individual existence as a thing separ�ble fro , more Important than, an occupation, a social � fUllctlOn, a SOCial rank. I can thin k ofsome people who would have answercd the magistrate's qucstion with the proud 'an Englishman ', and indeed that kind ofconsciousness is a stag e in the development. e have at our command, now , a number ofways ofdefimng our existence, in terms ofnation alily, elass, occupation and so on, in which we in fact offer a personal dcscription in term s ofmembership ofa group. Yet fol' most of us, when all these terms have been used an area of conscious and valued exist ence remains whic in this mode of description could not be expresse at all. It is in relation to t.his area of exist ence that the problem of ' the individual and society ' takes shap e. Thus we can trace our concept of' the individual' to that complex of c ange which we anal ys in its separable aspects � as �he Renaissance, the Refo rmatIOn, the beginnings of . capltahs t economy. I n essence it is the abstraction of the indivi ual from the complex of relationships by which he had hitherto been nonnally defi ned. The counterpart of this pr�ess w � a similar abstraction of 'society'. which had . earlier mdlcated an actual relat ionship ' the society or his fellows' - but which in the late sixteenth century began to develop the more general mod ern sense of 'the system of common life ' - society as a thing in itself: 'Community' reached the same stage of deve lopment in the seventeenth century, and 'Stat e' had reached this stage rather earlicr having addcd to its two earlier mea nings - the condition o the co��oll life, as no i 'stal e ofthe nation ' ; the signs of � � a condItion 01' status, as III the King 's state' - the sense ofthe 'apparatu s' of the common life, its framework or sct ordcr. Thus we see the terms of relationsh ip separating out, until
1
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The
94
lAmg
Revu{utiun
'individual' on the one hand, 'society', 'community', and 'state' on the other, could be conceived as abstractions and absolutes. The major tradition of subsequent socia! thinking has depended oil- these descriptions. In England, from Hobbes to the Utilitarians, a variety of systems share a common starting-point: man as a bare human being, ' �he individ:I�I ' ,
is t h e logical starting-point of psychology, ethIcs, and pollu�. It is rare, in this tradition, to start from the fact that man IS
born into relationships. The abstraction of the bare human being, as a separate substance, is ordinarily t�ken fol' granted.
In other systems of thinking, the commul1lty would be the
axiom and individual man the derivative. Here individual man i the axiom, and society the derivative. Hobbes virtu·
;
ally drops all middle terms between separate individuals and the State, and, seeing the individuals as na�ural!y selfish, sees society as a rational construction to restram the dest�uc. tive clements in individuals and to enforce co·operauon. Locke sees the rational and co-operative elements as natural, but similarly postulates separate individuals who create society by consent or contract, for the pro�e�tion of th.eir individual interests. The whole Liberal tradillon, followmg from this, begins with the individual and his rights and, judging society as an arrangement to ensurc Ih�e abstract . rights, argues normally for only the necessary minimum of
l:
government. It is clear that much uman good resulted. from this emphasis, in the actual liberauon ofmcn r0r.n arbltrary . and oppressive systems. Yet it rested on descnptlons which,
�
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while corresponding to the experience o man breakin� out . from obsolete social forms, came to conflLct with cxpenence of the difficulties ofnew kinds oforganization. While the abstract individual was idealized in this tradj· tion an alternative tradition, sharing some but not .111 of its
':'
ter s, moved in the direction of the idealization of society.
Rousseau, arguing that 'we begin properly 10 become m:11 only after 'we have become citizens', saw the commulllty as the source of values and hence as ' a moral person' . Hegel, beginning from the similar emphasis that man becomes an
Individuals alld Societies
95
individual through society and civilization, saw the State as the organ of the highest human values - an embodiment of what .Matthew Arnold called 'our best self'. Yet both ousseau and Hegel, with differences of empha sis, saw the Lmportance of actual communities and forms of association as the necessary mediating clement betwee n individuals and the large Society. It is from this line of thinking that an important revision of the descriptions has followed. We pre· serve, from the early Liberalism, the absolu tes of' individual' and 'society', but we add to these, as mediating terms, 'community' and 'association ', to descri be local and face· to-face relationships through which the great abstractions of Individual and Society operate in detail . A particular and crucial addition was the concept of 'class ', which is quite different from the static concepts of 'order ' and 'rank' because it includes this kind of middle tel'm between ' the individual' and ' society ' - the individual relates to his society through his class. Yet ' class ' cal'ries an emphasis differcnt from ' community' or 'association ', becau se it is not a face· to-face grouping but, like 'society' itself, an abstraction. Marx argued that by their common memb en;hip of a par· ticular class, men will think and act in certai n common ways even though they do not bclong to the same actual communi ties, and that the processes of'society' arc in fact best under· stood in terms of the interaction of these classes. Thus, in the nineteenth century, while the abstract descriptions of 'individual' and ' society ' retained their force, a number of new descriptions were made and emphasized, their general import being the indication of particular kinds of relation ship. I t is on this whole range - rising, as we have seell, from a complex of historical changes and rival intellectual traditions - that. certain twentieth-century disciplines have acted.
�
"
The influence of Freud, as an analyst of personal and social behaviour, has been very great, and has reinforced one part of the tradition that we have been examining. For Freudian
I 96
The Long Revolution
Individuals a1ld SOOeHes
theory assumes a basic division between the individual and society, and hence basic division between the individ�al and sueh mediating forms as 'community', or 'class', which are. seen simply as social agents which operate on the individual Man, the 'bare human being', has certain fundamental drives which are also fundamentally anti-social. Some of these society must restrain; others it must refine an.d di�ert into socialJy acceptable or valuable channels. SoClCty a mechanism ofrcstraint and divcrsion, and civilization is the product, through 'sublimation', of suppressed natural impulses. Man as a bare human being is thus fundament�lIy alienated from society, and the best that ean be boped for a reasonably adjusted balance between the conRicting needs of individual and society, the process of sublimation being the mechanism of balance, and breakdown being due to faulty adjuSlment ofthis kind. . .IS, Yet if Freud's account of the individual and society its basic terms, merely an item in an old tradition, his ac�ual inquiries led to a highly significant emphasis on rclatiOn ships. Indeed he introduced, in a wholly new way, a new mediating term, the family, and thus remarkably exten�ed the study ofaetual social growth. It was not that the f�mlly, as a first form of association, had not always been aVall,,:ble as a concept, but that Frcud's emphasis on the radIcal importance, in all human behaviour, of the p�tte�ns . of relationship established in infancy, transformed .IlS slgm� cance. Freud's dcscriptions are contained and limited by Ius theoretical separation of' the individual' and ' society', yet in diffcrent hands they have been diffcrently developed. In dogmatic Freudianism very linle .of interest to �he st�dy of social relationships has emerged, SiOce such reiallonshlps are always construed as ofsecondary importance. In othe: han?s, the possibility of linking our deeply personal relauonsilips witb the whole network of social relationships has been interestingly cxplored. The work of Fromm seems particu· lady IJseful, since he has developed one new mediating dcs . criplion, that of the ' social character'. This offers to descl"lbe the process by which social behaviour becomes part of an IS
IS
'
III
97
individual personality: not by regular processes of restraint and .diversion, as in Freud, but by a shaping process which . of can melude many kmds relationship. The 'social charac ter' is a selective response to experience, a learned system of . all� actil1g in a maj ri�yof feehn thecorumunily into 8. �hc chll� IS h<;'rn. ��he fam�?ly then the community'Swhich agent crcaung tillS dCSlred sOC1al character in individuals. Ifil is successful, the individual's social activity will be at one with his personal desires, for the social character ' internalizes extcmal n�cessitil..'S an� thus harnesses human energy for the �ask of a gl\'en economIC and social system '. The individual, m such a c.lse, comes to ' act according to what is necessary for. him .from a practical standpoint, and also to give him satisfaction for his activity psychologically' . Instead of a pcr�an��t human nature, which society rcstrains or modi fi�s, mdlvldual psychology is then a matter of' the particular klll� of relatedness of the individual towards the world ThiS relatedness can correspond with the current social'. character, 01" can diverge from it. In this we can sec Freud playing the role of Hobbes, and I'romm .that of Locke: in both cases with a greatly refine �es�r�.ptlon of the .actual process of relationship between and IJldlv.ldual an� soc�ety. Fromm has advanced considerably in s�owlllg how society' can become truly embodied in indi Viduals, so that we need not think of them as separate and absolu�e but always in terms ofrelationships . The real prob lem aflses, however, when we ask what is the source of individual character Ilmt can divergc from the social charathe c �er,.o�, more accurately, what kinds ofreiationship affect the 1Jl�lvI�ual charactc� �halarenot formsof ocial l'c1alionship? � If .sociUl character IS reserved to a partic ular construction w�lch mayor may not adequately interpret the real relation_ ships which the individual forms, then its function is dearer and the possib�lity of variant individual response has a� obvl..ous lhcorellcal basis. Yet it is thcll a question wheth 'socIal character: is a finally useful term, sincc it seems onlyer a . l explanation of how parlla relationships (society) create psychology (the individual). III
•
T-o
IS
98
TIle
Long Revolution
The concept of' social character' is similar to the �nthrop'o
om�arau�e studlcs ofdifferent societies have added to our hlstoneal eV'dencc to , show how vadous arc the learned systems of behaviOur and logical concept ofa ' pattern of culture',
attitudes which groups of human beings adopt, Each of these
systcms, while it lasts, is the form of a society, a pattern of culture to which most of its individual members are success
fully trained, Comparison of the systems has dOn: much to , . tral15form traditional arguments about the mdlVl�ual and
society, for it has shown how variolls are the fecllngs aJ�d forms ofbehaviOul" that bring individual and commOll satis . faction. Instead ofasking the l"e1ationship betwecn an Idc�lly l t of deslrcs idcntified individual, with a standard cquipmcl . and attitudes, and an ideally identified society, With stand�rd purposes, it has becn possible to look at rcal and changmg . relationships, with an amount of detatl that has bro cn up the standard prescriptions. Yet, in extending the eVidence,
�
it has made theorctical inquiry more difficult. P�rhaps the main result has been an enormous strengthclllng o the . . tradition which emphasizcd the extent to which mdlvldual
�
personality is formed by social processes, even at ve�: d,;ep
levels. This has becn wholly valuable, as a way of :ollectlOg the false emphasis on the abstract ' individual ', willcl� we �an now see to be a product of a particular social and historical situation ralher than a correct reading of the generai human . condition. Yet this is not, rightly interpreted, a demai of the importance or individuals. As Benedict argues :
No cuIlure yet obsel"\'cd has been able 10 eradicate the diFft:renecs in . the temperaments of the pcrson� who compose it. It IS a ",ays a give.and.take. The problem of the individual is
�
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�O{ :'?nfi... -d
by
stressing the anlagonism between eul{U e a.nd the lI�dl\"ldual, but , by stressing (heir mutual ,·einforeemcnt. I Ins rapport IS so d�sc t1 1 at . it s i not possible to discuss patterns of culture without cOIl"dcnn
specifically their n·lation to individual psychology.
g
A ' pattern of culture ' , like a ' social characle� ', is a selective . response to experience, a learned system offccll�g and actin ?, in a particular s()cicIY. Iknedict argues that tillS pattern Will
Illdividuals alld Societits
99 be 'congenial' to a m-uorit y of the members of the soci ety, and that thertfore they can be trained to it, in such a way ; that by bec ?�!Il� ,?embers of the society they will adequa tely express their mdlVlduality . But to others, the pattern will not be 'congenial ', and these will either not conform, or conf orm at a possibly heavy pric e to their individual desi res. It is difficult to know what weig ht to PUt on 'congenial ' : the vari. ations Benedict actually describes - different reae tiol15 to frustration and gl'ief- look vcry like what others wou ld call 'learned responses ', althoug h the problem then arises that thesc are ' learned ' and yet arc different from thos e the paniculUl' society teaches and approves. If they arc lIot learncd but innate, we arc back to 'human nat ure', to be Ilde n;tood now not as a single � thing, but as comprising all IIInate range of tempera men ts: the relation betw een the individua.l and society thus becomes a kind of lolte ry in which an individual of particular temperament dr�l\ s a winning or losing card ill the society in which he hap pens 10 be born . V\Ic do not yet kno \',;neariy enough to prove . or dis �rov? tillS hyp� (hcsis, but it represents one attempted solu . tlO� III 11 citre ctlOll rather different from the genera! trcnd in socl1l1 psychology. Another anthropologist, Linton, find s it
:
safe to conclude that illna tc, biologicall y determin ed factors cannot be used to account for pers onality configurations as wholes or for the various l·cs .lOnsc palt cl"Os ineluded wilhin such ! configurations. They 0pcl'ate sunpl)· as one among sc\"cl"ill sets ofr.'etol"l l responsible for the formation Oflhcsc.
Lint�n goes on to dcseribe , in the now familiar way , the creallon of mature individu als by learned culture patt erns' and emphasizes thc fact that mOOt human bchadour s i taught in thc form of ?1"8?1�i7.cd configuralions I'athcr than simp ly developed bf the . lndll'lciuai on the baSlsor expcri(."llcc. Included in this tcaching , as parts of a whole patt ern, arc some elements serving ' to meet individual needs ' and others 'to satisfy social necessities '. Bul the carrier of these patterns
100
Individuals and Soeieties
The Long Revolution
and he has in the social organism', . is simply acting as a • unit The socml ty. uali ivid ind te his stitu con ch whi es urc other reso nging world uality is that, in the cha function of this individ g his own s, the individual, by usin in which the society live to meet er ord in , nge the pattern resources, can help to cha . . . . ;> . new problems . uatiOn . the proc(.oss of thIS mdlvld Yet what, precisely, is w how far of social psychology sho The ordinary emphases the idea from , king level of our thin we have moved, at one - the ety soci his des Imu some way that the individual in t �r rain ry creation through rest society being a seconda III way the ss psychologists now stre contract. Most social be to has ual ivid ind te self as 11 separa which awareness of one imsclfas a the infant has no idea ofh ' : nt infa the by learned G. H. Mead has put it: separate individual '. As
ntially a social be object to itself, is esse The self, as t hat whkh can in social cxperience. structure, and it arises
uality. We differcnt levels of individ This definition implies organis� ual vi i ind . the primary can distinguish between ul, but It usef IS This ted. socially crea and the ' self' which is n clarify the icult terms tha t \ :e c is only by using ver y diff and natur· ly n d ' individual' ordma distinction, since the wor s. Perhaps ent elem ble tically separa ally includes these theore al process soci the s ribe desc ch whi the most useful stress is that conscious s of indi\'id�at.io n: th; of making ' selves ' in term process. l iU soc the ividuals arise In differences between ind ialities, ent pot ate inn 'ing have "al) To begin with, individuals s. Further, influence in varying way and thus receive social ' culture or ' mon 'social character even if there is a com et,:",or� n al actu his , ual's so.cial history . pallern ' , each individ l� bas the are se The . act ullique of relationships, is in f entJahues again, as the unique pot vidualizing factors, but growth the of act f interact, the very and the unique history zation, ani org inet disl produces a of self_consciousness 'au�ono. is h on. ecti ' -dir self utiny and capable both ofse1f-scr radically a social process which mOlls' self grows within makes my ono aut degree of gained influences it, but the
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I?�I.
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101
possible the observed next stage, i n which the individual can
.01'
help t� change modify the social process that has influenced . and IS tnfluencmg him. To this vital description must be added another distinction
greatly stressed in recent sociology. The abstraction impli...1·" • • . , . Ill. society c n mak � : It dIfficult for us to recognize theor eucally what In pl·actlce we see quite clearly: that even in a . very SImple society it is hardly ever one single 'social char •
I
acter' or 'eult�r: p�uern ' that the individual encounters. In complex sOCJetles hkeour own, the variations encountered
arc so marked that we can speak of them as alternative
systems will�in • a society '. This s i obviously very important. Ifthe analYSIS of' the individual' has rClurned an abstraction . to Its actual processes ?f growth, so analysis of ' society ' has rCIlII:ned an abstraeuon to the actual complex of real . rel� tlOnshlps. Instead of thinking of' socicty' as a single and . lII�lform obJect', we look at actual groups and the relation. shIps between the�. Since these relationships can be not only �ho�e. of co.o� eratl?n but also of tension and conflict, the us sense of particular directions find mdlvldual With I mat�l'jal in t1 �e alternative directions ofhis society making pOSSible for hl� to express variant growth in social terms.
i!
The recogllllion of' groups' within a society is thus a con. . s, erable step forward. But of course it is possible merely to
�
shift the �round of the abstraction, making the group in its a olutc. Even in tl�e simplest group, there turn a . arc, as III society , relattons of tensIOn and conflict as well as of e��pel·ati�n. This is as true of a face-Io-face group like
�1\Ir0rrr:'
�
a famlly or a villag: as of a common-interest group like a . t�ade ull1�n or a SOCial class. Each of these will have its dis. tinct , socla eharacter' or ' culture pattern', to which it will . seek 10 t�aUl Its members. Yet enclosing this will be the . pal·tic�lar ndividuals, and in such constant llltcr�ctl)Jl . � �roups, as III socl.ety , new dlrectlOns will emerge. Again slllce he group WlI1 e in real .relations with other groups . th.e Pl0Cesses of tra11llllg and amendment within the group
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Will be par� oft e processes oftraining and amendment ofthe larger ' society . A group may be a convenient mark on the
103
The LOllg Revollltioll
1l/diuidua{s alld Societies
scale, but it is only a mark, and the fact of cOlllinuilY, over
coming into effect, for he is confident of the values, attitudes and institutions of the society, accepts the ways in which its
102
the whole scale, is fundamental. ,n
tio al discll�sion o f ' the We b<wt briefly traced. first the tradi � . mam dlrecllons o cer individual and society', second the must now turn agam to tain contemporary disciplines. \-Ve d )lll:sdv� , normally we t h ct � � '; experience, and to the f� ! h ��ted 1:1 ty soclc and lclual mdlv 'the t in thinking aoou that of Ih� mdlvl ual s practice to a vcry simple mod d: , the society s attitude conformity or noncouformity, and of a number of names for to either of these courses. \-Ve havc ve i t as 'responsible ' appro to us e enabl which conformity it as ' timidly conven and 'Iaw- biding', or to condemn er of names for non numb a tional' or 'servile'. We have also independence ' and ' as such thcse, of conformity and some s, s�leh as 'lawless othcr while ving, appro arc ' spirit 'the free of us move to one Some ness' and ' eccentricity' are damning. consistcnt posi a make to try and side or other of these lines, of cither, as it out virtue a make we only tion. l'vlore comm be rcal, but may tions secms to us at the moment. Such valua model mple s the on while they depend, ultimnleJy, ry weak. \' ely relatIv are they y ormit � . conformity 01· nOllconf lllIng �o�e exam by and l, mode this past gct to try I want to . and theIr societies actual relationships bctween individuals sing this issue. extend our practical \'ocabulal·y for discus . r. I n Its modern 1//tmbt ption descri the first \Ve can take individual's positive sense this is a useful way ofdescribing an lives. 'I'hc member he identification with the society in which essential way: its an in it, to g belon ofa society feels himself to ses, to slich a� purpo his ses purpo its , valllcs his values arc lfin its terms. He IS extent that he is proud to describe himsc er - an individual memb a as of course conscious of himself it is ofthe essence but s belong he which to within the society feeling that from al· f so dual, indivi the that ership of memb the natural as it thc society i� opposed to him, looks upon ded. If orwar f be will ses purpo means by which his own and ion discuss its to bute contri will he ary, change is necess
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life is conducted, and sees even conflicts and tensions within the socicty as soluble by reference to thesc fundamental ways and values, in such a manner that the essential lInity of the society will be preserved. This experience of membership is probably much more common than is nonoally allowed t1ll"oretically. I t is true that in mallY modern societies i t has become mueh more difficult, and indeed it is when it significantly breaks down that the /Jroh/tm of ' the individual and society' is most apparent. Yet that membership can be real seems ccnain, and to omit its significance is to fahify tbe whole subsequent argumcnt. But if we have identified the member, we must go on to identify other relationships which apparently resemble it
:
and wllie-h Ilave, by displaccment, led to criticism of it Existentialist thinkers h:tve made an important distinction between the 'autllcntic self' and the 'unautllelltic self', and their ordiltary description of the ' unauthentic self' has been of a mall wllo is 'the creature' of his heredity, IIis envirOll_ ment and his society. Thus Kicrkegaard argues that society presses us to be 'objective ' and ' typical', and that we must oreak through this to OUI" own existence. Jaspers sees modern society as offering the ' unauthentic self' as a whole version of man; we arc the crealllres of hercdity, environment and socielY until some basic expel-icnce (su/Tering, guilt, death) enables us to break through these offered versions to an authelltic realization of our true existence. Nietzsche, simi_ larly, sees the acceptance of social typification as Philistine
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and S,lI tre empha5izes the danger of such social concepts 'fullction ' or 'dUly', which ("an only be valid to the 'un authentic' man. The central obsen·ation, in this whole tradition, is ofgreat value, but tllC tendency to equate ' social
i highly mislc
The Long Revolution
IndiDiduals and S(1(;ietiu
and behave in certain ways, but this need not be only the
living which in fact fails to cOl'respond with or satisfy his own
104
conversion of individuals to social purposes; it is also, in very
many cases, an expression of the society's desire to sec those . individuals survive and grow, according to the best experI ence the society has. \Ve must start by recognizing that individuals could not survive and grow except within a social process ofsome kind. Given this, the real crisis of thc ' authentic' and thc 'un authentic ' is both an individual and a social process. The valuable element in the existentialist emphasis is the insist ence on choice and commitment. I t is true that unless all individual, in the process of his growth, achieves a re.1l per sonal identity, he is incomplete and can be dismissed as ' unauthentic'. He must become deeply conscious of the validity of his ways of thinking and acting, so that he is not merely ' a creature' of the society, but also an individual, a man in his own right. Yct this process, in actual individuals and in different societies, will bc exceptionally varied. It is only vcry rarely limited to conscious apprais al; its ordinary process, while including conscious appraisal in some cases, is a matter of the individual's whole organization: his ner� vous system,
his body, as well as the conscious activities ofhis
brain. In actual growth, the whole complex of feeling and behaviour that constitutes his individuality will stand in a cer tain relation to the complex of feeling and behaviour that is his society. The stages in his growth which constitute his integration as a particular individual will inevitably be forms of relationship with the whole organization of his society. But thcse forms ofrelationship can include what I have called
105
personal organization. He will obey authorities he docs not personally accept, carry out social functions that have no personal meaning to him, even feel and think in ways so foreign to his actual dcsires that damage will be done to his own bcing - often deep emotional disorders, oftcn physical damage to his own organic processes. The marks of this false conformity have been very evidcnt in our social experi� ence, but il is wrong to interpret them in terms of the old ' individual ' and 'society' dichotomy. \oVe can best describe
subject and servant, in contrast with member. 111e subject, at whatever violence to himself, has to accept them as the roles of
the way of lire of his society, ancl his own indicated place in it, because there is no other way in which he can maintain himsclfat all; only by this kind ofobedience can he eat, sleep, shelter, or escape being destroyed by others. It is not his way of life, in any sense that mailers, but he must conform to it to survive. In the case ofthe servant, the pressure is less severe, though still, to him, irresistible. The subject has no choice; the servant is given the illusion of choice, and is invited to identify himself with the way of life in which his place is defined. It is an illusion of choice, because again, like the subject, he has no obvious way of maintaining his life if he refuses. Yet the illusion is important, for it allows him to pretend to an identification with the socidy, as if the choice had been real. The subject will have few illusions about the relationship which is determining him; he will know that the way of life is not his but must be obeyed. The servant, on the
the experience of membership. Particular individuals, in
other hand, may come to identify himself with the way of
particular societics, can become ' authentic', can deeply commit themselves, in terms of their whole organization, to
of himself as a membcr (indeed the old sense of ' member '
the living organization of the society to which they belong. The 'social' is not necessarily the 'unauthentic';
it is
capable of being the ' authentic' and the ' individual '. But
life that is determining him; he may even, consciously, think allows this, for if the individual is an organ of the organism that is society, particular individuals will be higher or lower organs yet still feci themselves as tnle parts). Yet at many
it is then necessary to distinguish the kinds of relationship which give existcntialist arguments their substance. It is
levels of his life, and parlicularly in certain situations such as
clearly possible lor an individual to acquiesce in a way of
vidual is playing and his actual sense ofhimscJfwill become
solitude and age, the discl'epancy betwecn the role the indi
The LOllg IUvoilltion
Ilidividuais and SocielitS
manifest, either consciously or in terms of some physical or
and the reformer or critic on thc other. For the reformcr and the critic are, in the definition I haye given, members. A
<06
emotional disturbance. Given the right conditions, he can play the role as ifil were really his, but alone, or in situations evoking hisdeepesl personal feelings, the irlcntificationbreaks down. I t seems probable, from the experience that has been
10 7
sincere desire to change this or that aspect ofthe general way of life is perfec tly compatible with adherence to its genera! values, and willi that kind of insistcnce on the essential con
widely recorded, that this situation oCthe servant is crucial in
s i a more extreme case,
tinuity and unity oflhe society to which reformers and critics ordinarily adhere. The revolutionary, by contrast, lacks that
theoretically, though in history, and in modern undeveloped
sense of membership of a particular society which makes i t
countries, it is common experience enough. And in modern
possible for the reformer and critic to suppose that their own
our own kind ofsociety. The subject
Europe and the United States there are still subjects, though the c.''
ends ca�l in f.'l.ct bc achievcd within the society's existing forms. 1 he revolutionary's l'datiollship with his society is olle of declared opposition and struggle, but i t is characteristic of him that he opposes the society in terms of the struggle fol' a different society. This is obvious in the case of political
public activity has, in the cnd, very little to do with our
revolutionaries, but the same pattern is evident in rebels of
private desires. Indeed the main modern force of the dis
other kinds, in art, morality, religion. The rebcl fights the way ofHfe ofhis socit:.:ty because to him personally it is wrong, . uut tn art, morality and religion, as morcobviously in politics,
tinction bctwcen 'the individual ' and 'society' springs from this feeling. I t is ol1ly from the servant complex that we can both maintain this conviction and yet repeatedly pretend that we believe, wholeheartedly, in the purposes of our
th � l:ew reality he proposes is more than personal; be is . oAt,;nng It as a new way oflifc. This indeed is his distinction from exile and
society. The existentialist refuses this complex, and asserts the centrality of personal cltoice. From this position, with the reality of membership virtual!y excluded as a possibility, the
vagral/t,
which
arc the morc truly individual forms. The exile is as absolute as the rebel in rcjccting the way of life of his society' but instead of fighting it he goes away. Often he is like the sub
whole rich repertory of modern individualis m proceeds.
ject in that unless he conforms he will be destroyed or will be
Yet it is obdollS, when we survey this range, that the modes
unable to maintain his lifc. But he is unlike the subject in
of nonconformity arc at least as varied as the modes of con
lhat he has managed to escape, or has been allowed to get
formity. '¥here we had nOt only the member but also the
away. In some cases, indeed, he will get away to membership
�
subject and the servant, we have now not only the rebel but
o another society, in which he finds his personal reality, his
also the exjJe and the \'agrant. The idea ofthe rtbtl still carries
vl\al system of values and altitudes, confirmed. l\lore usually,
a strong positive valuation, though in fact rebels arc few. The rebd resembles the member in that he has made a strong
perhaps, hc will rt:lllain an exile, unable to go b.'1ck to the
personal commitment to certain social purposes, a positive identification of his personal existence with a particular pattern of social effort. The ways of his society arc not his ways, but in rebelling against one social form he is seeking to
society that he has rejected or that has rejected him, yet equally unable to form important relationships with thc society to which he has gone. This is a tl"agic and character istic eondition which has been reached again and again in ollr century. The rebel, whilc more exposcd to real danger in that
establish another. 'I'here are obviollsly important distinctions
he is attackillg his sQCiety at its crucial points, has a degree of
to be drawn herc, between the re\'oilltionary on the one hand,
positive relationship by the vcry fact that he is aetively living
The LDng Revolution
Individuals alld Societies
hand, is out his personal values. The true exile, on the other he call then 'S, changt. society his committed to wailing: when which in one is change of s proces actual the but come home, he is not involved. from We have been used to thinking ofexiles as men driven is figure modern ic terist charac equally their society, but an case in at live chose, he if could, le self·exi The -exile. the self l reality. hissociety, but to do so would be to deny his persona stays, he often as but le, princip Sometimes he goes away, on a had iks Bolshev The e. separat eels f le, yet sti!!, on princip that useful term for this, in ' internal emigre ', and jfwe realize e a very this is not confined to politics we can use it to describ e lives self-exil of kind This ship. important modern relation but born, was he which into society the in about and moves lterlla n:jeets its purposes and despises its values, bccause.of� om· live principles to which his whole personal reahtY . ls � es, pnnclpl these for fight not does he rebel, mined. Unlike the t, and differen be to himsclf knows He wailS. and s watche but to the pressure of his activity is to preserve this di crence, sepamte oflus term the is maintain the individuality which ically, theoret or f n, conditio this in tension great is ness. There he at least the self-exilc wants the society to change, so that
ofthe f,lagrant, which in some ways it resembles. The vagrant
108
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at least can st r t belonging to it, and this involves him, his rebel, the unlike since, But ships. notionaily, in relation it stage idual indiv an at fixed d remaine has dissent l persona � . . ups, even with is difficult for him to form adequate reiallonsl scnting other dissenters. He may support the principles ofdis being of wary too is he them: join causes, but he canllot caught and compromised. What he has principally to defend any is his own living paltern, his own mind, and almost or becomc has He this. to thrcat l relationship is a potcntia be cannot icity authent this but self', ic authent ' s i h d remaine at shared with or communicated to others, or, if the eITon ill w it in involved ment communication is made, the commit say to come may he er Whatev . minimal be characteristically or do, he continues, essentially, to walk alone in his society,
defending a principle in himself. This condition must be distinguished, finally, from that
log
also stays in his own society, though he finds its purposes meaningless and its values irrelevant. Yet he lacks the exile's pride and his firm attachmcnt to principlc. There is nothing in particular that the vag-rant wants to happell ; his maximum demand is that he should be left alone. Where tIle cxile is usually al'liculate in distinguishing his personal position, the vagrant often finds as little meaning in himself as in his society. Indeed it is not !tis society to which hc objects, but,
essentia!ly, Ihe condition of society as such. 'Vhereas to others the society comes through as a particular sel of rela tionships which can bc accep!cd or rejected, to the vagrant society is a meaninglcss series of accidents and prcssures, which as far as possible he evades. He will do anything that is neccssary !o survive within thi8, but this activity will have neither personal nor social mcaning; it is merely a temporary way of keeping aliYt', or 'getting by'. For the vagrant has gone so far that he cannot even acknowledge society, even to oppose it. The events that others interpret as 'society ' are to him like such natural events as storm or sun; the farthest principle he can see is one of bad luck or good luck, by which he stumbles on money or warmth, endures until he can move away from constraint and cold. These are, moreover, not incidents on a journey, for he is not going anywhere, in the sense ofhaving a particular direction ; his lifc isjust happen ing to be passing this way. 'When we think of the vagrant we think naturally of such people as tramps and the fringe of society to which many criminals belong, but the condition of the vagrant - the essential ncgation of reiauonships which he embodies - is not confined to these obvious examples. In some societies it is possible to live out this condition with considcrable material �ueecss, and there arc signs, in some modern thinking, that the condition of the vagrant is the only available condition of man in society : whatc\'er a man docs, thi� is how he fcds, and, given a particular social atmos phcre, there is no need evcn
(0 pretend othcrwise. Conform
ity and rcbellion, service and exile, arc all alike irrelevant. A man docs what he likes, but does not fight for change; serves
' '0
TI,e umg Revolution
II/dividuals and Societies
any master, for immediate convenience, or leaves any
social membership in an alternative group. In fact, because
service, again as convenience and not principle dictates. The one thing the vagrant is certain of is that all the others who are not vagrants arc fools, killing themselves for meaningless
meanings, pretending to meanings whereas the only thing that mailers is oneself: not even a meaningful self, but simply an organism, as such, keeping going.
We need descriptions such as member, subject and servant, or rebel, exle and vagrant, if we arc to gct past the impasse
i
of simple conformity or nonconformity. But, like other descriptions, these arc not absolutes ; they are simply analyses ofparticular forms ofrelationship. There is no single 'society' to which these arc varying forms of adjustment;
indced 'society ' itselftakcs on the same variations, according to the particular relationship that is embodied. To the
membcr, society is his own community; the members ofother communities may be beyond his recognition or sympathy.
?
To the scrvant, society is an establishment, in which he fin s his place. To the subject society is an imposed system, In
which his place is determincd. To the rebel, a particular society is a tyranny; the alternative for which he fights is a new and bettcr socicty. To the exile, society is beyond him, but may change. To thc vagrant, society is a name for other
people, who are in his way or who can be used. Nor are these
'"
the groups and thc alternatives interlock, the total rcality of
an individual's relations to society is often a compound ofthc
panicular kinds of organization dcscribed. 1I.'loreover, at cert ain st�gcs ofhisgl'owth, the indi" idual may move through . vanous kmds of organization; indeed it is commonplace in
some societies for adolescents to move through the stages or rebel, c,xile 01' vagrant bcfore becoming members 01' Sflvants.
Because it is a form of organization, and not a single sub stance, the individual's relationship with society will be a complicated embodimcnlofa wide area of real relationships although within this certain forms of organization such
as
those described may be detcrmining. '"
From the early descriptions of' the individual' and 'socicty' to the more refined descriptions ofthc contemporary debate we can trace a persistent tendency to describe living pro
cesses in tcrms that confel' on them the apparent status of
fLxcd and separable objects. The terms we nccd, to describe the experience adequately, must be essentially active, yet cvery new desniption we invcnt seems to turn, more
01'
less
rapidly, into an object, and it is then vcry difficult both to
clarify experience and to remain faithful to it. The crucial
mcrely ' subjective ' valuations ; rcal societies will necessarily
fact is that every description, every offered interpretation, is
compose them. The membe\' and the community, the servant
only a reaction to the complex of social, cconomic and re
vary according to the kinds ofindividual organization which
a tenn of growth. Thus the idca of' the individual' was not
and the establishment, the subject and the imposed system,
ligious clmnges; it was also a creative interpretation of them,
vagrant and the meaningless socicty are all forms of active
definitions of 'status', to detach human beings from the
the rebel and the tyranny, the exile and the lost society, the
organization, of action and interaction. Further, within
actual societies the relationships described are almost always complicatcd by the existcnce of dilTerent groups and scales. It is possible to be a member of a parlicular community, yet because of that community's relation to some largcr society, to be in the position of a servant
01'
a subject, a rebel or a
vagrant, in certain areas of social experience. The rebel or the exile, as we have seen, can in certain conditions find
as a way of living. To get rid of l'estrictivc and obsolescent
social function' to which they were born', to reshape the law, the Church, the economy, the administration, men had to propose the 'bare human being', as the common clement by
which every kind ofrestriction and mortmain could be chal.
lenged, The individual had even to be detachcd from his family, if a society based not on birth but on works was to be established. Similarly, the idea of' society' had to be wrought out, as a creative description, if the problems of human
."
Tiu Long Revolution
IndifJiduals and Socielies
organization were to be considered in terms wider than those
of brotherly love and the solidarity of mankind i� more and more dying out in the world, and indeed this idea is'sometimes treated with derision .
set by any particular socia! system. The later stress on com munity, and on the social basis of individuality, was again a creative response to practical difficulties which could not be resolved while the idea of the individual as the bare human being remained dominant. In the long process ofacll.ul history, some of these descrip tions have come to seem inadequate, but all, in different degrees, have been redturged by experience oran important kind which can appat"cntly be interpreted in only
this way.
I t is very diOkuit, for example, to live in a modern industrial
society and not feci the force orthe 'individual and society' distinction . There is a deeply-felt discontinuity, for most of us, between what we as individuals desire to do, and what, by somc apparently mystcrious process, actually happens ' out there' in society. This feeling is perhaps even stronger now than it was when the sharp distinction was
first made.
Individuals feel radically inst.::cure when their lives arc changed by forces which they cannot easily see or name, and as . as
societics have become larger and more complicated, and the power to change an environment and real relations
within it has greally multiplied, this insecurity has ct.::rtainly increased. Such insecurity is a constant source of a particular kind of individualism. As Tocqueville noted:
Indi�·idualism is a novel expression, to which a novel idea has gh·en birth, a mature and calm f<:ding, which disposes each mcmber ofthe communi ly to sever himself from lhe mass of his fdlow-crealutes and to draw apart with his family and friends. It may not always be mature and calm, but it is an obvious enough movement, especially now in our own society. I cannot agree with everything that Dostoyevsky's Zossima says, in Brothers Karama.t..ov, but there, quite clearly, is the central paradox";
They maintain that Ihe world is gelling more and more united, more and mor� bo\md together in brotherly community, a! it over comcs distance and StU th O\lglm Hying through th e air. Alas, put no faith in such a bond orunion. The idea oftheserviec ofhumanity,
This is Ilot the whole truth, but it truth:
1 13
s i an important part orthe
Everyone slriv� to kecp his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure the greal(.'St possible fulness of life for him5Clf· but mean. time all his efforts result nOt in auaining fulm:ss uf life but self. dcstruction, for instead of self-realization hc cnds by arriving at complete SOlitude. E\·el-ywherc in these days mcn ha,·e, in their mockery, ceased to understand thal lhc true security is to be found in social solid:l ril y rather than i.n isolated individual eff ort. This is indeed how it often seems, yet the tendency is readily understandable, as a turning towards significance in a man ageable area. This is n ot on ly a crisis ofindi\·idual s but also ofa society. ·1'he warm house, detached and illsulat d . where . . a man can Itve as he WIshes, and find certain satisfaction with his family and friends, makcs sense, "gain and again, in an essentially cold and impcrsonal socicty. We can say that the effort will fail, that the insulation will be broken , but still, to . . very .many, It will seem a good risk, against the appare nt CcrtallHy of a harsh and meaningless society. Individl�alism was a term ofgrowth, from the rigidity . ofa . society whtch, whde securing, also restricted and directed men's actual lives. Any growth beyond individ ualism is necessarily more than a return to old and discred ited inter4 pretations. ·rhe experienee we have now to interpr et includes both the gains of individualism and its limits. There is the inescapable fact of mutual dependence, by which alone, as we live, the house can be supplied. Such a meanin g has grown, in new ways, wid1 the definitions of democr acy and com�unity. But .while these direct new cnergy, the old meantll!,'s m·e conttnually recharged: the scparat ion between the individual and society i.� visibly not breaking down. In this continuing tension, the meanings that were terms of growth pass over into meanings that deny growth . Democ_ racy and community have again and again been made over
�
Tht Long Reuolutio1l
"4
Indiuidllals alld SQC�lies
'7
inlo the old kind of restriction and direction. Individualism
tion, and is such Ihat it provides ways in which
has passed into sC!fi�hncss and indifference by the facts orils own incompleteness. For thc turning away is in fac t an atti·
lion itself can to some extent be changed. The expe inheritance, of a continuous if changing organizatior"
tude towards other individUllis, and not only to the ' im·
celltral in human feeling. A lIlan can, in a quitt! literal st-.
personal' society. If we sland
that everybody is in
fccl himself in his parents and in his children, or, in a fOl"rl_ of tIle same experience, feci them in himself. Yet inheritance
being we arc
on our rights as a
forced either to recognize
bare human
the
w �
this situation and has these rights, or, in denying orremaining
reft!rs him also to a much wider group, with which again, in
indifferent \0 them, to diminish the quality ofour own claim. \Vc can turn other individuals into ' Ihe masses ', from which
certain circumstances, he can feci his cOlltinuity. Such organic inheritance produces distinct but related individuals,
we must separate ourselves. \'Vc can group other individuals
who live also, however, in terms of another inhcritance : an
into particular classes, nations or races, as a way of refusing them individual recognition. And some men will be satisfied
organized society, with particular systems of naming and communicating, acting and reacting, which individuals must
by this while they are the individuals and others the masses,
learn if they arc to survive and grow. Yet further, the human
the exeluded group. Yet, inevitably, by this extending pro
organizarion itself, and the socia! organization which devel
cess, we are all converted to masses, for nowhere, in a world so
composed,
can
our own
individuality be fully recognized
by others; the::y arc turning away from us to establish their own. 111is is the experience
we
an: now \I·ying to face and
interpret, at the limit of the meanings we know.
The principle we need, to break through to new meanings, is that of the fundamental relation between organism and
In
individual himself. He s i a man and a member of a society,
but he only becomes these by becoming himself. I t is truly not rcproduction, but generation. The human inheritance is in specific terms ofvariation. The social inheritance will vary
v
organization.
ops it i n particular ways, lead to the growth of the individual in terms that require a further effort of organization by the
interprcting and describing our experience
widely, and there wiB bc differences in the ways different societies encourage individual growth: some tending towards direct reproduction, others towards a varying range ofpossi bilities. From his actual inheritance the individual wiB try to
we develop a particular system in terms ofwhich we then live.
completc his own organization. He wiB separate out, neces
Every organism both embodies and continues an organi
sarily, but to varying degrees. Yet he cannot separate out
zation of this kind. Its purpose is the reception and communi
altogether, for what he is organizing he will to an important
cation of experience in such a form that by adjustment and
extent share with others, who also remain necessary to his
action the organization itself, and therefore the panicuJar
own growth. In Ollr ordinary thinking, we lend to fix on two states,
life of the organism, can be continued. Each one of us has within an appal"ently sctmrate individuality a system of ob elaborate and complex as any social system yet described.
expressible either as 'the individual' and 'society', or, more actively, a s ' person' and' wodd '. for certain purposes, these states are efficient, in Ihat they match some parts of our
Yet Ihis particular organization, that we call ihe individual, exists in tenns ofa much larger organization with which it is
breaking down. We arc accustomed to thinking of the gen·
serving, selecting,
comparing,
adjusting and acting as
experience; but in other pans, equally, they are continually •
orman as a kind is thc clearest form oflhislargerorganization.
eralized other', which we may caB the world or society, but which in many kinds of experience breaks down into par
The genetic histol·y of man is the structure of this organiza-
ticulars. \Ve should perhaps think also of the 'generalized
in
certain radical ways continuous. The physical evolution
"4
The LOllg Revolt/lion
into the old kind of restriction and direction. Individu alism has passed into selfishness and indifference by the f acts orits own incompleteness. For the turning away is in fact an aui� tude towards other individuals, and nO[ only to the 'im personal ' society. If we stand on our rights as a bare human being we arc forced either to recognize that everybody is i n this situation and has these rights, or, i n denyingo rremaini ng indifferent to them, [0 diminish the quality ofour own claim. ""e can turn other individuals into ' the masses', [!"Om which we must separate ourselves. \Ve can group other individu als into particular classes, nations or races, as a way of refusing
them individual recognition. And some men will be satisfied by this while t1u:y arc the individuals and others the masses, the excluded group . Yet, inevitably, by this extending pro cess, we arc all converted to masses, for nowhere, in a world
so composed, can our own individuality be fully recogniz ed by others ; they are turning away from us to es ablish their t own. This is tIle experience we arc now trying to face and interpret, at the limit of the meanings we know. v
The principle we need, to break through to new meanin gs, is that of the fund;lmcllt�d relation between orgill1ism and organization. I n illlcrpreting and describing our experie nce wedevclop a paniculnl's},stcm in tcrmsofwhich we then live, Every organism both embodies and continues an organi zation oflhis kind. liS purpose is the reception and commu ni_ cation of e::xperiencc in such a form that by adjustme nt and action the org:lIlization itself, and therefore the particular life of the:: organism, can be continued, Each one of us has within an apparently separate individuality a system ofob ser , ..ing, selecting, comparing, adjusting and acting as elaborate and complex as any social system yet dcscl'ib cd. Yet this particular organization, that we call the individual, exists in terms ora much larger organization with which i t is n i certain radical ways continuous. The physical evolution ofman as a kind is thc clcarest form ofthisia''gcrorg aniziltion, The genetic history of man is thc structure of this organiza-
Individuals alld SQcitfies
1 15
. cs ways in which the organization, and IS such tIIUt it provid chan .cd . The:: expcrience of b t . tion itself can to somc cxten . ' 1 m g Nganiziltion, is still ,g , \ang I c us inuo cont 1en' tanct!, of a 1Il o I . . 1 can in a quite literal sense, ccntral in human feelmg. ,A m l tn his'children or, in a form feci himself in his paren;.s �: , : l l e l in himsel f. Yet in heritance eo ofthc same CxpCl'lence, l with which again, i n " r s I11m also to a mUC l WI0der g'oup ' . . relcr contllllllty, Such his l a 1 fee certain circumstances, he c � , C,I,ut related individuals, lceproduccs dIstlll l c n" al ' 'nI orgalllci . hcr inheritance : an m te III r, � s of anot who li 'c also, howcv� \ omo., of naming and s,- � . . . ty" wllh parllcuIar '�,o orgal1lzcd SOClc . individuals must vhich 'l.ctlIlg, communicating, acung and r , r the human . � urthe f � et an r learn if they are to sun'lve \ . aniza \�hich devel tion a �I and , organization. itself individual the of th s:�� tl: ��ow ops it in part lcular ,\ ays ion by tbe nizat orga or 7 t effor . t lCI � in tcrms tI\U� reqult e a , til a socicty, of ber mem a l 'Ind 1 a a IS individual lllmsclf. He is tru y II lf. , e � \ec� ming himse , thes mes beco but he only n inheritance is (IO O'" . l o lle huma 'fbut gcneraY I not reproduc t'on itance will vary inher ! t soci. The in specific terms 0 va\l"t t iifrc c' c� the ways di fferent in nc r I widely, and therc rds . ' , doIVI0d uaI grow th: some tending towa e ,:,"m s cncoung SOC1C(Ie '. 0, pOSSI e rang ing vary a s . toward dircct reprod uction, otll �1S , aIICC the individual will try to , his aelUlil III 1Icn bIO I"Illes. r'I'om . On. He wi!! separate out, neces . completc Ius own �rgan'lzatl Yet he cannot separate out l sarily, but o va I I � he will to an importa�t � lizing ? �� � '\:�: altogether, 01. in necessary to Ius n:ma also who th�rs 1 �"'I'"o , cxtent Sl laiC . Wit
�
�:
tit ��
�� :
0
�
own growth . . tend to fix on two states, In our 01 d IIIary thinking we , ' " or more tv , I ' and ' socie ua d " \'! iudi the expl'cssible either as, ' l lese rid' For certam purposes, t actively, a s ' pC�SOn ?1ld ' our of S parI ' some h ll the matc states arc emclc�lI, III th' lly .t�, eqll inua cont al'e the II Y expcricncc ; but lil other pal , : t�' IhiJing of the ' gen o c r breaking dl°\\,I , \' � � �\� �� . e�� the world or society, but " eralizcd ot leI' , W. 1IC 1 c � breaks down into par0, ex pen n c.. O y kinds . man III l I c wlll of the 'generalized � t ' k al'o lill I s lap I ticulars. Vle should per
�vo
:
o
i
�
. .6
TIlt Long Revolution
Individuals and Samtiu
"7
10 know
self', the individuality of which we arc all conscious, yet
enacted in the organism, and to know either fully is
which again, in experience, breaks down into particular and changing and variously related energies and forms. We have
the other. In the case of the individual and society we need to learn ways of thinking and feeling which will enable us genuinely to know each in the other's terms, which is as ncar as we can ord ina�·ily get t� saying that we are studying forms oforgani . zatIOn In a continuous process : the brain, the nervous system, Ihe body, the family, the group, Ihe society, man. There is no real point at which we can break offthis process, to solate i an independent substance. Yet equally we cannol select anyone
learned to think of certain relationships, notably with our families and immediate friends, as particular. But many other kinds of relationship we come to think of as between the 'generalized self' and the 'generalized other ' : two fIXed states rather than a complex of living processes. Yct in the course of living, to know ourselves and our world, we have continually to break down these fixed states, into the actual
of them and make the others dependent on it. If the old individualism artificially isolated the 'bare human being ',
processes which arc changing us and which we wish to change. We arc in practical contact with a vast number of particular organizations, and to know any of these we are forced to recognition ofits relationships with other forms. We have to distinguish an organization before we can know it, but the lines we draw, in recognition, are always, potentially, the Jines of relationship. Ifwc isolate the individual, we go on to divide him into body, mind and soul; feeling, willing and thinking; conscious and unconscious; ego, superego and id; but to study any of these is
\0 study its relations with the
others. Ifwe isolate society, we go on to divide it into groups,
classes, associations, but to study any ofthese is again to study
its relations with the othcrs. 1fwe isolate the material world,
wegoon to divide it into matler and energy, and into particu lar forms of these, and find again that in studying these we are studying forms ofrelationship. Yet we sometimes suppose, against this experience, that we can state the suhstances of individual, society and material world in such a way that there are no relationships between them until, as it were, some signal is given, and having defined the substances as in themselv(.'S they are, we can go on now to study the I·elations between them. But in fact these substances arc forms of rdalionship which we can never finally isolate, since the organization, throughom, is in interlocking terms. \Ve begin to realize, from experience, that the relationships arc inher ent, and that eaeh organization is, p,·ecisely, an embodiment of relationships, the lived and living histo,·y of responses to and from olher organizations. Organization, that is to say, is
I I
I I
thc:c is. equal danger in certain trends in \he new sociology which Isolate the group, the society or the culture as an absolute point of reference. The cominuous process of our human organization is itself a continuous action and adjust ment in relation to all that is not human, and the central fact
of Ihis action and adjustment is a process of learning and communication which has grown through continual vari ation and the effort to transmit variation . We must not �hi � l k. only of society Of the group acting on the unique
indiV idual, uut also of many unique individuals, through a process of communication, creating and where necessary extending the organization by which they will continue to be shaped. It is right to recognize that we became human individuals in terms of a social process, but sti l l individuals arc unique, through a particular heredity expressed in a particular history. And thc point about this uniqueness is
that it is creative as well as created : new forms can Aow from this particular form, and c."{tend n i the whole organization, which is in any case being constantly renewed and ehanged
as unique individuals inherit and continue it. This recogni tion of individual uniqueness, and of the relation of its creativity to general human patterns, is, of course, the per manent basis of the case for democracy as a system of govern ment.
It is true that the value and effect of any particular uniqueness will vary considerably, for it will emerge only in a system of real relationships, which will set terms to its
,,8
Tk Long RtlJ()futioli
degree of communicability and relevance. and beyond this there will be widely varying degrees of success, bctw(:cll individuals, in sclf-realization and capacity to describe. The fact remains, however,
that all human individuals al'e
unique; it was one of the worst results of the old individual ism that in asserting the importance of certain individuals, it moved, consciously or unconsciously, to denying the impor tance orothers. When wegel pasl lhis to realize tlIat individu ation is in fact the general process ofour humanity, and that it is through individuation and communication that we have learned and are learning to live, we must recognize and rcspccl lhe true scale and complexity of the process, which no one of us, and no group, is in a position to understand, let alone seek toconlfOI. Ifman is essentially a learning, creating and communicating being, the only social organization adequate to his nature i s a participating democracy, in which all or us, as unique individuals, learn, communicate and control. Any lesser, restrictive syslem is simply wasteful ofOllr true resources; in wasting individuals, by shutting thcm Ollt from effective participation, it is damaging our tfue common process. The long conflict between ' the individual' and 'society' resolves itself, as we reach out in these ways, into the diffi culty of stating this interlocking process of organism and organization, which arc not ncw terms for individual and society but ways of describing a continuous process within which both arc contaim-d . The worst result of abstracting ' the individual ' and 'society' is that it limilS our thinking to ..
questions or relationship between them. \Ve say this indi vidual is good because he lives in a way that his society v'llucs ; this society is good became it allows individuals (0 do lhese kinds or thing. "y'ct an individual, in being dirccted by the norms or his society, may be suppressing a variation which could occome generally valuable, or a society, by permitting certain variations, may destroy itscJf, 01" othcr societies, or parts orils environmcnt. These rcal issues can only be looked at adequaleJy ir we rccognize the continuity between the many kinds of organization which compose the whole living
Individuals alld SocUtits process.. To abstract certain
"9
fixed states, and then argue
rrom them, which has becn the normal method of approach ing this question, s i wholly inadequate. Difficult as any new conception may be, it seems absolutely necessary to Iry to formulate it, and then to learn from it possibly adequate new approachcs. In practical terms T think such approaches will be the kind of study orpattcrns and relationships, in a whole process, which we havc defincd as the analysis of culture. There, in the practice of creation, communication, and the making of institutions is the common process ofpersonal and social growth.
I 4 I M A G E S OF S O C I ETY OUR thinking about society is a long debate between abstrac
tions and actual relationships. The reality of society is the living organization of men, women and children, in many
ways materialized, in many ways constantly changing. At
the same time, our abstract ideas about society, or about any
particular society, arc both persistent and subject to change. We have to sec them as interpretations : as ways of describing the organization and of conceiving relationships, necessary to establish the reality of social life but also under continual
pressure from experience. In certain periods, the interpreta
tions satisfy experience in such a way that there is hardly any dispute at this leve l : lhe descriptions and concepts are
Images of Society important in our history, to consider their effects on our present thinking about relationships, and to look at their
significance in the actual process of social change. ,
The key to any description is its starting-point: the particular experience thatis seized as determining. In general, in think ing about a �oeiety, we start from these pcople in this place,
but it is very unusual to retain thi� simplicity. There is a particular human organization in a particular environment, but we commonly describe and interpret it in terms ofsome
leading element, which we sec as its organizing principle. The difficulty is that this element can be very variously identified. For example,
a
vcry large amount of ordinary
social thinking has started, in eOcet, from he t King. It is not these people in this place, but the King of this place and his
subjccts. This emphasis, often very rapidly and uncon
sciously adoptcd, is of course followed by detailed descrip tion: the nature of the place and the people, the system of
deeply built in and accepted. In other periods, there are degrees of discrepancy: a given description is felt to be
government and property, the organization of production
is challenged by an alternative conception of relationships, so that the whole status and future of the society are put into
ing the organization, but assuming its purpose. Again and
inadequate, and is disputed ; or a description is accurate yet
question, usually with deep division and controversy. We
have seen how, in such periods of tension and change, the
and trade, the report on institutions and customs. But the emphasis colours the description. We are not merely describ again, in all kinds of study, we sec this practical orientation.
1t is not merely that this is seen as tilt: effective system, but
that the maintenance ofthis system is seen
as
the dominant
idea of society itself grew and developed. It changed first from the immediate ' society of one's fellows ' to the more
social purpose. You start from the King, or from the existing
reference to a particular system to abstraction of all such
significant social activity, and life oLltside such functions is
general 'system of common life ' , and changcd later from
systems, the general state of 'society '. There was gain and
social order, and then everything that happens is related to that. Thus service at court, in the army or in the fields is the
conceived and regulated to such ends. Thinking about law
and range of the varied conceptual thinking which the
and institutions is in terms of the more perfect functioning of this system, and the significant image is that of the single
thinking is to be relevant, we nced thc continual pressure of
to play'.
loss in this process, for on the one hand wc nced the flt>-xibility
abstraction madc possible, and on the other hand, if our
actual relationships, an actual common life from which the
process ofdescription draws substance. I proposc to examine some of thc commoncr images of society, which have bccn
organism, in which each person in the society has ' his part
Of coursc many actual societies have been accurately described in these terms. 'rhe simplicity of thinking of' these
people in this place' was not abandoned accidentally, but
The Long Rcvalufioll because the facts were that the lives of the people were quite
Images of Society and ' England' have been, successively, very different places,
unequally regarded: they were seen, practically, through
subjcel to constant change, is obscured by a mode ordcscrip�
cratic social thinking is deeply determined by this fundamen
jects', suggests something absolllle and permanent rather
something othel' than a particular systcm should ha,-e
Britain ' or' for England' may or may not be doing something
challenged. \Vhat is more surprising is th,lt ways of thinking
abstractions is such that i t can seem more honourable to do
the needs of the established order. Most feudal and aristo
tal interprctation, and i t makes sense tlMt the idea or society
as
arisen at the time when such societies wcre being powerrully
tion which, like the ' rights and duties or the Queen's sub
thllll something rclath·e and changing. Doing sometiling ' ror
ror ours<:iv(.'S in a particular place, yet the spell or these
about socict), which arc reasonable only while the absolute
something for ' Britain' than to do something ror ourselves.
with such powcr into apparenliy different societies. i\lillions
rully continued a way ofthinking about society which started
selves a s ' HritislL subjects', which clearly, in other terms, they
aClUal persons. In certain respects, the definition made sense :
character or the system is maintained should ha,·c survived orpeoplc in Britain are apparently coment to describe them
are not and ought not to be. Still an important part of law
The nation-state, in subtly different ways, thus power
rrom an existing order and subordinated to this the needs or
real needs (as for security) sometimes coincided with the
needs that followed rrom the definition. But they have never
and practical social thinking is concerned with the ' rights and duties orthe Queen's subjects', as if there had never been
necessarily done so, any morc than the needs of the serr
part it is the persistence orverbal habit, but to a considerable
common interest must include our own interest, but ir we
the fundamentally different claim of the 'rights of man '. 1n
necessarily included the maintenance or his lord. Any true
extent it is a contrived persistence. It has not been the case for
start li'om an abstracted social order we can be persuaded
society were summed up in the person ofthe King or Queen,
real question, whcther the social order actually serves our
establish the pretence that this is so. The creative interpreta
mined by the assumption that it is rrom the order that we
such a misleading phrase, for example, as the ' liberties orthe
activities which the defined order eithcr rorbade or regu
rhetorical purposes this colouring
The issue orthe first challenge has been orvital importance,
many centuries that the meanings and purposes of British but i t has suitcd many successive kinds or social order to
tion of society as a flexible human organization has been opposed and limited by this different kind of thinking, and a succession or compromises has led to radical conrusions : to subject', where ' libenics' means 110t freedom (though for
is added) but simply a
permissive area in the margin or an unquestionable duty.
Just as persons arc practically subonlinateci to the net:ds ofa
into courses which may actually harm a majority of LIS. The needs, cannot be asked when our social thinking is deter
must start. The most powerrul early challenges to this ingrained way of thinking were, first, in terms orthe right to pursue certain lated; second, in terms or the genr::ralized rights or man.
and rrom it, slowl}', ill Britain, emerged a wholly diffcrent
society. In part this was the growth or democracy, but it is
defined social order, so the place in which they live under goes a similar tl'ansrol'n13tion. There is a vital difference bet\veen thinking aboltt the place in which we live, and of
probably true that democracy has never establishcd a really deep social image, ofa distinct kind, in Britain. JUSt because
'BI·it'lin' or about ' England', which in this lise are not real places but particular interpretations which include defini
here, tosepal'ate the pl'inciplcofdemocracy from the habitual
ourselves in relation to it, and the kind or thinking about
tions of duty, function and character. The ract that ' Britain'
in the main it grew slowly, and by gradual constitutional amendment and compromise, it has always been difficult,
loyalty to an establishment . The symbols or democracy, in the Englisll mind, arc as likely to be institutions orpower and
Images of Soddy
The Long R.euolulion
antiquity, such as the Palace ofWeslminster, as the active proeess of popular decision, such as a committee or jury. A more decisive social image came from the other part of this
125
century, as perhaps never before in history, people could without loss of respect talk of 'selling' themselves (an opera tion with archaic eonnexions with the devil), of their 'shop
window ', of 'studying the market' and ' being in demand',
movement : the rise of economic individualism. Here, instead of thinking of society as an establish<.'(j order, you think of it, essentially, as a market. That it is, of course (in the image) a free market involves radical dissent from any
even when the processes they were engaged in were not com
mercial in any ordinary scnse.
I
have isolated these images of society, to try to clarify
them, but ofeour5C in OUI' actual history they have been both
rigid, prescriptive establishment: in this sense it continually overlaps with the kind of democratic spirit which accom panied it. But the most important effect, ultimately, is that a
competitive and interacting. The strength of the market image, in modern England, hardly needs stressing: we often
new element in the whole organi�mtion is selected as central. You do not now start from the King or the established social order: you start from the activities ofproduction and trading, and increasingly these arc seen as the essential purposes of
speak of the nation as if it were a large firm, with other nations ns competitors. vVe speak of work as the ' labour mal'ke t ' and argue about education primarily in terms orthe
needs o f ' the economy ', At the same time we have already
the society, n i terms of which other activities must submit to bcjudged. All forms of human organization, from the family and the community to the educational system, must be re
noted the persistence of ways of thinking which start from ' the Queen' or from an abstraction of ' England '. One very powerful model, working in this direction, has ofcourse been the modern army, which, with conscription, extended itself
shaped in the light of this dominant cconomic activity. At the same time, since i t was the frcc economic activity of indi
to the sense of a whole society. Hf"re thc stress on rank, on
viduals that was at first emphasized, thc whole idea of social
corporate spirit, and on single purpose has powerfully taught
purpose underwent radical change. "" here the former pur pose had been the maintenance of an cstablished order, and thus in these prescribed terms positivc, the new purpose was at first largely negative: society existed to create conditions in which the free economic enterprise ofindividuals was not hampered. Society provided a market, and kept it free.
Later, however, the image was more fully developed. With the further developmcnt ofcapitalism, to its corporate stage, society was no longer thought of as merely providing a market: the organization of society itself was essentially a market organization. \"'hereas, in starling from an estab lished order, the idea of the individual was essentially com
.I
successive gcnerations a way of thinking about relationships that has perhaps gone much deeper than we know. \Vhen we think how many individuals, in our century, have passed through this model, uSllally in periods of great emotional stress, the effect is hardly surprising. It is remarkable how many social organizations, with quite general and ordinary social purposes (even ofa pacifISt, reforming or free educa
tional kind) speak of ' recruiting' membelll, and of their 'rank-ancl-file '. And it continually surprises me that so many
middle-class people speak of their ordinary holidays as 'leave'. The liberal dement in the early stages of a market
society has to a considerable extent been overridden by a
prised in ' my station and its duties ', the idea of tile individual in a market society was, first, the responsible free agent, and,
curiolls fusion of the markct and the established order. [t is
later, the man with something to sell. Obligation and service
typical modern industrial or commercial organization, or in
impossible to watch men in actual relationships, in the
had been challenged by freedom and responsibility, but then,
an ordinary government or local authority service, without
in thc final image, buying and selling became telms i n which
seeing this odd image of a medieval court (as in the graded
all human activity could be assessed. III lhe twentieth
sitting of officials round a committee table) blended with a
127
Images of Sociery
TI,e Long Revoilltion of voice and stiffenings modern army unit (parliculul' tones of the body) , h would claim, cel ' And all this, oddly, in a socicty whic : h· x x tially the erni essen is it tainly on public occasions, that to the idea of an absolute ment of tile second main cimllenge the rights of man, At a but et, mark frec the order: not now absolute order m ght certain stage, the market and the ss of the organized proce d virtually fuse, by thc unexpecte the image bascd Uut . order ute absol market becoming thc , be uncomprom think t migh wc d, woul man of s on the right course, that while ' man ' ising, The difficulty has bccn, of retation ofrights has been interp sounds absolute enough, the level the formula is not one at d indee tive; ordinarily selec ject. Much of the prac far from that of the liberty of the sub was drawn from the tical substance of the rights of man civil society must alth: onwe comm g conventions of a tradin , and assure utism absol of kinds n certai st again defend men tbe idea is Thus thing, their liberty to do certain kinds of been able have e peopl and ive, often rather limited and negat its rele ting admit not while � behaH own to use it, on thcir the poor, the uneducated, people of kinds other to vance is like the image of foreigners, men with diAi;rent skins. It ourselves and our fOI' te absolu be democracy, which can lty, perhaps, difficu basic Thc . others for c relativ but friends, l, i n parl ntiona has been that the idea is in part conve g idea limitin arily necess the abstract: it has sought to unite sal univer arily necess the and t, subjcc the of the liberty of derived from the Ideas man. of rhood brothc the of idea continually nour established order or from the market arc terms, whereas own their in s ished by practical organization of man, is rights the of idea Ihe in t, clemen the revolutionary convention learned as much in despail' and aspiration as in can be seen and practice. Earlier abstract images ofa society their nded, transce sense a in yet and ed, to ha\·e mirror drew sub God' of city ' the Thus rparts, counte al practic and State, stance from the actual organization of Church rulel' as (the power al tempor but it did not only rationalize by power, al tempor nded transce also it ; God) appointed of
�
settin� a term a�d a limit t o i t . A t its highest the social pur pose, 11I such an Image, was to live in God's ways : through the temporal and spiritual amhority of an established order
;
but with ultimate pmpost."S beyond this, in the ' hcavenl kingdom'. An important pari of the idea of human brother hood, undenvriting the rights of man, was drawn from this s.."lme source, expressed as equality before God, Yet, given this reference, the rights of man al·e to a considerable extcnt determined by an assumption of certain absolute relation_
ships which prescribe man's status and define his d\ltics. The idea of the rights of man beeame un:verllally rele\'ant only when human brotherhood was defined in primarily human terms. I t thcn gained something of the �implicity of ' these �eople in this place', �\'ith no subtly determining prescrip_ tIOn of nn order to whICh they arc permanently committed. Yet at the �ame time it could not be local and spt.'Cific (' this pl:!ce' became ' this world " or, better, 'these places ') : the flexibility and generosity of the conception were practically bal
�
Ih� main a tempt to define such an order. A serious difficulty al"lses at thiS stage, fOl· what is proposed is a new establishcd
order : intendcd to be liberating, in that i t starts from the needs ofall men, on a basis ofpractieal equality, rather than from graded needs according to rank, or the levels established by thc free play of the market j in pI·aetiee, however,
in some
senses determining, in that it necessarily proposes certain
kinds of relationship and duty, Moreover. it is an order which has to be established by overcomin or outgrowing
g
The Lol1g Revolution
Images oj Society
existing real relationships, and it can hardly be denied that
lished order or the creation of human brotherhood. In this
while socialism's long-term version of human society is brotherhood, its short-term version is ofa very deep conflict. In a hundred ways, the sociajjs t version of human relatjon ship has been shaped by these conditions. Its description of social classes was offered as at once an analysis of cxisting society and a guide to changing it. But the stage has been reached when the emphasis on class has been seen as Lhe most obvious denial of brotherhood, and when resentments against an existing or remembered class situation have been massively transferred to those who continue to talk about class. At the same time, the history of socialist parties, work
1 29
person:-l revolt, nobody is deceived by what societies say they are dO'mg ; whatever this may be, the individual is likcly to suffer, and the best he can hope for is to minimize its pres sures: by detachment, by apathy and scepticism, by seeing that at lcast he and his family are all right. It is as nccessary to acknowledge the great strength and emotional substance of this revolt as to point to it!; very damaging consequences. Such an idea ofsociety could only gain currency in a context ormajor social failure, and it is no use trying to beat it down by repetition of the ideas (duty, rcsponsibility, brothcr hood) which have habitually accompanied the hated pres
building it, has provided ample evidence of the practical
sures and failures. The experience has been lived, and has to be expressed. But or course the withdrawal from social think.
results ofa genuine theoretical difficulty : the commitment to a precise order which is intended to be generally liberating
assumed that things will remain much as they are, that
ing for a new order, and of socialist societies, engaged in
but which in being worked towards has usually included conflict, restriction and even repression. The image ofhuman brotherhood is still thtre, and only there, btlt it has been so darkened by the real process of altempting to create it out of societies powerfully organized in other terms lhat it has
ing leaves the bad society as it is. Indeed it is commonly fundamental change is inconceivable or would only make things worse, but that individuals, if they turn back on themselves and on 'real' interests, can get by or even be happy. We must observe the effect of this way of thinking on the
been radically confused.
creation or the robs!. recent idea of society: that of the mass.
One important consequence of our actual history, with its persistence of thinking in terms of an absolute order, with its
simply repeats, in a new way, the idea of the absolute order :
subtle transformation of the free market into the laws of the market, and with its confusion of the idea ofbrotherhood, has
This is a very complicated idea, which of course in part the majority of people arc the ' masses', and are governed, organized, instructed and entertained by an elite or clites. Such a society roay or may not be an
established order,
for
been the personal revolt that is modern individualism. Earlier forms of indhridualism were primarily the assertion
the elite will sometimes be largely hereditary or the c.lites
ofrights to do and say certain things -society wasjudged and reshaped to guarantee Ihe exercise of this positive freedom.
affiliation. Yet, however the clites arc composed, their prac
Modern individualism in part continues this tendency, but on the whole puts more emphasis on a ncgative freedom: the right of the individual to be left alone. There has becn a very widespread retreat from social thinking, rationalized by the formula that almost all good things are done by individuals, almost all bad thinb"S by societies. The image of society is then of something inherently bad: a restrictivc, interfering, indifferent process, whether it claims the virtues of an estab-
may
be continually resclected, by competition or political
tical rclations with the ' masscs' are thcn defined as directing
and directed, as in other kinds orabsolutc order. But the idea
of mass society also repeats, in a new way, Ihe idea of the market. The 'masscs ' cxert their influence on the dircetions
of the society, not by participation, but by expressing a pattern ofdemands and preferences - the laws ofa new kind ofmarkc t - and this, for the clites, s i a starting-point : to be carefully studied (by such techniques as market research and T-,
The LOlig &volutioll
Images ofSociety
131
opinion polls), and then worked on. When these two con
The last image of society, and in our own day the most power
ceptions arc joined, they compose a vcry powerful image,
ful, is that which has separated society from man.
which obviously corresponds with important clements of our e:xperience in very large societies: the concentration of political and economic power, but on a basis of a pattern of demand; the centralized control of highly efficient tech niques of popular communication, again on a basis of a pattern of preferences. This combination of wide public refercncc and a narrow area of actual power is indeed a significant model, but what we must notice about it is its essential impersonality. The elites, necessarily, are not con cerned with individuals, but with averaged figures and gene.ralized trends in the mass pattern. This technique which undcrwrites and validates their functions becomes, inevit ably, an habitual way of thinking about society. Almost one feels, in such a society, that nobody lives here : only classes, consumers and conventions. But if this is the functional way of thinking of lhe clites, it is also powerfully reinforced by elements of the very reaction against it. The personal revolt asserts individuality, in this world ofimpersonal abstractions, but the assertion, commonly, is also a withdrawal from social thinking : I and my family and friends arc rcal; the rcst is the
II
Thc dominant social images that we have inheritcd - the absolute order, the organized markel, the elite and the mass, even brotherhood as expressed in the struggle for power are alikc in thi s : that they tend to reduce society to two spheres ofimerest, two kinds ofthinking, two versions of social _
relationsh ip: polit.ics (the system of decision) and economics (the �yst7m o maintenance) . It s i nalural for ruling groups to tlunk III tillS way, and to see the rest of lifc through these
�
ca�egorics that arc mostly closely involvcd with their power. It IS less natural for the rest of us to see society a s limited in this way, yet i t i s significant that even the most powerful reforming groups commit themselves to such a version. For
what else is there?, we sometimes ask. V\'hcn YOll have said polities and economics you have said society; the rest is
personal and incidental.
To limit a society to its systems of decision and mainten ance is in fact ridiculous. We must learn to see it as a con ditioned l·cflcx to various forms of class society, in which the
systcm. But this, when sufficiently extcndcd, not only con firms the elite's valuation of other people as masscs. It also,
true nature of society - a human organization for common
in its denial or limitation of real relationships, helps people to
property which were natural to ruling groups. It has been
regard themselves, in their social relationships, as masses. It is no accident, but an element of this structure of thinking,
the gravest error of socialism, in revolt against elass societies to limit itself, s o often, to the tenns of its opponents: t
that the terms ofthe personal revolt so oflen inelude contcmpt
propose a political and cconomic order, rather than a human
for other persons : the crowd, the herd, the benighted masses. A point can bc reached when the only reality s i 'I and the
needs - was i n fact filtered through the interests in power and
�
order. h is ofcollrse necessary to see the facts of power and
crowd', and the vacuum this leaves is filkd by acceptance of
prop�rty a s obstacles to this order, but the alternative society that IS proposed must be in wider terms, ifit i s to gcnerate the
the 'impersonal'
Romantic individualism and
full energies necessary for its creation. Indeed the political
authoritarian and abstract social thinking have again and
But in any event, for often individualism will not go so far,
and c�onomic changes might come, and the human order be very lllIle changed, unless these oonnexions arc made. A good . particular :�ample of this general problem is the question of the dcfillltlOn of work, which has been discussed and then
a practical division between the ' s ocial' and the ' personal',
neglected in the socialist tradition. Our common meaning
between ' public' and ' private', will be commonly enforced.
of work has become ' effort rewarded by money' : comparable
system.
again, in modern societies, tended eventually to interlock. Power, in such cases, is ultimately rationalized by despair.
TIle Long Reoolulion
Images ofSociety
eifort, either ora ' private' or 'public' kind, may be as much work, but is described as 'leisure-time activity' or, curiously, 'good works '. The rdadon between work and effort, which is the central conclusion from experience, has thus become blurred by the forms ofa particular kind ofsociety, making a distinction between work undertaken ' in one's own interest' or for some 'voluntary social purpose', and work under taken for money. It s i difficult not to see this as a simple reflection of a SOCiCly organized on a basis of wage-labour, which a different version of social relationships ought radi cally to challenge. In capitalist society, the difficulty of the social thinker is to know what to say about activities that acc not the production and CJlchange of things. We tend to fall back, either on the old definition of 'service " ratified by the persistent influencc of thinking ofan established order, or on the curious idea of' leisure ', which is a kind ofgrace after the meal. These meanings may be a true verdict on present experience : that pcrsonal interests and service to the com munity have to be set in a separate category from our ordin ary work. But it s i bardly something to be accepted by socialists as a model. The integration of work and life, and the inclusion of the activities we call cultural in the ordinary social organization, arc the basic terms ofan alternative form ofsociety. In their light, the system of decision becomes some thing more than the traditional version of politics; it neces sarily includes, for example, control over the direction and nature of our labour. Similarly, just as al1 men and their work become part of the process of common social decision (the working community rather than the lahour market), so , the body of actual interests, • private as well as 'public', ' leisure' as well as 'work " becomes the social purpose. The tradition which I described in Cullure and Socidy is important because it bases social thinking on our 'general humanity', rather than on the needs of a received system. But it is an indication of the tenacity of old ways of thinking that this should have been interpreted as what is called ' a pica for the place ofthe arts' (for the al"ts or education we are expected to 'plead', and some knecs secm permanently bent) . The real
claim, sustained by the magnificent and necessary relevance of the arts to OUl" general humanity or to nothing, was that social thinking must start from the same human assumption, judging work and polities and property by the general needs of all the peoplc in the society, rather than underwriting a particular system and working with ils definitions. Ifsocial ism accepts the distinction of 'work , from 'life', which has then to be written 01Tas' leisure' and ' personal interests'; jfit sees politic.\ as 'government', rather than as tbe process of common decision and administration; if it continues to see education as training for a system, and art as grace after meals (while perhaps proposing more training and a rather longer grace) ; ifil is limited in these ways, it is simply a late form of capitalist politics, or just the more efficient organiza tion of human beings around a system of industrial produc tion. The moral deeline of socialism is in exact relation to its series of compromises with older images of society and to its fai l ure to sustain and clarify the seme of an alternative human order. Man in society was traditionally defined as man in social relationships based on a divine order, a received order, or an established order. This was then extended, first by theorists of the market, later by socialists such as Marx, to man in social relationships based on economic activities: as the activities change, so the order must change. This was better, but it stili lefl out too much. It was reasonable to relate the system of decision (polities) to the system of maintenance (economics),· but two major kinds of relationship were still exeluded. "l·hese were, first, the system oflearning and com munication, which is as central to man as the systems of decision and maintenance ; second, the complex of relation ships based on the gcneration and nurturc of lile, in many ways highly variable and again c.xprcssed in particular sys telm. Since these vital systems were excluded from ordinary social thinking or given merely subordinate places, it was inevitable that separate sciences should be developed to study and account for thcm. Much of the process of learning and communication could be reasonably explained as social
'3'
'33
The Long Revolrllioll
'34
training (a subordinate branch of politics) and vocational training (a subordinate branch of economics) . But it is perfectly clear that a vilal part of human learning and com munication cannOl he so reduced : neither art, nor phil osophy, nor science has e\'cl' served oll{)l lhese ends; each has served also the general growth of humanity. III a cbss society, this probkm is evaded by describing such activities as 'liberal', the province of' [,'ce men', which is to say of men disengaged, by their position, from the imperatives ofpoli�ics
and economics. Similarly, education (the system ofleammg and communication at its most formal) was one thing for 'free men' - a 'liberal educatio n ' ; another thing for the rest - social and economic training (known f(."Spectivciy as character-building or moral instruction, and vocational training or technical instruction). This division is very far
from any useful social thinking about lcarning and communi cation: the idealization and the degradation follow as parts of a single error. Thus art is degraded as a mere reflection of the basic economic and political process, on which it is thought to be parasitic; or it is idealized into the separate sphere of aesthetics - if Economic
[vian, then Aesthetic ?vlan. But the
creative element in man is the root both ofhis personality and his socicty ' it can neither be confined to art nor excludcd from the
�Y5tems
of decision and maintcnance. To take
account ofhuman creativity the whole received basis ofsocial thinking, its conception of what man in socicty is, must be deeply rcvised. Thc development of a separate psychology, apart f:om social theory, is to be understood in the same waY' A given . system of decision and maintenance regards the blrlh and
Images of Society 1 35 this public level, most people are quite clearly not going to be
shifted from their ordinary conviction that this is their own real and deepest life. People did not need telling, by the new psychology, that their ordinary experiencc a� parents and
children, brOlhers and sislers, husbands and wives, was of central importance in their own development. If social thinking exeluded this experience, by its insistence on man in social relationships based on economi cactivitics, then i t was so much the worse for social lhink ing: we simply separated our family and personal life from the life of society. But of course it is clear Ihat the family, in its changing forms, cannot be separated from society. Either it gCls the reduced status of
an instrument ofsupply and training, or it gelS the idealized status, that only family relationships arc real. The new psychology was able to show that patterns of feeling and behaviow', learned in the primal'Y family relationships, were clmcly relevant to forms ofwider social feeling and behaviour. The idealization began when it was claimed that all social
behaviour, ineluding political and economic forms, could be explained in these primary terms : an error very similar to that which, beginning from the evident creativity of art and philosophy, cxplained social development in terms of the
history offorms and ideas. There isjuSI enough truth in both these arguments to encourage the rash extensions which have bceo�c e�mm?nplace. The abstraction of forms of primary relatIOnship, wl\hom reference to their evident historical and geographical variability, was at once the rashest cxtension
and the clue to a more adequate account. The ' pe"manent ' fo.·ms failed, but directed attention to the variable forms,
care of human beings, not as primary but as a process by
and then, with this evidence, it was true that we could never again look at social relationships in the old limited political
which it will continue to be supplied. Within such a way of
economic ways.
thinking, people have been able to dehumanize Ihems.clvcs to the extent of speaking of children as ' the raw malenal of the eountry's future', and when you juxtapose that with the idea of the 'labour market' (a phrase which evcn education ists now usc) the whole status of the family, certainl?, of?ther people's families, has been reduced. Yet whatever IS saId, at
\Ve havc to try to re-create, from the present complex of an adequate sense of a general interests and disciplim'S, .. human organization. I t is clear that the reaction against c.xclusivc political and economic social thinking can go too far. The system of decision
is
clearly crucial: it can quite
literally be the life or death of a society. Economic activity is
,The umg Revolution similarly basic, since production and distribution are not only essential for the maintenance oflife, but the highly vari able ways in which they can be organized quite clearlycolour our whote existence, and in some cases appear to determine it. The truth about a society, it would seem, is to be found in the actual relations, always exceptionally complicated, between the system ofdecision, the system ofcommunication and learning, the system of maintenance and the system of generation and nurture. It is not a question of looking for some absolute formula, by which the structure of these rela tions can be invariably determined. The formula thaI matters
Imagu of Society
1 37 tions of society, on the fact that they are or have been terms of gro . Politics, economics, aesthetics, psychology are ...ar , In par , systems of rules It�arned in a once living .s
w�h
�h
�
situation, and Simply perpetuated
to reach for an understanding which is also a response and a �ay of control and �hangc. If in studying human organiza �I �n we l�ave c�phaslzed not only relatedness but variability, It IS to thiS crUCial question of the nature and origin ofchange that we arc inevitably directed.
'"
is that which, first, makes the essential conncxions between what are never really separable systems, and second, shows the historical variability of each of these systems, and there fore of the real organizations within which they operate and are lived. Thus, in certain societies, the family is also a directly economic organization, and its system of decision covers a wide area ofaclivity. Here the relationships between persons will be of a complex yet quite unified kind, in that every person is involved with every other in more than one kind of ac6vilY : the relationships that arise, whethel' of sympathy, tension, or conflict, have to be worked out over the whole field. In different societies, similarly, relationships arc in the end worked out over the whole ficld, but the ordinary situa tion, and therefore the ordinary experience, is ofan aggregate
of apparently separate relationships: here of work, there of family, there again ofdecision or learning. I t is the develop ment of societies of this kind which has led to our conven tional descriptions and separations, although in any actual society, if we are genuinely open to experience, the descrip tions and separations wi!! be continually breaking down: nobody can or docs actually live as the model of separate orders would suggest. Our contemporary c:-.:perience ofwork, love, thought, art, learning, decision and play is more frag mented than in any other recorded kind of society, yet still, necessarily, we try to makc conncxions, to achieve integrity, and to gain control, and in part we succeed. The emphasis falls again, in ollr analysis of these dcscrip-
um·cvised. But each, simi
larly, is in part a creative eITort, to explore ncw situations and
The systems of decision, maintcnance, learning and generation are ne� rily conventional, in that they embody � . . cerl.un rules whIch III any real society run very deep. Further , they are oflen materialized, and in inheriting them as instilU_ lio,:,s we inherit a real environment, which shapes us but winch we also change. We learn this environment in our bodies, and we are taught the conventions. There is a real tension, always, as the environment and the conven tions are compared, and this comparison takes place both individ ually and socially. 1ndivicluals arrive at different results ,. but in . . commulllcatllg l and comparing them can work for or estab lish different conventions, by which we consciously change our environment, while in any event, from the very tension betwccn thc lived environment and the received convent ions, a process orIess conscious change will continue. Against this theoretical background, we call look at cer
tain inds o change, as these actually occur. A large part of
�
�
our hIstory IS of change by conquest, when an alien group is powerful cnou�h to take over the system of decision, or a
e�ntral part of It. The frequcnt occurrence of change of this kmd has led naturally to the isolation ofpolitics as thc key to change, and to interpretation of the system ofdeeisi011 as the
system of power.
h is clear, nevertheless, that the results of
conquest have been very varied indeed. The system of deci sion set up by the conquerors must in practice interact with all the other elements in the conquered society. An economy
The Long Revolution
[magtS of Socit!y
' 39
can be radically changed by alien decision. So can the whole
and abstraction. It is indeed impossible to understand the
systcm oflcarning and communication, even to the extent of
modern world without understanding the growth and nature
a language being suppressed and forgotten and an alien
of capitalism, but it remains true that capitalist societies, in
ohile conquered society will persist, either by tolerance or in
societies, in many respects, and that these differences nre not
language replacing it. Yet it as often happens that elements spite ofintolcranee, even when the conquest is prolonged. A structure ofrea! rclations, of a whole social kind, will in fact emerge, even if the whole system of decision has been taken
over. For the system of decision, however powerful, has to operate in
a
real matcrial and convcntional environmcnt.
comparable stages of development, arc still very different accessible to the most refined kind of political-economic analysis. The danger is, when this has bcen n:ali7.ed, that we will make a new abstraction of the substance of thcse diffcr enees, as in many theories of culture: it is already a emiosity of language that society commonly indicates a political and
The conquerors may change with the conquered, and even in
economic system, and social life (the ordinary material of
extreme cases become indistinguishable from them. More
sociology) the whole range of activities and relationships
usually, a continually varied balance will result. Of the
which are not dircetly political or economic. The pauel"ll or meanings and values through which people conduct their
Norman conquCSf of England, for example, it is impossible to say that it did not changc English society, but equally the
eventual result was a very complex change, as can be: seen most clearly in the history of the language, which emerged neither as Norman French nor as Old English, but as a new language deeply affected by both. Thus while political change will often be decisive, it will hardly ever be absolutely
determining.
Conquest grows out of a slructure of real relations that is often so large in scale that its relevance to relations within
the conquered society is extremely indirect. This is the measure of its difference f!"Om the otherwise similar capture ofthe system ofdecision by a group or class within the socicty. Whether this
s i
sudden and dramatic, as in civil war and
revolution, or a slow process of infiltration and changing control, it will commonly have more meaning in the whole
dcvelopment of the actual society: the political change will express a whole complex of general change. Economic explanations, both of conquest and of internal political
whole lives can be seen for a time as autonomous, and as
evolving within its own terms, but it is quite unreal, ultim ately, to separate this pattern from a precise political and economic system, which can extend its influence into the
most unexpected J'egions ofreding and behaviour. To isolate
the system of leaming and communication, as the key to change, is unrcalistic. The common prescription or educa tion, as the key to change, ignores the fact that the form and content of education arc affected, and in some cases deter mined, by the actual systems of decision and maintenance. Thinkers and artists reveal new meanings and values, as well as expressing cOllventional meanings and values, but to isolatt: the most evident creators, as the kcy to change, is as unrealistic as to overlook them, in some political or economic
detcrminism. Thinkers and artists, and the extension of education, have visibly affccted social change, but only
within the necessary context of communiC'\lion. People usc art and thought (often deeply distorting acttJal works) to
change, have incomparably deepened our understanding of
confirm their own patterns, at least as frequelltly as they
history, by taking us beyond that kind of vulgar politics which assum(..""S power as a dominant end in itself, and by showing us that the system of decision is not abstract, but is
from their whole social environment as well as from the
shaped by the issues it
s i deciding. But the isolation ofecon
omics as the key to change has led, in its turn, to simplification
really learn from them. And children, while at school, learn
particular curriculum, to say nothing of the fact that when they leave school they have
10 comparc what they have
learned with the actual practices of their society. Similarly,
The umg ReuolUlion
we can accept the argument that c1tanges in primary relation ships, particularly between parents and children, will have observable social effects, and it is possible to argue that change$ of this kind - such as the growth of love and the capacity for loving - arc fundamental in the development of a society. h can be immediately agrced that much of our deepest humanity s i learncd in these relationships, but there is also a very deep crisis at the point of transfer ofrcsponscs and values learned in this close world to the responses and values conventionalized in a working social system. Once again we are returned to the organization as a whole, but in the active scnse that the organization both exists and has continually to be renewed : neither the system dominates nor the learning transforms ; people change and are changed. We can see, looking back, that 'our ideas of the nature of social changc were limited by actual societies and their cor responding conceptions ofrclationships, so that the emphasis naturally fell on changes in power and property, in their common forms of conquest, revolution, or the rise and fall of classes. The counter-emphasis, on individuals and on learning and communication, was itselfa social responsc, not only to thc narrowness of society constmed as powcr and property, but to real changes, which werc actually liberating more and more individuals, and which wcrc building cver widcning and morc powerful meam of learning and com munication. ]n the present situation, wc are trying to pass beyond both the emphasis and thc countcr-emphasis, to a ncw and gcneral conccption of change. Our creativc power is most evidcnt in our continuing industrial revolution, which is continually cOJ"!.firming our capacity to change our world, and is leading to very much morc open feelings, more real willingness to change, than any eadiel' conception could have foresecn. The democratic revolution, similarly, is insistently crcative, in its appeal to all of us to take power to direct our own livcs. And we arc seeing, increasingly, a new kind of change. by thc simplc fact of the extension of com munications, and by our consequent experiencc of an expanding cuhure. The rise of vernacular languages as new
Images of Society
'4 ' channels of general learning ; the coming of printing, and thcn wireless, cinema, and television; the c."'ltension of rail ways, motorways, and air travel; thc growth or literacy and systcms of universal education: all these have transformed social change itself. Yct whether these means al'e used for creative growth, 01' merely as new wa)'li of organizing older human systems, is an open question. Both the industrial re\'olution anJ the revolution in communications arc only fully grasped in term � of the progress or democracy, which cannot be limited to simple politic al change, but insists, finally, on conceptions of an open society and or freely co· operating individuals which alone arc capable of releasing thc creative potcntiality orthc changes in working skills and communication, Thc long rcvolution, which is now at the centl'e of our history, is not for demonacy as a political systcm alonc, nor for thc equitable distribution of more products, nor for gellcral access to tile means of learning and communication. Such changes, difficult enough in them selves, derive meaning and direction, finally, from new con· ecptions of man and society which many have worked to describe and interpret. Perhaps these concep tions can only be given in experience. Thc metaphors of creativity and growth seck to cnact them, but the pressure, now, must be towards particulars, for hcrc 01' nowhere they arc confirmed. \Vc have reasonably adequate and continuing accounts of the rise of industry and thc growth of democracy in Britain. But we have no adcquate history of OUI' expanding culture : paris of the process ha\'e een documentcd, but have then too often been fi llcd into vcrsions of change which sccm to mc to be based, con�ciously 01' unc onsciously, on prej udices that arc a form of contempor<1ry social action. In my next part, I shall review some importan t clements of the cultural expansion: partly to gel the record as straigh t as [ can; partly to bring the questions ofvaluc involved in thc history to the point where commitments can be open, But also l see this cultural history as morc than a department, a special arca of change. In this creative area the changes and conflicts of the whole way oflife are nccessarily involved. This at Icast
j,
'4'
The Long Rtvo{ulion
is my starting-point: where learning and communication are
actual, and where through them we sec the shapes of a society. What we sec in this way we can then try to put to usc in a much wider area. We can try to say how, where we live, we see growth and change, perhaps in new ways that are decisively altering QUI' received social thinking.
..
PART TWO
I
E D U C A T I O N A N D B R I T I S H S O C I ETY
THgRE arc clear and obvious connexions between the quality oCa culture and the quality ofitssystcm ofeducation, In OUf own time we have settled to saying that the improve. menl of our cuhure is a maller of improving and c.'Ctending our national education, and in one sense this is obviously truc. Yet we speak sometimes as if education were a fixed abstraction, a settled body of teaching and learning, and as if the only problem i t presents to us is that of distribution: this amount, for this period of lime, to this or that group. The business of organizing education - creating types of institution, deciding lengths of courses, agreeing conditions of entry and duration- s i certainly important. Yet to conduct this business as if it were the distribution ora simple product •
is wholly misleading. It i� not only that the way in which education is organized can be secn to express, consciously and unconsciously, the wider organization of a culture and a society, so that what has been thought ofas simple distribu lion is in fact an active shaping to particular social ends. It is also that the content ofeducation, which is subject to great historical variation, again expresses, again both consciously and unconsciously, certain basic elements in the culture, what is thought of as 'an education ' being in fact a particu lar selection, a particular set of emphases and omissions. Further, when this selection of content is examined more
closely, it will bcseen 10 beoneofthe decisive factors afTeetillg
its dislribUlion: the cultural choices involved in the selection of content have an organic relation to the social choices involved in the practical organization. If we are to discuss education adequately, we must examine, in historical and analytic terms, this organic relation, for to be conscious of a choice made is to be conscious of further and alternative
'46
The LOllg Revolution
Edt/ca/jOlt alld British Society
choices available, and at a time when changes, under a
education', or, in Sir Fred Clarke's term, 'education for culture' . Schematically one can say that a child must be
multitude of pressures, will in any case occur, this degree of consciousness is vital.
We cannot begin with the aims of education as abstract definitions. Jfwc look at actual educational systems, we can i distinguish three general purposes, but their character s such Ihal we can by no means separate them. 'Ve can, for example, distinguish a major general purpose ; that of train ing the members of a group to the ' social character' or 'pattern of culture' which is dominant in the group or by which the group lives. To the extent that this 'social charac ter' is generally accepted, education towards it will not normally be thought ofas one possible training among many,
but as a natural tmining which cvcry one ill the socicty must acquire. Yct whcn, as orten happens, the ' social character' is changing, or when, again, there are alternative 'social characters' within a given society, this ' natural training' can be something very diITerent, and call be seen, by others, as
'indoctrination '. Some writers clistinguish this social training from the tcaching of particular skills, the former being
'47
taught, first, the accepted behaviour and values ofllis society;
second, the general knowledge and auitudes appropriate to an educated man, and third, a particular skill by which he will cam his living and coillribu\c to the wclfarc ofhis society. In fact,just as the particular skill and theacccptcd behaviour and valuC$ arc necessarily related, so, we shall find, both are related to, and help to determine, tbe kind ofgeneral know
ledge and attitudes appropriate to an educated mall. It is
never a purely arbitrary selection, nor a simple process or 'indoctrination', for ir the governing social character is accepted, even if only by a ruling minority, it is accepted in
terms of its vlllue: the genel'al training necessary to a man is
bound to be seen in the eOlllext of the valucs which the social character embodies and transmits. If we believe in a par ticular social character, a pllrticular set or attitudes and values, we naturally believe that the general education which
follows from these is the best that can be offered to anyone:
it docs not reel like 'indoctrination ' , or even ' training' ; it
general atmosphere or background, the latter being special ized instruction. Yet the social character is always and
feels like oITering to this man the best that can be given.
everywhere much morc than particular habits ofcivility and behaviour ; it is also the transmission of a particular system
points becomes clear, for we shall see not only the variations
of values, in tbe field of group loyalty, authority, justice, and living purposes. I know of no educational system which fails to contain this kind of training, and the important point is
that it is impossible ultimately to separate this training from
the specialized tJ·aining. The teaching of skills prepares a
rising generation for the varieties ofadult work, but thiswork, and all the relations governing it, will be found to exist
within the given social character; indeed one function of the social character is to make the available kinds of work,
and the valuations and relations which arise from them,
acceptable. And ifwe cannot separate general social training from specialized training, since one is given, consciously or
If we turn to historical analysis, the importance of these
of ' the best that can be given',
bUi the actual and complex
rcl�lions between the three aims cited: sec thc training of socl3i character shading into specialized training for par ticular kinds ofwol"k, and thedefinitions ofgeneral education
taking their colour from both. I propose to examinc the his
tory of English educlltion from this particulal' point of view:
to sec the changing complex of actual relations, in social
training, subjects taught, definilions ofgeneral education, in
the context of a developing society. And since we ourselves arc not at the end of hislory, but at a point in this complex
development, the historical account will necessarily lead to an analysis of our own educational values and methods.
unconsciously, in terms orthe other, neither can we scparate the third distinguishable purpose: what we call a 'general
The beginnings of English education show very dearly the
The Long RelJ(}iutioli close relationships between lraining for a vocation, training to a social character, and training a particular civilization. The first English schools, from the late sixth century, had a primarily vocational intention, but this was such that i t implied a pal'licular social training and a particular defini tion of a proper general knowledge. The conscious ol:!ject of these early schools, attached to cathedrals and to monasteries,
Education and British Socie!y
' 49
praiscs of Christ. Consider yourself how serious and shocking it is
that a bishop should pursue an activity unsuitable even for a pious
layman. \�c have already in hand the granting ofyour request, easy
in mind and untroubled by doubts, provided that this information
which has come to us shall have been proved manif'-"SLly Ulltrue, and you will not be shown
10
spend your time on the follies of secular
literature.
was to train intending priests and monks to conduct and
Yet ' grammar', the basis of the new schools, was not undel·
understand the services of the Church, and to read the Bible
stood at this time as merely the bones ofa language (that is
and the writings of the Christian Fathers. The break since the
only a late medieval meaning) ; i t was a preparation for read
withdrawal of Roman power, and the new scttlement.s by
ing, especially reading aloud, and was taken to involve
peoples of a different language, left a people largely without
comprehension and commentary, so that content was insep arable. On both educational and religious grounds, the
Latin at a time when the dominant religion, and a large part of all available learning, were in the unknown language.
'grammar-book ' was the expedient resorted to; first, the
Augustine has been well described as coming to convert
anthology, which not only made a variety of texts available
England 'with the Latin-service book in one hand, and the
but could select them on grounds of suitability of content;
Latin grammar in the othcr' (Lcach). Two kinds of school,
later the systematic grammars and the teaching dialogues. The inquiring student could and did read further, especially
often in practice connected, were instituted : the grammar school, to teach Latin, and the song school, to teach church
into Virgil and Ovid, but the nature ofthe selective tradition
singing. Necessarily, in view of their objects, the specializcd
was such that a large part of classical thought, particularly in
training of both these schools was part of a general training to Christianity and the particular social charact.er it then
philosophy and sciencc, remained neglected. Several actual . curricula have come down to us from this early period. Bcde
carried. Yel the grammar school, especially, could not be
speaks of Theodore and Hadrian, at Canterbury, teaching 'the rules of metric, astronomy and the computus as well as
confined to this limited aim. Over eight centuries, from before the coming of these schools to England (based, as they were,
the works of the saints ', and Alcuin's account of the teaching
on Greek and Roman models) until the centuries before the
at York refers to grammar, rhetoric, law, poetry, astronomy,
Renaissance, a crucial argument about the content of their
natural history, arithmetic, geometry, music, and the Scrip
education is most interestingly in evidence. Latin must be
tures. Yet, when we look at actual textbooks, we see how
taught, or the Church could not continue, but ability in it
thesc subjects were organized by the dominant principles of
led not only to the Bible and the Fathers, but also to the whole
Latin and the Church. Scripture was the central subject, and
range of Latin literature and ' pagan' philosophy. The prob lems this raised are well illustrated in a letter from Pope
rhetoric teaching was mainly a study of verbal forms in the Bible. Grammar was the teaching of Latin, and versification
Gregory to Bishop Desidcrius in Gaul;
was in the same context, though at times it extended to relate
. . . A circumstance came to our notice, which cannot be mentioned wiLhout shame, namely that you, our brother, give lessons in grammar. This news caused us such annoyance and disgust that all
omy, was centred on the intricacies of the Church calendar,
our joy at the good we had heard earlier was turned to sorrow and
distress, since he t same lips canuot sing the praises ofjove and the
to poctry in thc vernacular. Mathematics, including astron simple general exercises being an introduction to the all important ' computu� ' centred on the controversy about thc date of Easter. Music and law were vocational studies for
The L()lIg Revolution
Education and British Society
the services and administration of the Church, and the natural history, by contrast with the Aristotelians, was literary and anecdotal. Geography, history, and Ihe natural
began to be realized with any adequacy, as new material
'50
sciences found liule place in such a scheme, though it must
' 5'
from classical learning, and new attitudes towards it, flowed in. Teachers, instead of being appointed, were now more formally licensed (university degrees wcre licencC5 to teach).
be remembered that Bede, with this teaching, wrote a sub
Some e.xtension of SlUdies to practical sccular needs is also
stantial history ofEngland.
evident, as for example in the teaching of letter-writing, a
education was made available to others than intending priests and monks. There was probably an occasional extension, and
far, if at all, this kind of
There is some evidence of writing-schools, as distinct from
there are certainly some recorded cases of the education of
tical accounting were taught, for a new class. Some schools
It is dimcult to be certain how
growing need as administration became more complex. grammar and song schools, at which letter-writing and prac
young members of royal and noble families. In England, in
again, though needing to be licensed by the Church, were
any case, the development of the schools was intcnuptcd by the Danish invasions, to such an extent that the system had
otherwise independent. A very large part of medieval education remained. voca
to be reconstructed under the influence of Alfred, and we
tional, bUl the development of philosophy, medicine, and law had the effect of removing parts of the educational
have little positive evidence again until the tenthandelcventh centuries. The new pallern is very similar 10 the old, evcn
system from the dircct supervision of the Church, and the
after the Norman invasion when French replaced English as the vernacular medium for teaching Latin. There arc gram
universities' fight for their independence, as corporate learncd bodies deciding thcir own conditions for granting
mar schools and song schools, attached to cathedrals,
degrees and hence licences 10 teach, was to an important
monasteries and collegiate churches, and the vocational curri
extent successful. Between the thirteenth and the end of the
culum is still evident. Then, in the twelfth century, thcre is an important expansion, both in institutions and in teaching.
fifteenth centuries the network ofgrammar and song schools,
The cathedral schools multiplied, and in thc following cen
attached to cathedrals, monasteries, collegiate churches and chantries, was add�d to by the creation of virtually indepen
tury, in Oxford, the first colleges and the idea ofa university appeared. The movement was closely related to extensions of
dent schools, such as Winchester and Eton, in close relation
the curriculum, in that rhetoric, at the primary stage, grew
with new colleges at Oxford and Cambridge. Figures arc
to rank equally with grammar, while in the secondary stages,
quite uncertain, but i t has been estimated by the best authority, Leach, that for a population, on the eve of the
and certainly in the universities, there was a major growth in
Reformation, of some 2:\- millions, there may have been as
logic, related to the increasing availability of some of the
many as 400 schools, or one school to 5,625 people. (In 1864
major writings of Aristotle, and an extension and specializa tion in the advanced faculties oflaw, medicine, and theology.
there was one grammar school to every 23,750 people.) Yet two other aspects of medieval education must be noted : the
Although education remained within a firm Christian frame work, the concept ofa liberal education, as a preparation for
apprenticeship system, i n tbe crafts and trades, and the chivalry system, by which young boys of noble family were
the specialized study of law, mcdicine, or theology, can be
sent as pages to great hOllses and lived through a graduated
seen shaping itself. The concept of the Seven Liberal Arts (the (rh';ullI of grammar, rhetoric, and dialectic, the fluadriu
course of training to knighthood. The existence of these two systems, alongside the academic system, reminds us of the
iUIll
of music, al·ithmetic, gcometry, and astronomy) goes
detcrmining effect on education ofthe actual social structure.
back to at least the fifth century. but i t was only now that it
The labouring poor were largelyleft out ofaccount, although
J
Tlu
52
Long Revolutioll
there are notable eases ofindividual boys getting a complete
Education ami Bfljish Society
'53
the Renaiss.'lllce. In the maner ofactual schools, the Reform.
education, through school and unive�ity, by outstanding
ation of course made many changes, closing or reducing in
promise and merit. For the rest, education was organized in
status a number of old foundations, instituting perhaps an equal number of new. The central institution remained the
general relation to a firm structure of inherited and destined stalllsand condition: the craft apprentices, the fUlUre knights,
Grammar School, but there is an important change in
the future clerisy. The system, while clear, is not perfect, for
sponsorship, of a kind first evidcnt in the fifteenth centlll)'
academic education seems on the whole to have outrun
Where the typical medieval grammar school had been a
demand. Even with something Jike one ordained clerk to
Church foundation, he t typical new grammar school was a
forty of the population, there was not room for al1 with an
private foundation, supervised in variable degree by Church
academic education to live by it, and the lower ranks of the
and Stale. Yet the educational tradition of the grammar
clergy were in any case very poor. Further, the clerisy was
schools survived, with little change, and we can agree with
perhaps recruited from a more varied social background
Milton and Amold that this was damaging. Greek and
than in the directly class-based apprenticeship and chi\·alry
sometimes Hebrew were added to the main Latin eurrieu.
systems. Provision, in almost all early foundations, for ' poor
hun, and the main gain was an expansion in the study of
seholars', can be variously interprctcd, but at least the
literature. But the grammar school's kind of teaching, and
system was reasonably open. In Ihis connexion, the nature of
even more that of the universities, remaincd rigid and nar.
the ncw independent schools, such as Winchester and Eton,
row, and forms such as the theme and the disputation, which
is
particularly
important.
AI
'¥inchester,
apart
from
had once been creative, were isolatcd and mechanical. The
founder's kin, there were to be commoners paying their own
majOl· achievcments of the Renaissancc, in the vcrnacular
cost, who would be ruling-class boys, and ' poor and needy
!iteratlH"es, in geographical discovery, in ncw painting and
scholars, of good character and well-conditioned, of gentle
music, in the new spirit in philosophy and physical inquiry,
manly habits, able for school, completely learncd i n reading, plain-song and old Donatus' (Latin Crammar). Because of their indcpendent status, such schools were not ticd to one locality, and admission on a national basis was begun. I t has been suggested, perhaps with reason, that such an institution was hound to dcvelop into the public.school as we know it,
in changing attitudes to lhe individual, had little cffcct on
the standard forms of general education. Yet, outside these traditional institutions, primary schools in English seem to have increased, in a bewildering val·iety of forms, ranging from instruction by priests to private adventure schools, often as a sidelinc to shopkecping and trade. 1n many cases,
drawing increasingly on a single elass, and combining in its
Ihe ' petties ' or' ABCs' were proper schools, sometimes linked
way of life thc educational methods of the grammar schools and the social training, by 'boarding-out', of the chivalric
to the grammar schools, somctimes, where old endowments had shrunk, virtually taking ovet grammar schools. In addi
system. In view of the close connexion bctween these schools and eolteges of the univcrsities, any such development was
ing scrivener's English and the casting of accounts - an
bound to affect the educational system as a wholc.
obvious need in the considerable expansion of trade - and in
II
tion, there was some dcvelopmcnt of' writing schools ', teach
some cases such teaching became incorpo!"ated in grammar schools. It is a complex pattern, yet three trends are clear :
Matthew Arnold once argued that much had been lost in
the increase in vernacular teaching, the failure of the tradi
English education because while the schools wcre reorgan
tional institutions to adapt either to a changing economy
ized by the Reformation their teaching was not redirected by
or to an expanding culture, and the passing of most of the
'54
The Long RefJO/lition
leading schools from sponsorship by a national institution to private benefaction. In the seventeenth century, there were imporlant dcvelop ments in educational theory, some of which had practical effect. The main educational theories of the Renaissance, in particular the ideal of the scholar-courtier, had had little effect on English institutions, and indeed had the parado:-;:ical effect ofreducing the status ofschools as such, and selting the alternative pattern, drawing in pan on the chi\'alric il'adi tion, of education at home through a private IUtor: a prefer ence, in many families, which lasted well into the nineteenth century. Specific professional institutions, particularly in law, gained in importance, but meanwhile, to serve a differ ent class, new general institutions, the Dissenting Academies, were beginning to appear. Nonconformists, after the Restor ation, were seriously discriminated against by the traditional institutions, and replied by setting up their own academics, at a higher secondary or university level of teaching. These varied considerably in quality, but i t can fairly be claimed that in the best of them, in the eightecnth century, a new definition of the content of a general education was worked out and put into practice. Here, for the first time, the curri culum begins to take its modern shape, with the addition of mathematics, geography, modern languages, and, crucially, the physical sciences. The older grammar schools, in the same period, changed in differing ways. The nine leading schools, seven of them boarding institutions, kept mainly to the traditional curriculum of the classics, and, while less socially cxclusi\'e than they were to become, tended on the whole to serve the aristocracy and the squirearchy, on a national basis. The majority ofthe endowed grammar schools sen'ed their immediate localities, with a reasonably broad social base, but still mainly with the old curriculum. But those older schools situated in the larger cities, greatly influenced by the many merchants and tradesmen whom they scrved, combined, in the eighteenth century, a quite varied social composition with some broadening ofthc curri· culum, particularly in mathematics and natural sciences.
I I
Education and British Society J 55 The universities reflected this complex picture, for while there was substantial adherence to the old curriculum, and what seems 10 have been a decline in teaching standards, there was some serious development in mathematics and the sciences, and the percentage of ' poor' students - sons of farmers, craftsmen, small tradesmen - though falling during the century, was still quite substantial. Of the three old prof($Sions, the elergy was still mainly served by the universi ties, while law and medicine were mainly now outside them. Of Ihe new professions, partieulal'iy in science, engineering, and arts, a majority of entrants werc trained outside the universities, as were also most of the new merchants and manulaelul'ers. The eighteenth century is remarkable for the growth of a number of new vocational academies, serving commerce, engineering, the arts, and the armed services. As for primary education, the haphazard system of parish and private adventure schools still survived, and there was some growth in preparatory schools serving the various academics and older foundations. But increasing urbaniza tion was raising new problems, to which solutions were very slow in coming. 'fhe Charity School movement, from the end of the sc\'enteenlh century, represcnts the main effort, and its combination ofa new kind ofintention - the moral rescue as opposed to the moral instruction of the poor- with a more formal definition ofelementary education as that appropriate to a particular social elass, casts its shadow ahead. By the last quarter of the eighteenth century, with the quickening of pace of the Industrial Revolution, the whole educational system was undcr new pressurcs which would cventually transform it. '"
In the scventy years between 1 751 and 1 8 2 1 , the populalion of the British mainland doubled, from seven to fourtecn millions, and by 1 8 7 1 , at twenty-six millions, it had nearly doubled again. In addition to this remarkable expansion, the proponion of the population living in towns, including the new industrial towns, and also the proportion of children in
The Long RtllOlulion
the population as is whole, again remarkably increased. These changes would have been enough to disorganize a tnuch better systt::n\ ofeducauon than the eighteenth century actually had, and the first halfoflhe nineteenth century is full ofreports showing the utter inadequacy, in part revealed, in partereatcd, by the social and economic transformation. The desire to rCQrganize education, on a fuller basis than hitherto, was the motive of many of these n:ports, but at the same time the forces opposed to any general reform were very strong. In IBI6, of 12,000 parishes examined, 3,500 had no school, 3,000 had endowed schools of v�rying quality, an 5,5°0 had unendowed schools, of a quahty even more vari able. But to do anything about this the reformers had to get past the representative opinion of a Justice of the Peace in 1807:
�
It is doubtless desirable that the poor should be generally instructed in read;ng, if it were only for the best of purposes that they may read the Scriptures. As to writillg and (lrithmetic, it ma)' be appre helldcd that slIeh a degree of knowledge would producc in them a -
disrclish for ule laborious occupations aflife.
lt is true that at no previous period had the poor, as a whole, been educated, although in esceptional parishes the attempt was made. But there had bcen provision, again and again, for the exceptional pOOl" boy to get to the university. Under the new dispensation, education was organized on a more rigid class basis. To e\·ery class we have a school assign'd Rules for aU ranks and food for every mind. (Crabbe)
Only U1C last clause was untrue. But the process of change from a system of social orders, based on localities, to a national system of social classes - a change extending from the fifteenth to the late eighteenth centuries - was now virtually complete, and its result was a new kind of dass-determincd education. Higher education became a virtual monopoly, excluding the new working class, and the idea ofuniversal education, escept within the narrow
Education alld BritiJh Sociery , 57 limits of 'moral rescue', was widely opposed as a maHer of principle. The first ncw educational institutions of the Industrial Revolution were the industrial schools, providing manual training and elementary instruction, and, much more im portant, the Sunday schools, available to adults as well as children, and, while varying in methods, mainly organized on thc principle noted: that for moral reasons the poor must learn to t·ead the Bible, but that writing and arithmetic, to say nothing of more dangerous subjects, were less necessary or even harmful. In the new kinds of day school, under the rival systems of Lancaster and Bell, teaching was similarly based on the Biblc, but by a new method - what Bell called 'the S T E A M E N C I N E of the M O R A L WORLD' - which by the usc of monitors and standard repetitive exercises allowed one master to teach many hundreds of children simultaneously in one room. It has bccn estimated that wilh Ihe development of Sunday schools and the new day schools, and Wilh the surviving parish and adventure schools, some 875,000 children, out of a possible 1 ,500,000, attended a school ofsome kind for some period in 18r6, and that in r835 the figure was 1,450,000 out of 1 ,750,000. To assess these figures adequately, we must remember that the same in quiries showed an average duration of school attendance, in 1835, of one year. From the eighteenth century some assist ance to schools from the rates had been empowered in a fcw places, and from the IB30S there was a beginning ofllational assistance in school building. By IB51, the average duration of school attendance had been raised to two years, and by ,861 an estimated 2,500,000 children out of a possible 2,75°,000 may have been in some form ofschool auendance, though suli of very miscd quality and with the majority leaving before they were elevcn. The curriculum was broad ening a little. usually now including wriling and arithmetic, and in some schools other general subjects. The Revised Code of 1862 institUled a system of payment by results in relation to definitc standards in reading, writing, and arithmetic (reading a short paragraph in a newspaper; writing similar
I S8
The Long RevolutirJrl
Educatioll alld British Society
matter from dictation ; working sums in practice and frac . tions) . Increasing public aid to the schools was thus tlcd to the old criterioll of a minimum standard. In 1870, school boards were cstablished, to complete the network of schools and bring them under a clearer kind of supervision, and in . 1 876 and !fWo this extension was confirmed by makmg universal elementary schooling compulsory. In 18g3, the leaving age was raiscd to I I , in 1 899 to 12, and in I� to a permissive 14. Thus by the. end �f the century a national system of elementary schooling, sull largely confincd to the . provision of a minimum standard, had been set gomg. Meanwhile, the old grammar schools had been widely developed, as the institutions of a largely separate elass, served mainly, at the primary Slage, by an extended network of preparatory scbools. Attendances at the �ld �hools, p.ar ticularly at the leading nine, had begun to revlvc III thc penod 1 790-1830, and in their differcnt ways Butler at Shrewsbury, from 1 798, and Arnold at Rugby, from 1824, had begu? to change their character. Arnold's influenc: was not mall�ly on the curriculum, but on the re-establlshment of social purpose, the educalion of Christi�n gcnrlcmc.n. Butler s . influence is perhaps evcn morc Slg1lIfica!�t, or hiS emph�sLS on examination-passing marks the beglnIllng of a major trend. By the 1830s, the examination system. between the� e schools and the universities was firmly establIshed, and tillS, while raising educational standards within t� le ins�itutions, . had the effect ofreinforcing the now marked limItation ofthe universities to entrants from a narrow social class. In the curriculum classics were 'business' and other subjects were extras but he establishment of the Civil Scrvice Commission and tI e Board ofMilitary Education, from mid-century, had the effect ofpromoting mathematics and modem langua�es, and of further ol'ganizing the schools in terms of examma tions. In the , 8405, there were altogcther some 700 grammar schools and more than '2,000 non-classical endowed schools, ' but an inquiry showcd ill ,868 that in two-thirds of the towns of England there werc no secondary schools o any kind, and in the remaining third there were marked dlffer-
:
�
;
:
�
' 59 ences of quality. In the late 1860s, through t\vo commissions and the Public Schools Act of 1868, the reorganization of secondary education, still on a narrow class basis, was conceived and in pan carried through. The Act of 1868 broke many of the old foundation slatutes,and instituted new governing bodies. From this dale, the new curriculum (classics, mathematics, one modern language, Iwo natural sciences, history, geography, drawing, and music) and the confirmation of a separate class of 'public schools', were established . rhe Headmasters' Conference, embracing the many new JUneteenth-century schools of this type, and some of the old foundations, was begun in 1869. The Taunton Commission of t867 envisaged three grades of secondary school: those fOI' the upper and upper-middle classes, keeping theil' boys till 18 and giving a 'liberal education ' in prepara lion for the universities and the old professions; those for the middle classes, keeping their boys till 16 and preparing them for the Army, the newer professions, and many departments of the Civil Scrvice; and those for the lower middle classes keeping thcir boys until '4, and fitting them for living a 'small tenant farmers, small tradesmen, and superior artisans ' . Where possible, minorities should be enabled to pass to a higher grade, and in particular there might be a eonnexion between third-grade secondary schools and the elemcntary schools, enabling some sons oflabourers to go on to secondary education . Secondary education, in these three grades, should be made available to IO children for every 1,000 of the population, and of these 8 would be in the third grade. in practice this would mean a national total of64,000 children in the fil'St and second grades, and '256,000 in the third grade, out of some 4,000,000 childl·en. ' I I s i obvious', the Commission commented, in relation to its tripartite grading, ' that these distinctions correspond roughly, but by no means c.'tactly, to the gradations of society. ' In practice, while secondary education was not yet a public rcsponsibility, the cffect of this suggested organization was uneven . From the !850S, a system of University Local Examinations, first called ' Middle-Class Examinations',
:
;
160
The Long Reuolulion
Education and British SoC£ery
had enabled endowed and proprietary schools ofthe first and
in the 1850$, with the dual aim of broadening the range of
second grades to aim at some recognized national standard system by official and pmfessionai bodies had the same
subjects offercd, and ensuring a social representation wider than that of ' prospective parsons, prospective lawyers, (and] young men of rank and forlune ' . Further legislative changes
rationalizing effect. The campaign for the secondary educa
in the ,8705 and 18Bos, and the reorganization and extension
tion of girls was beginning to show results, and then in J 8Sg Wales took the lead, with an Intermediate Education Act
of facuhies, led to the achievement of modern university status. Meanwhile, university colleges werc springing up,
which succeeded in establishing an organized secondary
and the foundations of Manchester, Nottingham, Reading, Southampton, Leeds, Liverpool, Sheffield, and Birmingham,
ofsecondary education, and the C.''l:tension oft.he examination
system linking the board and voluntary elementary schools with the univcl'Sities, and providing for both boys and girls. In 1902 the creation of Local Education Authorities, with responsibility for the full educational necds of their arcas, laid the basis for a national system of secondary education. The third-grade school had been overtaken by the raising of
togcther with thc three Welsh colleges, were being laid. The nineteenth-ccntury achievement is evidently a major reorganization of elementary, secondary, and university education, along lines which in general we still follow. Both
the elementary school-leaving age, and it. was to the creation
in kinds of institution, and in the matter and manner of education, it shows the reorganization of learning by a
of fu-st- and second-grade secondary schools that thc new
radically clJanged society, in which the growth of industry
authorities, with varying energy, applied themselvcs. The Board of Education had come into existence in 1899, and in
and ofdemocracy were the leading clements, and in terms of change both in the dominant social character and in types of
1904 it defined a four-year secondary course, leading to a
adult work. At no timc in England havc the effects of these
certificate, in English language and literature, geography,
influences on the very concept ofcducation been clearer, but,
history, a language other than English, mathematics, science, drawing, manual work, physical training, and household
precisely because this was so, a fundamental argument about
back from this to the eighteenth
contribution. Two strands oflhis argument can be separated: the idea of education for all, and the definition of a liberal
Meanwhile, in the course of the century, university educa
education. The former, as we have seen, was fiercely argued, and the history of the century represents the victory of those
crafts for girls. If we look
century curriculum of the Dissenting Academics, we shall see where the main line of the tradition lies.
the purposes of cdueation was the century's most interesting
tion had been radically changed. The institution of public
who, in the early decades, had becn a minority. Two major
examinations, in Cambridge from the eighteenth ccntury, in
factors can be distinguished : the rise ofan organized working
Oxford from the early years ofthe nineteenth, had an impor
class, which demanded education, and the needs of an expanding and changing economy. In practice, these were closely interwovcn, in the long debate, and the victory of
tant effect on teaching, which did uot pass without protest that the examination system was making education mechani cal. A t thc same time, the religious exclusiveness of the two
the reformers rested on three clements : a genuine response
ancient universities, and the effective restriction of their
to the growth of democracy, as in men like Mill, Carlyle,
curriculum to dassics and mathematics, led to thefoundation of London University ( 1 828-36), while the new University
Ruskin, and Arnold; protcctive response, the new version of 'moral rescue', very evident in the arguments for the 1870
of Durham ( .832)' though governed by the Church, bad a
Education Act in rclation to the franchise extensions of J867
notably broader curriculum.
Reforming movements at
- ' our future masters . . . should at least learn their letters ' ;
Oxford and Cambridge led to substantial statmory changes
and the practical response, perhaps decisive, which led T-.
The LOllg Revolutioll
Education alld British Society
Forster in 1870 to use as his principal argument: 'upon the speedy provision of elementary cducation depends our
These three groups - the public educators, thc industrial
industrial prosperity'. In the growth ofsccondary education this economic argumentwas even more central.
tion being narrowed to a system of pre-industrial instruction. trainers, and tJle old humanists - arc still to be distinguished in our own time, and we shall see, later, their influence in
The dcmocratic and the industrial nrguments are both
twentieth-century developments. In general, the curriculum
sound, but the great persuasiveness of the latter led to the
which the nineteenth century evolved can be secn as a com promise between aU three groups, but with the industrial
definition of education in terms of future adult work, with the parallel clause ofteaching the required social elmracter
trainers predominant. The significant case is the long con
habits ofregularity, 'self-discipline', obedience, and trained effort. Such a definition was challenged from two sides, by
troversy over science and technical education. If we look at the range ofscientific discovery benvecn the seventeenth and
those with wide!· sympathies with the general growth of democracy, and by those with an older conception of libera!
the end of the ninetccnth centuries, it is clear that its import
education, in rclation to man's health as a spiritual being. This interesting alliance
s i broadly that which I traced as a
tradition in Cul/ure alld Society, and the educational argument was always ncar the centre of this continuing tradition. On the one hand it was argued, by mcn with widely differing
ance lies only in pal"t in its transformation of the techniques of production and communication ; indeed lies equally in its transformation of man's view of himself and of his world. Yet the decisive educational interpretation of this new knowledge was not in tcrms of its essential contribution to
attitudes to the rise of democracy and of working-class
liberal studies, but in terms of technical training for a par ticular class of men. The old humanists muddled the issue by
organization, that men had a natural human right to be
claiming a fundamental distinction between their traditional
educated, and that any good society depended on govern
learning and that of the new disciplines, and it was from this
ments accepting this principle as their duty, On the other
kind of thinking thaI there developed the absurd defensive
hand, often by men deeply opposed to democracy, i t was argued that man's spiritual health depended on a kind of
reaction that aU real leaming was undertaken without thought of practical advantage. Tn fact, as the educational
education which was mon: than a training for some special ized work, a kind variously described as 'liberal', 'humane',
history shows, the elassical linguistic disciplines wcre prim arily vocational, but these paniculal" vocations had acquired
o r ' cultural'. The great complexity of the general argument,
a separate traditional dignity, which was refused to vocations
which is still unfinished, can be seen from the fact that the public educators, as we may call the first group, were fre
now of equal human relevance. Thus, instead of the new
quently in alliance with the powerful group which promoted education in terms of training and disciplining the poor, as
and in the end reluctantly admitted on the grounds that it was of a purely tecllnical kind. The pressure of the industrial
workers and citizens, while the defenders o f ' liberal educa
trainers eventually prevailed, though not with any gene!"al adequacy until the Technical Instruction Act of 188g, and even here, significantly, it was ' instruction' rather than
tion' were commonly against both: against the former be cause liberal cducation would be vulgarized by extension to
learning broadening a general curriculum, it was neglected,
the ' masses ' ; against the lattcr because liberal education
'education '. This history was damaging both to general
would be destroyed by being turncd into a system ofspecial the public educators
education and to the new kinds of vocational training, and yet it was only an exccptional man, such as Huxley, who
inevitably drew on the argumcnts of the defenders of thc old
could see this at the time and consequently argue in the only
'liberal' education, as a way of preventing universal educa-
adequate way : that scienCe must become a part of general
ized and
technical training. Yet
The Long Revolution
Education and British Society
education and of liberal culture, and that, as a further pro
important dissenting elements in the English educational
vision, there must be an adequate system of specific pro� fessional training, in all kinds of scientific and technical work, on the same principle as the further professional train� ing of doctors, lawyers, teachers, artists, and clergy. We can take only a limited satisfaction in the knowledge that the industrial trainers won, inert and stupid as the old humanists were and have continued to be. Huxley was a public educa
tradition, made its contribution to the modcrn educational debate. This contribution - the students' choice of subject, the relation ofdisciplines to actual contemporary living, and the parity of general discussion with expert instruction remains important, but made little headway in the general educational
organization.
tor, in the full sense, and it was only in this tradition that the problem might have been �olved.
The shadow ofdass thinking lies over this as over so much other nineteenth-century educational thinking. The con� tinued relegation of trade and industry [0 lower social classes, and the desire ofsuccessful industrialists that theirsonsshould move into the now largely irrelevant elass ofgentry, were alike extremely damaging to English education and English life. As at the Reformation, a period of major reconstruction of institutions was undertaken largely without reference to the
Like
the
individual
public
educators, thcir time was not yet.
In the twentieth century, the framework inherited from the nineteenth century has been greatly expanded and improved. Elementary
education
has
been
redefined
as primary
education, ending at eleven, and from this definition, since 1944, i t has been possible to provide secondary education for all. A greatly expanded system of combined first-grade and second-grade secondary schools has been brought into being, and arrangements for a substantial minority to pass
best learning of the age, and without any successful redefini�
from primary schools into this system, and for a much smaller
tiOll of the purposes of education and of thc content of a contemporary liberal culturc. The beginnings of technical
completely at least effectively established. A large number of
instruction in the Mechanics' Institutes might have devcl� oped into a successful redefinition, but again it was the training of a specific class, whereas in fact the ncw sciences were radical clements in the society as a whole: a society which had changcd its economy, which under pressure was
minority to pass on to higher education, have been if not third-grade secondary schools, with limited connexions to the minoritysystem, are in process ofcreation, and vary consider� ably in quality. In primary education, a notable expansion of the curriculum is perhaps the century's major achieve� ment; it is mainly here that the influence of the public
changing its institutions, but which, at the centres of power, was refusing to change its ways of thinking. And then to the
educators has been effective. The universities, if unevenly
new working class, the offered isolation ofscience and techni cal instruction was largely unacceptable, for it was precisely
curricula in vitally imporlant ways. It is at the levcl of
in the interaction between techniques and their general living that this class was coming to its new consciousness.
that the essential argument continues, in terms that re
Politics, in the widt: sense of di.�cussing the quality and direction of their living, was excluded from these Institutes
and at times without clear definition, have expanded their secondary education, whether 'grammar ' or 'modern ', veal again the close relationship between curriculum and organization. In theory, the principles of the public educators have bcen accepted; that all members of the society have a natural
as i t was to remain largely excluded from the whole ofnine� teenth-century education. It was only very slowly, and then
right to be educated, and that any good society depends on
only in the sphere of adult education, that the working class,
governments accepting this principle as a duty. In practice
drawing indeed on very old intellectual traditions and on
the system is still deeply affected by other principles, as a few
r
I
,66
rhe LOllg Revollllion
EducatiOIl and British Society
examples will show. The continued existence of a network of private education, in the preparatory and public schools, mayor may not be socially desirable, but in any case it shows the kind of education, and the nect:ssary level of investment in it, which a particular social group accepts as adequate for itself. The large class, for example, has haunted public education from
the beginning : f!'Om Lancaster's
1,000
children under olle master, through Ihe 60-80 of the urban board schools, to the still common 40-5° of our own day. I n the private Iwtwork, vcry much smaUer classes, and the necessary ilwcstmcll l to ensure them, ha\'e been accepted as a private dUlY, in a quit,· differenl way from the interpreta tion of public dUly in !hc n,Hional system. Similarly, by !hc same sodal group, the neccssOlry minimum levd ofeducalion or all ils rlH:mbcl'S has been set as at least the second-grade school, usually rollowed by further proressional training,
whereas the ptlblic definilion, ror the membcrs ofother social groups, is at the lower minimum orwhal is still very much !he
old third gr,lde, Again, the minimum Icvd, fOJ" Ihe limited social grollp, is set to inelllde sllbjects wllich arc anI), available to a minority of 1111.' society
as a
WllOJc, 1 t is not easy to argue
that this limited social group has no right
10
provide the
education it thinks fit 101' ils own members, but the contrasts between this and tIll: general provision show very dearly the
ofaclult, he must be brought to a given degree ofcdueation, we can begin to see the pattern more clearly,
. Differences in learning ability obviously exist, but there IS
great danger in making these into separate and absolute categories. It is right that a child should be taught in a way appropriate to his leal'l1ing ability, but because this itsclr depends on his whole dcvelopment, including not only questions of personal character growth but also questions of
his real social environment and the stimulation received from it, too early a division into intellectual grades in part creates the situation which it
s i
offering to mcet. The effect of
stimulation on intellectual pcrrormance has been inter cstingly described, in our present context, by Professor Vernon : Aftcr
I I,
in Britai n, we do get bigger divergences in cnvironmen�al
stimula1 ion. ChildrcJl arc now al an agewhen the),should be acqUIr
ing conlpkx conccpts and modes of thought, and the different kinds
of schooling IHo\'icied in grammar, modern and othcr schools, to
gClller wilh the diITerent intc1leClual levcls of their homes, may "clI � affect tlleiT growth. At 1 5 the majority leavc school and cllte.I' Jobs which do li lt lc 10 cxcrcj,c their 'brains', and their leisure pursulll arc mostly non-stimulating, But a privilcged minori ty con1inuc to receivc intcllectual Mimulation to 1 7 , 18, 2 1 or later, and arc more likely to enter jobs where they usc their minds, and to indulge in
sUl'vival ofa familiar kind ofclass thinking, which has limited
cultural leisuI'c-timc purlluits. Hencc we would cxpect, as has been
the practical execution of a rormally aeceplt:d public duty.
dearly proved, that educalion during Ihe teens docs a!Teet the ulti
In the analysis ofolll' present edllcational
unil'crsity education has on the a\'erage a 12 IQ point advantage OVCI' thc man who was equally illlc1ligclll at 1 5 but has had no further education since Ihen.
systcm, this point
is usually neglected in favour or an argument in tel"mS of
levels of imclligellee, and it is often argued thilt we face
wholly new problems, in the cducation of the 'masses', because lcvels of measured intelligence vary �o widely. There arc problems indeed, but in filet the educillion of this limilcd social class has throughoul its history had to deal with this same kind of menial variation, and it has been the level of education rc<]uircd by a member ofthis class, rather than the Ie"el thought appropri:llc to a par!icular mental measurc ment, that has in ract go\'erned its organization. I f we put the matter in this way, that because a child will be this kind
mate adult il ltclligcncc le"cl. The man with full secondary and
This is the reality behind the confident useormental measure ment to ratiry graded systcms or education. To take intelli gence as a fixt:d gu,mtity, from the ordinary thinking of mechanical materialism, is a denial of the rcalities of growth and or intclligcnce itselr, in the final interest of a particular model orthe social system. How else can we explain the very odd principlc that has been built into modern English educa tion: that those who are slowest to learn should have the
169
Education and British Sociery
Tlu Long Revolution
shortest time in which to learn, while those who learn quickly
will be able to extend the process for as much as seven years beyond them? This is the reality of' equality ofopportunity',
which is a very different thing from real social equality. The truth is that while fOI' children ofa particular social class we
The conception ofgraded secondary schools, in nineteenth ce?t�ry thinking, rested firmly on the assumption that the eXlstmg class structure would be reproduced. The educa tional standards aimed at were, in consequence, class standards - what a gentleman, or a professional man, or a
have a conception, however imperlcct, of a required mini
small tradesman would need. ""e have now added what a
mum of general education whatcvcr their measured intelli gence might be, we have no such conception, 01' a much
the principle I am trying to establish: what a member of an
lower conception, for the majority of those outside this class. This fact in itself, together with other social processes, magnifies natural inequalities, in a persistent way. For of course there
s i
no absolute correlation between intelligence
and membership of a particular occupational group. The mean I.Q. of children of such groups varies, but the differ ences within groups arc greater than those between the groups. And then, if longer education can be bought by a few, and if morc favourable learning environments arc perpetuated by the social inequality rcsulting from previous inequalities of real opportunity, natural incqualities are again magnified and take on a direct social relevance. If one is asked, at any point in this process, to 'stop being utopian and consider the hard facts about educating the masses ', it is very difficult to be patient. Whilc we shall always be faced with substantial differcnces in learning ability among al[
technician or an operative will need, hut are still far short of
educated and participating democracy needs. Advance to this principle has been confused by one real change and reform. We arc now all aware that de\'e1opmcnts in the pro fessions (including teaching) as a result of expanded social services, in �dn:ainistration as a result of the growth of large
scale orgalllzahons, both democratic and commcrcial and
�
in industry as a result of highly developed prod ctive t�chniqu'S, have created a new and expanding class, quite � different III character from the old gcntry and the old bour geoisie. In one way, this ncw class has much more in common with the old working class, in that it lives neither by property nor by trade, but by offc;ring its labour for hirc. At the same ti�e, lhe labour offered is ofa skilled kind, requiring specific . trall1l11g, and though this is also increasingly true of the
�
wo:k ng class itself, it has happened that the preparatory trallung of the new class has been carried out within the
childrcn, we have to face the real!y hard fact that we are now
educational system, while tllC working class is still largely
meeting this problem in a particular way which serves in thc end to magnify the differences and then pass thcm off as a
tion of gcntlemen has been lal'gcly replaced by the new
natural order. We can only change this way
if we get rid of
conscious or unconscious class thinking, and begin consider ingcducational organization in terms ofkeeping thc learning
process going, for as long as possible, in every life. Instead of the sorting and grading process, natural lO a class socicty, we should regard human learning in a genuincly open way, as the most valuable real resource we have and therefore as something which we should have to produce a special argu mcnt to limit rather than a special argument to extend. 'We will perhaps only gel to this when we have learned to think ofa genuinely open culture.
train<.-ci 'on the job '. To train this new class, the old educa education of public servants ; it was indeed in this conncxion that the ideology of 'service ' was so greatly emphasized, . 111 the reformed public schools, later in the secondary
first
system modelled on them. ln fact, at every stage, and still t ay. pro\'is on for the education oflhis new class has lagged
�
�
5el'lously bclllnd aClual need : at first under the influence of traditional educational ideas, later by reluctance to face the effcet of this necd on {he older class system. By the second half ofthe nineteenth century i t was obvious that the existing uppcr and �iddle elasses could not, by themselves, supply thc expanding demand, and the national organization of
'70
Education alld British Society
The LQng Revolutio/l reformed
nilion of this transforming situation. The bulk or the recruit
imitated in the national sys tem. The alternative tradition of public education, which led to the principle ofsecondary education for all, has remained
ment would still come from the established upper and middle classes, but facilities would be provided for lower-middle class and working-class boys to fill the residue of vacancies. This policy had the moral appeal of meeting what was felt to be the most substantial criticism of the existing system: that poor boys of exceptional ability might not gel theil" clmllcc ', might be wasted. The steady expansion ofsueh facilities has been a persistent ifalways belated attempt to keep pace with the continuing expansion of this new class, and the guiding principle in secondary education has conscqucntly been the supply of this standard of skilled service: a definition which led naturally to a selective principle based on mental meas urement rather than on social origin. It was now not so much the continuing education of a class (though in tbe private network this emphasis remained) as thc grading and treat ment of a given quantity of raw material, to supply the e.xpanding professional, administrative, and industrial process. Such training in itself is essential, but the fact that second ary education, and the selective procedures giving entry to it, have becn conccived almost wholly in such narrow terms has been very damaging both in practice and at the level of educational theory. Instead of the effort to reinterpret con temporary culture, and to define a general education for our society as a whole, the emphasis, both in the organization of institutions, and in the thinking of educators, has been on the processesofsorting and grading. Such changes and extensions as there have been in the secondary curriculum -have again been largely determined by changes in the character of the work of this new class. The relevant 'social eharactcr' - a training in reliability, the willingness to take rcsponsibility within a given framework, and the notion of leadership (in
public
schools,
and
widely
and
171
secondary education was in fact the delayed practical rccog·
successfully
relatively weak. One has only to eomparc the simple elass thinking of the Taunton Commission's recommended grades
with the Hadow, Spens, and l\"orwood reports, and the practical effects of the 1 91\4 Education Act, to see the essen tial continuity, despite changes in the economy, of a pattern of thinking drawn from a rigid class society, with its grading by birth leading to occupation, and thcn assimilated to a
changing society, with a new system ofgrading. Thc tradition of public education, on the other hand, rests on a broader interpretation of the Iines of social change. It recognizes the
occupational ehangcs as vitally important, but it insists that these nre only one aspect of our general development. By slow steps, not completed until the late 1920S, Britain has become a democracy based on universal suffrage, and this fact, by which the responsibility of deciding major social policy is transferred to the people as a whole, is obviously of
central and inescapable relevance to education. Again, the remarkable growth of cultural communication systems from the developed national press to cinema, radio, and television - has placed the quality of the whole national culture in the hands of the people as a whole, for it is increas ingly obvious that standards set in the wide field aAect the
_
standards of the most tenaciously guarded minority culture. Further, the occupational changes arc developing on such a scale, and scem certain to continue to do so, probably at an accelerating ratc, thal the selective cclucation of a new skilled class is no longer a problem of dealing with a minority, but is becoming a problem of the prcparatiOl1 for all kinds of work.
Attention has becn eOl1et:ntratcd, by critics in the public educatOr tradition, 011 the organization of secondary educa.
practice a conception appropriate to upper and middle servants, the taking of local control and initiative within a heavily emphasized absolute loyalty to the institution to
tion 10 the point where a common general education, of a gcnuinely secondary kind, will be available to all. The
which the 'leader' belongs) - was again worked out in the
experiments have already been undertaken. Yet it remains
detailed proposals for this are illteresting and many successful
The Long RevoMion
Education and British Society
'73
true that the crucial question, i n any such programme, is that ofcurriculum and teaching method, and it is difficult to
without ever having practised the critical reading of news
feel that the present grammar-school curriculum, or its
will form the bulk of their actual adult reading. Meanwhile,
partial imitation and local extension by the secondary
in science, the vast and c..'Cciting history of scientific discovery
modern school, is of such a kind that the ptoblem is merely one of distributing it more widely. An educational curricu lum, as we have seen again and again in past periods, ex presses a compromisc between an inhcrited selection of interests and the emphasis of new interests. At varying points
papers, magazines, propaganda, and advertisements, which
and its social effects will have been given quite inadequate attention. Hut it is not only a question of subjects. Our teaching methods, especially in grammar schools, are still to a con siderable extent determined by traditional patterns of think
in history, even this compromise may be long delayed, and it will often be muddled. The fact about our prescnt curri
ing, some of which are irrelevant. Modern languages are still widely taught by methods developed for the teaching of
culum is Ihat it was essentially created by the ninetcenth
a dead language, and i t is surely remarkable, in the prescnt
century, following some eighteenth-century models, and
state of inlernalionai communications, that an Englishman should be teaching J
retaining elemcnts oftilc mcdicval curriculum ncar its centre. A case can be made for every item in it, yet its omissions are startling. The social studies, even of an elementary kind, are
Dover, whilc a Frenchman teaches English paradigms to
virtually omiued a t the level which evcry child can be certain
French children in Boulogne. In other subjects, the replace ment of the disputation by the examination had important
of rcaching, yet it would be difficult to argue that a detailed
organizing effects, but the ability to use knowledge, and to
description of the· workings of parliamentary and local
acquire skill in ordinary public argument, was at least an
government, of the law and public administration, of the
intention of the older system (and one directly relevant to
organization of industry, of the evolution and character of
any effective democratic life), which the newer organization
modern social groups, of the techniques by which a modern society is studicd and influenced, is less relevant than, say,
at least diminishes where it docs not exclude. A form of
the detailed descriptions of the geography of South America
instruction for memory tests, which at its worst the modem system has become, has less relevance, to our actual needs,
which now have traditional sanction. Where education in the
than training in thescleetion and use oflmowledge a�awayof
social studies is given at all, except in exceptional schools, it
making responsible choices between possible courses ofaction.
is outside 'business', as modern languages and science were
The ordinary objection to any criticism of the existing
outside 'business' in the nineteenth century, and its teaching
curriculum is that it is already overloaded ; this indeed was
varies in quality from simple description to the casual and
the nineteenth-century answer to proposals fOI" the teaching
hortatory process - a true descendant of ' moral rescue ' known as 'civics'. In the arts, similarly, it is a meagre response
ofscienec and even history, and in immediate practical tenns it has always some substance. But it is at this point that the
to our cultural tradition and problems to teach, outside
grading model, with its terminal ages niccly adjusted to
literaturc, little more than practical drawing and music, with hardly any attcmpt to begin cither the history and criti
future occupation, can be seen
cism of music and visual art forms, or the criticism of those
within the existing system, to give adequate education in
forms offilm, televised drama, and jazz to which every child will go home. Even in English, despite the efforts of many fine teachers, most children wiLilcave even grammar schools
as
the main imitat l ion. If, in
a working democracy and a popular culture, we are failing, these fields, while doing OUf best to maintain education pre
paratory to variOLlS grades ofwork, that s i a choice, a deliber ate expression ofvalucs, and subject both to challenge and to
, 74
General knowledge of ourselves and OUf environment, taught
(b)
change. vVe can sec a certain way ahead, on existing lines :
at the sccondary stage not a� separate academic disciplines but general knowledge drawn from the disciplines which elari lY ala higher stage, i.e.,
making beller provision for the training of teachers and for
as
more adequate schoo! buildings; reducing the size ofclasscs; raising the leaving-age to sixteen. These are practical and necessary reforms, but we must ask whether having made
(i) biology, psychology,
(ii) social h slory, law .and poli tical institu tions sociology, . dcsc pll e cconollllCS, geography including actual n i dU$try and trade,
! n v
them we shall be much beller placed to give an adequate general education. In practice we still think of required
)
(c) Histoty
and some people would interpret this as classless education
(d)
can, to ' choose' the class he will enter. But this choice, this kind o[oPP0l'tunity, depends on the coincidence ora particu lar child's learning ability with certain defined courses, and, further, we cannot in our kind of society call an educational system adequate ifil leavcs any large number ofpcople at a level ofgeneral knowledge and culture below that required
tion can clearly contribute, will not have become relevant. If children of moderate lcaming ability cannot acquire, in the time now given, the essentials ofa contemporary general education, the only sensible answer is to give morc time, not to dismiss some of the essentials with a resigned regret. We shall have to think (as with difficulty people in the nineteenth century learned to think, reaching levels we now all accept) of an even further cxpansion, governcd by our needs rather than by our inhcrited models. What are these essentials? There is no clear consensus, because we have not on the wholc been thinking in this way, being preoccupied by ol·ganization and otherwise simply repairing a ninetcenth-ccnlury definition.
As a basis for
discussion, I would put down the following, as the minimum to aim at for every educationally normal child : and mathematics ;
languages of English
s
ocr
l1
l
support. FOl· the majority of our people, education now ends
tinctive adult processes and choices, to whose quality educa
ralure, thc visual arlll music' nd cape and an:hiteclur:'
gungc, lllstory, geogrnphy, institutions and arts' to be givcn in pan by visiting and exchange.
by a participating dcmocracy and arts dependent on popular at fifteen: that is to say at an age when, even ifthe education
and critici�m of litc
dramatic pcrform
�xtcnsivc l�ra�lice ;n dcm atic procedures, i cludi�g meet1Ilg5, ncgouallons, and thc selection and conduct ofleaden n i �cm�ratic organizations. Extcnsi,·c prani ce in thc use of Jlbracl(:s, ncwspapers and magazin{:s, radio and telcvision rogrammes, and other sources of information, opinion and p IIlflucncc; (e) I!ltroduction to al least one other cui ure, including its lan .
because every child is given the opportunity to go as far as he
preceding it had been wholly satisfactory, many of the dis
,
(i ii physics and chemislry;
levels ofgeneral culture, according to certain classes ofwork,
(a) Extensive pl·actice in the fundamental
1 75
Edllcation and British Society
The umg Revolution
In terms ofStich a definition, we could revise our institutions. We ough perhaps not to keep adolescents at schools of the
�
present kllld beyond sixteen, at which age at latest their uman growth has entered a new stage. Much of the most . Lllter�stmg work in the cUlTiculum might be done after tbis
�
age, III a much greater variety of institutions than we now hav�, and wi h provis o? in many cases for the bcginning of . speclfi� vocational (rallllllg alollgl:Hde the continuing general
�
�
�mong possible institutions are the county col �eges, t�chmeal colle�cs, e.\·;nil!g institutes, junior colleges
cducatlOn.
In relation t ? loc� 1 UllIvCrslllCS, sandwich' courses, col.eges of apprenllcesh,p, day-release OI"ganizations, overseas schools, adventure schools. The criterion should be that
everyone should have some form of continuin« cdueation �nd
�lat it is a condition of all offers of emplo�ent tlmt thi�
IS scrl�usly provided for. As the nature of work changes,
there tS less hUrl), than thcre was to get people out into what
was thou�ht of as the 'lal)Qur market', and if the institutions are ofa kmd acceptablc to adolescents and young adults, and
I ,,6
The Long &tJOluiion
if the democratic training is given substance by their partici pation in the immediate govemmcnt of the institution they attend, we could greatly diminish the already diminishing
2
resistance to an education which for the majority is scI in terms of the needs of children, and which, damningly, is seen
THE GROWTH O F THE
as of litlle relevance to the adult living that lies ahead. A variety ofinstitutions, at this period ofgrowth, is more likely to meet Ihe problems of varying capacity and interest thun the crude grading oftwo or three ' types ofmind', followed by
READING PUBLIC
leaving onc large ' type' to iLS own devices. There is a marked
I T is open to the historian to choose several different dates for the beginning ofa reading public in Britain, according to the
tendency, in our culture, for people between about sixteen
variable interpretations which such a term carries. It is only
and twenty-five to think of IhcmscJvcs as a distinct group, selling their own standards and refusing to Ix children onc
papers has reached a majority ofour people, and only in our
in our own century that the regular reading even of news
day and mature adults the next. Hcrc is the great educational
own generation lhUl the regular reading ofbooks has rcached
challenge and opportunity, which we can only rise to
a bare majority. Yet in the nineteenth century lhere was a
if we
take secondary education as a prep.1.ration for this phasc.
major, and al limcs spectacular, expansion in reading, while
We might then be expressing the shape of our own society, rather than reproducing the patterns of others.
in the eighteenth century there was again an important
Utopian thinking is that which supposes we shall get an
changed the social basis of literature. Going back beyond
educated and participating democracy, industries and ser
these centuries, we find I"eal if uneven growth in lhe seven
vices with adequate human communications, and a conunon culture of high quality, by proclaiming the virtue of those
expansion which both
created regular journalism and
teenth century, and then find ourselves tracing thc develop
ment back to the introduction of printing in the 1 4705. In
things and Ica\'ing our training institutions as they arc. 1 do
fact, however, if we take a minimum definition, and look for
not doubt that thc proposals suggcsted above will be called Utopian, but they arc in fact the reverse. It is a question of
go back, in this country, at least to the eighth century. In
whether we can grasp the real nature of our society, or
Rome it had been the practice to organize multiple produc
whether we persist i n social and educational patterns based on a limited ruling class, a middle professional class, a large
been claimed that in this way an edition of Ix:tween five
operative c1ass, cemented by forccs that cannot be challenged and will not be changed. The privileges and barriers, of an inherited kind, will in any case go down. It is only a question ofwhcther we replace them by the frec play of the markct,
the regular production of multiple copics of books, we must
tion by a system of g."OUP copying from dictation, and it has hundred and a thousand copies could be completed within a day of the delivery of the work. A similar method of publica
tion was certainly adopted in the scrip/oria of the monasteries, and we have a record ofslIch production from York ilL the
or by a public education designed to express and create the
time of Alcuin. Though very slow by modern standards (the
valut::S of an educated democracy and a common culture.
edition in a day depended on thousands of available slaves and if true would be exceptional) it is easy to underestimate lhe number of books thus made available, and while much of the copying was of course for immediate professional pur poses, there is some evidence of books being sold outside the
TIll Long Rtvoluliofl
monasteries and, later, outside the universities, which joined the monasteries in production. Certainly, in the fourteenth and fiftc::enth centuries, before the introduction of printing, manuscript books werc being sold by dealers at fairs, by pedlars, and in London by shopkeepers, principally grocers and mercers. It seems fair to conclude that the largely professional reading public, of the clergy, of scholars and students, of doctors and lawyers, grew steadily throughout the Middle Ages, and that they werc joined, in the later centuries, by a small but significant number of general readers. It is intcrcsting that when Caxton began printing, somc ofhis most prominent publications were in the field of general lileralurc and in the vernacular, which, while point ing to major trends of the future, can be secn also as a res ponse to a known demand from thc later manuscript period. We know very little, unfortunateiy, of thc growth, at this time, of a kind of reading very different not only from the medieval stock of the Scriptures, the Christian Fathers, and Latin and Greck secular authors, bllt also from the school books, the vernacular translations, and the poems, histories and romances. Yet the pop\darity of the chapbook, the jest-book, the ballad and the broadsheet dales at least from the sixteenth century, nnd this presupposes a reading public, however small and irregular, of a gcncral kind. Estimates of literacy at this timc vary from the mNC than 50% implied
The Growth rif the Reading Public
' 79
of priests and schoolmasters, it is casy to undcrstand this complaint, prophetic as it is of so many to come. There has hardly been a generation sincc in which ' bokes be not set by: there times is past, I gesse' has not been repeated, by some of those directly concerned. Yet there were enough books around, and apparently in demand, to makc Colet, at St Paul's School, ' abbanysh and cxclude ' such works as 'ratheyr may be called blotlerature thenne literature '. The appearance of this now familiar judgement makes one feci that at least thc beginnings of a true reading public, and of the problems eve,· since associated with it, were then in existence. Thc history of the reading public, at anything more than a technical level, is in fact complicated, throughout, by two vcry difficult, and often confused, problems ofvaluc, which in many cases have affccted even a pbin recon!. On the one hand there is the fear that as the circle of readers extends, standards will decline, and literature be threatened by ' blottcratul"e '. Related to this, but involving other preju dices, has been an essentially political fcar that, if the common man reads, both quality and order (sometimes the one stand ing for the othel") will he threatened. Intense feclings about the threat to quality havc led, too often, to quitc unrealistic accounts of the actual history of rcading, of the ' then came
by More (' farre more than fowrc partcs of all the whole
Defoe' or ' then came Tit-/JiIJ' kind of deluge. At the same
divided into tennc eoulde never reade englishe yet ') to Gardiner's 'not the hundredth pan of the realme'. In I 5 1 S
exerted their power to prevcnt or limit the growth ofreading, or to prevent or limit the education from which it naturally
Copeland wrote, i n dramatic reply to an author's request to him to print his book :
Al )·our inst:lllnCC I shall it gladly imprcssc nut the utterance, I IhYllke, \\ill be but small. Bokes be nOI set by: there lillles is past, I gcssei The dyse and cardes, in drynkyngc wyne and ak, Tables, cayles, and balles, thc)" be now seuc a sale. l\len lete Iheyr chyldren usc all such harlotry, That byenge ofboktlS Ihey ulterly deny.
Certainly, if we SCt book prices then against the income even
time, different aUlhoritics have at certain periods openly
follows. No issue is more central in the history of our culture, for the argument about quality and the argument about dcmocracy arc here so deeply intcrtwined as to appear inseparable, and this has led again and again to a deadlock in the cultural argument which has been profoundly dis couraging and confusing. \.ye must try to look at the record again, setting the formulas aside. The distinction between desirable and undesirable reading is, through these cady centmies of the formalion ofa rcading public, basically doctrinal, in relation to religion. For several
The Lo71g Revolution
Tk Growth of the &ading Public
centuries, as we have seen in our study of education, the
public and its standards. Yet the publication of the plays of
distinction between improving Christian authors and dis tracting or debasing ' pagan> authors was repeatedly urged.
here was high literature, resting on both the classical and
In the later Middle Ages there was a significant break from this distinction, and the Renaissance spirit brought more and more Creek and Latin authors fi'om the ' pagan ' into the 'classical ' category. Yet this gain was limited, and in part cancelled, by two forces: first the long period of religious controvcrsy, in reformation and counler-reformation, which led to new definitions of the desirable and the undesirable, in terms of orthodoxy and heresy ; second, the renewal by Protestantism of the old distinction between works which
Shakespeare,Jonson and others marks a temporary advance: popular traditions, and evidently pennanent, in spite of the Puritan objcction to idle plays, the courtly objection to the vulgarity of the book trade, and the academic objection to the claim that English plays could be regarded as true literary works. This was also the great period of translations, and the quality of books available to the English reading public in fact rose steadily, though in ways that cut across most con temporary definitions of' standards'. It is iz'Onic to consider how many of the works for which we now honour the period
improve and works which distract or corrupt the mind. In
would have been condemned by substant.ial sections of
the formcr case, a proclamation of 1538 set up a censorship over iJooks in English, whether homc-produced or imported,
opinion as evideDee ofthe idleness and vulgarity of the times.
and an Act of 1543, ' for the advanccment of true religion and for the abolishment of the eontrarie', forbade reading of
Prices ranged from Holinshed at 26s. to Shakespeare at 4d. or 6d. (the latter, however, the price of two dinnen) . The
any English Bible by artificers, joul'llcymen, serving-men undcr the rank ofycoman, hmbandmen, labourers, and all women other than those of noble or gentle rank. Meanwhile
ning of the sixteenth century to 1 3 in 1558, 34 in '563, 40 in
in the area of secular literature, there was a continuous campaign against plays and romances, which were not serious reading (a distinction that survives to this day in interpreting public library statistics) , as contrasted with books on manners and behaviour, household management,
The rise in reading, and in quality, was in fact steady.
number of printers had risen from two or three at the begin 1577, and as many as 97 between 1590 and 1595. Trade protection, through patents, later limited the number of houses, but there were at least 60 in London in 1649 and again in 1660, and in the t6gos a quite rapid further expan sion began, especially into the provinces. It is difficult to
travel, natural history, and public affairs (usually not con
estimate the actual output of books as distinguished from ballads and pamphlets, but the trend is evident from figures
temporary). Such interventions and judgements as these of
of 1 3 titles in ' 5 10, 28 in 1530,85 in 1550, to perhaps 150 in
course influenced the development of reading, but they did not, in the end, determine il. A great deal of fiction and
'581, a figure generally maintained until the further rapid rise in the period of the Civil War and Commonwealth. The
romance could be disguised as works of travel, history or
Restoration bl·ought a decline, and the average annual
manners, and the same clements, together with an otherwise stifled contemporary comment and criticism, wete the basis
production settled at about 100 titles until the middle of lhe eighteenth century. At the same time sizes of editions rose
of the popular trade in chapbooks and broadsheets and ballads. As late as the Elizabethnn period, respect for the
from the sixteenth-century limit of some 1,500 (excepting grammars and prayer-books which went to 3,000) to an
manuscript, and distaste for the publishing market, had
average of2,ooo which was maintained until wen on into the
important effects on the circulation of literature, and there were many of this courtly persuasion, as well as the Puritan
eighteenth century. Paradise
years, and the very popular Emblems and
opponents offiction, to complicate the question ofthe reading
Quarles 5,000 in two years. Meanwhile we can gauge the size
Losl
sold 1,300 copies in two
Hi�roglyphikts
or
r ,82
TI,e ung RelJ()lution
,
of the more general reading public by noting that one of the many popular ' prognosticating Almanacks ' sold an av'crage of morc than 16,000 copies between 1 646 and 1648, and the ballad, broadsheet and chapbook public must have been at least of the order of 20,000. In these early stages of the formation of the reading pu blic, we can sec a pattern to be repeated iatcl' on a much larger scale: the steady growdl of a public interested in literature, philosophy and similar works ; the more rapid growth ora public interested primarily in more occasional and ephemeral reading. The distinction of quality is not absolute, however, for a proportion of the occasional reading, especially in pamphlets, tmcts, and ballads, marks on tht: one hand the transfer of popular traditional amusements into print, on the other hand a rise in social and especially political interests, reaching a climax in the Civil War. After the Restoration, the situation becomes extremely difficult to analyse. The imperfect evidence that we have, in a number of fields, suggests on the one hand a continuation of the general pattern of the expansion - slow growth of the serious public, morc rapid growth of the occasional public, but also the apparent confinement of the expansion to the growing middle class. The attitude to popular education was undoubtedly difTerent, in the new period, and it seems prob able that general literacy did not increase, and may even have declined, in the period bt:twecn the Restoration and the end of tlte eighteenth century. J t is from the I6gOS that the growth ofa new kind ofmiddlc-clnss I'ead ing public becomes evident, in direct relation to the growth in size and im por t ance of a middle class defined as merchants, tradesmen, shopkeepers, and administrative and clerical workers. New forms of reading, in the newspaper, the pcricxlical and the magazine, account for the major expansion, and behind them comes the novel, in close relation from its beginnings to this particular public. The 60 London priming houses at the Restoration had become 75 by 1724 and between 150 and 200 by 1757. By the 1 740S the G(//tlemall'S JHaga�ille was seJling 3,000 an issue, and leading newspapers were in the
The Growth cif the RMding Public same range. The sales ofnovels increased, for exampleJoseph
Andrews selling 6,500 copies in thirteen months, Roderick Random 5,000 in a year, Sir Charles GrQlldiJOII 6,500 in a few
months. These developments affected the whole structure of rel:Hionship� between writers, book-sellers and readers, and Defoe could nOle in '725: Wriling . . . is become
3
very considerable Branch of the English
Commerce:. The Booksellers arc the M , aster Manufacturers or Emplo),crs. The 5Cvernl \\'riters, Authors, Copyers, Sub-\Vriters and all Other operators with Pen and Jnk are the workmen employed. by Ihesaid �1aSler-l\lantlt'lClurers.
This olJiwrvation was converted by Goldsmith into the familiar qualitali\'ejudgement, of that 6131 trade.
volu tion
re
whereby wriling is converted to a mechanic
More sharp ly than in the earlier period, the spread of print could be seen as it threat \0 literature and leaming, and lhe condemnation of light periodicals, of newspapers, and of novels was often made. Again, however, the judgement becomes difficult, when seen in historical perspective. The newspapers and periodicals, had as they often were, seem, as new forms, "11 absolute cultural gain, while a proportion
of the novels must be seen as a major literary con tribu tion, comparable in importance to the high Elizabethan drama, which h"d itsclfrcsted on a large amount ofinferior work. Yet, while this expansion continued, there was surprisingly little change in the general output of books. Until weU after mid·eenlury the annual number of titles remained what i t had been in the seventeenth century, and a pri m of 2,000 eopit'S of Johnson's Dictiollary took more than four years to sell. \Vhcn we look at prices, this situation becomes clearer. Pope's Iliad sold al six guineas the SCI; a \·olume or Claren don's flistory at 30s. ; Hlckes's Thuallrlls at £5. Nfeanwhilc novels were sold at 3s. bound, or 2S. 3d. unbound, per \'olume, so thai Tom Jones could be bought for 18s. or t 35. 6(1., while RobinSOIl Crusoe, in " different form, was available at 55. At
184
Tm Long &volulioll
The Growth of1m Reading Public
these prices, book-buying was obviously socially limited, and it is significant that the cighteenth-century public depen ed,
�
to a considerable e.'o;:tent, on devices of corporate bUYing. Proprietary libraries, usually attached to Literary and Philosophical societies, dealt mainly with history, philosophy, poetry, theology and science. Book clubs. devclope in m�ny towns, buying more generally. For fictIOn, the clrculaung
�
libraries, characteristically first prominent in the spas, spread rapidly, though the subscription, at lowest � os '. 6d., , was again a limiting factor. Even ncwspapers and pcnolicals c through read widely were pence, in their prices reckoned coffee-houses and clubs. These factors determined the rate of expansion of the middle-class public, but if popular educa tion had been better a more general expansion would have been possible, using similar devices. As it was, the demand for almanacs, chapbooks, ballads, broadsheets and pamphlets
seems not to havc slackened, and may weB have increased. Pamphlets sold at 3d. to IS. , chapbooks and broadsheets at Id. to 6d., ballads at 1d. to Id., and we know of at least one pamphlet selling 105,000 copies in '750. A number of novels were serialized in newspapers and chapbooks, and it secms probable that in London and the larger towns the reading public (and the read-to public) was reasonably large. I t is in the last third of the cenrury that new factors entcr. Through the Methodists, who vigorously organized popular reading and produced tracts to serve it, and through the
wider Sunday-school movement, the beginnings of a more general expansion are visible. The rise in Pl?litical imerest produced a situation roughly comparablc with that before . the Civil War. I n 1776 Price's OburuallOns 011 tile Nature oj 1 , Paine's Rights of 9 7 1 in and Civil Liberty sold 60,000 copies, a few weeks, and within copies 50,000 sold 35., at even Man, in its cheaper edition sold very widely indeed, though the estimaled figure of 1,500,000 is difficult to believe. I t seems clear that the extension of political interest considerably broadened the reading public by collecting a new elass of l"eadei"S, from groups hardly touched by the earlier expan-
sion. The annual output of books was now also rising sharply, and averaged 372 in the years 1 792-1802, as compared with the 100 al which it was still stuck in the 1 7505. In the mauer of price, a curious situation emerged in Ihis period, in that the ordinary price rose very sharply, after 1 780, and small editions at high prices became more popular with publishers than larger editions at mid-century prices. On the other hand, the first regular cheap reprints date from the same period ; Bdl's Poets, Brilith
Theatre, and Shakespeare, at as low
as 6d., followed by other standard reprint series including
fiction. The development of serialization, which had been popular throughout the century, was a notable advance, and while the orthodox publishers went on raising prices, many newcomers, using everything from respectable reprint series to pirating and undercutling, permanently enlarged the book-reading public to a point where it came into proportion with the expanded public for newspapers and periodicals. Once again, the basic trends of the growth of a reading public areevidcnt, but the period now beingentcred brought so markcd an increase in the pace of the general cxpansion that the problem ofproportion became acute. The rcal break to a very rapid expansion did not come until the 18305. The gcneration of the French Rcvolution, and that of Petcrloo, was deeply affected, in its reading, by the political crisis,
in a number of ways. The eighteenth-century e.xpansion continued along familiar lines, with a marked increase in the annual issue of books, from 372 in the years 1 792-1802 to an average of 580 between 11302 and 1827. A large part of this increase was in fiction, and directly related to the success of the circulating libraries. The annual issue of novels rose sharply in the [ 7 80s, and wcnl on iLlcreasing at a rapid rate. Yet book prices also continued to rise and the reading public did not increase proportionately with the increase in titles. The ordinary size of editions varied from an average of 750 for more serious works to about 1 ,250 for a circulating-library novel. The most popular author, Scott, sold 1 1 ,000 copies of
Atlarmion in a year,
at 3IS. 6d., and 10,000 of Rob Roy, at the
same price, in a fortnight. These figures represent only a
.86
The Lrmg Revolulion
modest advance over the popular novels of the mid-eight eenth century, whereas the annual sale of newspapers, over the same sixty years, had risen from 7,000,000 to over 24,000,000. In the field between books and newspapers, the success of serialization, or number-publication, continued, and cheap reprint series continued to appear, though still on a very limited scale. Radical writers continued to expand the public, John Wade's Hlack Book selling 10,000 an issue,
and Cobbett's Address to '"e ]ollmeymm and Labourers selling 200,000 in two months. But it was here, precisely, that active measures were taken against the expansion, on the grounds ofthe political dangers OflOO widespread reading. The heavy taxation of newspapers was supplemented by a series of prosecutions aimed at killing the whole radical press. A different response to the same danger was the development of cheap tracts, of an ' improving' kind, designed to counter the success of Cobbett and others, and these were heavily subsidized in this first stage. Meanwhile, at thc really popular level, the sale ofalmanacs, ballads and broadsheets contillued to increase, and the most remarkable publishing figures of the
whole period are those Ic)!· the products ofJames Camach, whose accounts ofmur-clers and excclllions reached a climax with 1 , 1 66,000 copies of the ' Last Dying Speech and Con fession ' of the munlerer of Maria Marten. If we look at the
s the 1830S are entered, we find a range in whole situation a reading matter basically similar to that of the fll1it period of
printing, but with two critical changL'S : a growing disparity bdwecn the actual circu lation of literature on the one hand and the broadsheet on the other; a new middle range of _
novels, magazines and ncwspapel'S, serving the still expand ing middle-class publico It was in this new range. in the 18305. that the next major phase of the expansion occurred.
Newspapers led the way, with the first application of steam-printing, and in the 18305 Sunday papel"3ofthe police gazette kind and very similar to the old broadsheets took a lead which Ihey have never lost over the mainly political newspapel'S established in the eighteenth century. Cheap magazines rollowcd, although the radicals were replaced by
TIlt Crowth of the Reading Public
�l
187
t e popular educators, and both, in the 1B4OS, by a range of 'lInproving' family publications. Serial fiction expanded its public, and an edition of 400 for the first number ofPickwick grew 10 40,000 fOI" the fiftecnth , about the same circulation as the Ptmry ;I/aga<;illt. Figures of [ 00,000 for serial fiction were later renched both by Dickens and by Reynolds.
An
c""pa nsion in cheap reprints of both fiction and non-fiction
followed the sprca? of steam-prinring to books in the 1830S ?nd [Sol OS, and there was a marked reduction in price follow mg the dc\"dopmcnl of new methods of binding, with boards
and doth replacing leathcr. The annual issue of titles rose from 580 in the 1820$ to more than 2 "600 bv mid-century,
and the a" eragc price of new books fell fi'om [ 65. to just over 8s. 1\ large proportion or the increase in titles was in fiction, and a large pan of the reduction in a'·crage price was due to the cht'ap series. many other prices aClUally ri�ing. ·I -he popula�ion was rapidly incl·c
penod. 1\ ma lll iand population of some seven million ill
[?S� ha�l become eleven million in 1801, nearly twenty-one 1 8 5 " and thirty-seven million in 1 9 0 1 . It is prob
m il l io n 111
abl e that un til the end of the eighteenth century the literate
pl"Op) � l" ti on Of this population increased only �lowly, and . Ihe !"ISC wa� sllll gradual with the slow and uneven develop ment of nmeteenth-century elementary education. Yet a rise it certainly WlIS, and we call gain some indication of the Ircr�d from one naITo\\' fi eld in which, rrom t837. national . st;II �S\lCS were kept. Ability 10 sign the marriage register is ?b\'lOusly a .me�gre indication of capacity to read a book, but II was a pcnod !� which reading was much more commonly �aught than wn r r ng, amI [he rate of ch ange may be of some Importa nce. A sampl e shows :
Able 10 sigll
,lIm
IFtlmtn
,s",
66°3% 8 1 . 2% 95°0%
5°·5% i4.6% 94'3%
[839 1873
Ttlla/
58.4% 77"9% 94°65%
\·Ve already know from the hislOry of clemcntal'y education that there was no sudden opening of the floodgates ofliteracy
188
The umg
Revolution
The Growth if the Readillg Public
as a result of the 1870 Education Act. The basie history of
literacy n i the century seems to be a steady e: ...pansion, lcd by
tion, and in real figures. However, with the general expansion
the towns (though unevenly between new and old) and by
literary public and the more general reading public was
men and this simple expansion was also a stcady develop
� of real
men
reading capacity, as the length of schooling
increased. While this expansion affected the reading public (giving some basis, for example, for the radical an Sunday press), i t is misleading to thinkofthe gene�l expanSion of�he
�
reading public, at this time, in simple relallon to thc �uestlon of literacy. Not only in books, but also in magazmcs and
newspapers, the expanded reading public at mid-century was still well below the lowest possible estimate for general literacy. The true history is much more the bringing of cheaper reading matter to the already literate part of the population. If we make a rough calculation of the situation in 1830 and then in 1860, translating sales into readc�hip and expressing this as a percentage of the adult p?pulali?O, we find the following results. Tn 1820, the public rcadmg daily newspapcrs is about 1 % , that for Sunday newspapers just over , 1>/.... that for magazines about 3%, and that for . occasional broadsheets about 10%. In 1860, the dally news paper public has riscn to 3%, the Sunday newspapcr public to 12%, the magazine public to nearly 20%. All these figures are well below the actually literate proportion of the popula tion, at either period. If we turn to
books, we find a similar
rate of growth in actual editions, though the number of titles had greatly increased. Where The LtJdy l!f had
tI!� u.ke
Memoriam sold 25,000 m Its first the Lays � Ancient Rome 46,000 in a
sold 20,000 in a year, In
eighteen months, and cheap edition. In fiction, Vllele Tom's Cahill, in 1852, sold 150,000 in the first six months, but this was exception?!. While Dickens and Reynolds might reach 100,000 Ul senal form, Thackeray's estimate of his readership, in 1857, was 15,000, and a marked success like George Eliot's Adam Blde sold, in its first year, 3,350 in its original edition, and 1 1 ,000 in a cheaper edition. I t would seem that the book-reading public, at mid.century, was still a tiny m nority, though it
�
was certainly increasing, boul as a proporUon ofthe popula-
under way, the relationship between what can be called the significantly changing. The difference had always been thcre ; the ' prognosticating Almanack' had sold ten times more widely than
Parodise /.ost, j ust
as the
Nws of the World now
sold ten times more widely than Adam Belk. But the disparity ill actual figul'cs WilS now becomingstartling, and the familiar argumcnts about quality, with the development ofa 'mass' rcading public, acquired a new w·gency. I n fact, as we have seen, thcre was no ' mass' public a1 this stage. In the most popular fonn of reading, the newspaper, thcre was not even a majority public until our own century, Sunday papers reaching this stage before the 1 9 '4-18 war, and daily papers just after it. Yet at the end ofthe first period. of major expansion, in the ,8sos, the outline of thc new publishing situation was sufficiently clear. Since the r830s, bU! lloW at an increasing rate, the reading public was becom ing large enough to attract a new kind of speculator. Defoe's description of writing as a ' very considerable Branch of the English Commerce ', and of its organi7.ation in the typical forms of capitalist industry, had been an accurate foresight of a situation which only fully l'evealed itself when the market became really large. Bell in newspapers, Catnach in
broadsheets, Lloyd in penny fiction, were the forerunner! of
a new kind of organization. TIle problem of distribution was crucial, and in books, by the middle of the nineteenth century, the success of the circulating libraries had reached the point where the tastes and demands of their proprietors had an important effect on what was published. At the same time, selving that part of lhe public which could afford an annual subscription of a guinea (at a time when the average lower-middle-class income was £90, and the middle-class range was £1 50-£400), the circulating libraries tended to keep prices high, and to limit cxpansion. Scveral factors combiJl(.-d to break through this situation, and to revolution ize the distribution not only of magazines and newspapers, but of books. The railway system is the most evident, for it
I The Long &voilltion notably those of was 10 the bookstalls at the new stations, in a new way. W. H. Smith, that the public could be reached ay Library, Railw the then and The cheap Parlour Library, s, with -back yellow the t: outle new s poured through thi advertising ing carry and r, colou in ated illustr s, glossy cover rawn from ncws . on their backs The last taxes were withd machinery was ng Printi . paper papers, advertisements, and ing processes -mak paper new and ved, impro being rapidly ) 18800 were success (esparto from 1860, wood pulp from the was rising, and the levcl e fully developcd. Thc general incom ular were rapidly partic in s classe le middle and lower midd my. TI�is w� econo and societ ing chang a in y expanding, seized It, lators specu the period ofopportunity, but while the the old to tied y largel , books the publishers of traditional As late reacl. to slow very were c, publi circulating-library ved: obser ld Al'llo ew Matth as IB80, As our nation grows more civilized,
as
a real love o freading comes
to prevail more widely, the system which keeps up the pre�el1l exorbitant pl'ice of new
books in England, the system of lending
libraries from which 1Jook� are hired, will be seen to be, as it is, eccentric artificial and ullsatisf.1ctory in the highest degree. It is a machinc
:r for the multiplication and protection or bad literal\lre,
andfor kecping good books dear.
Instead of new writing of quality being immediately avail able at the low prices now possiblc, thc market was being dominated by le of aspect, like the tawdry a cheap literature, hideous and ignob and
of nur railway stations, novels which narc in the bookshelves is produced for Ihe usc of tllal else mueh so as ed, whieh seem design e with a loll' standard of peopl for our middle-class seems designed, life.
d the problems of the It will ecnainly help us to understan amiliar kind ofjudge f now c.xpansion if we remember in this ard to the ' middle stand low a of ment Arnold's ascription detached from its be //lust ment . argu tial essen class' For the for a ' lower' mpt conte ordinary confusion with vicarious
The Growtll if the Readillg Public
191
social group. The whole argument ahout ' cheap literature' . has been eompl'omiscd by its use as a form ofclass-distinction whereas Ihe real problem is always the relation bel\vee inexpericnce and the way this is met. Certainly, in a iimit(.'d way, it would do middle-class people good to remember that these problems did not arrive with working_class literacy; . that new middle-class groups made all the same mistakes and were as evidently exploited. \'\ie shall never see this problem strai�ht if we convert it to the truly endless snigger In!? o tl?e arnved (the most corrupt culture now existing in Bntatll I� that broad range oflaughing at the comic working cla�ses, II'0m 1Hrs Dale's Diary to Take ilftom Htre, from the Dally Telegraph to the Daily 1\1irror, and f.·om the average 'Vest End revue to the party-picees in which young educated peoplc speak in amusing ' eOlllmon' accents) . To be against the people who face these new problems is a trivial evasion of the real issues which Arnold (though himself at times guilty ofjust this error) both defined and worked to resolve. In th� se?ond half ofthe nineteenth century, the size of the . pubhshlllg IIlduslry - this ' Branch of the English Commerce ' :- was growing very rapidly. J t was an important ncw period III thc exp nsioll of magazines, and in books, eventually, � . cheap .repnnt senes of standard litcratUl'c took their place �long�ldc the yellow-backs. The high-price circulating hbranes �Iowly declincd, and by the end of the century che.apcr hbra�'les - notably �IS' from 1 goo were taking �helr place, With a. ll:tl'ger public. The public libraries, grow lllg slowly from mId-century, added an increasingly import am sector. By '900, Ihe characteristic modcrn forms of organization of the rc.,ding public had been discovered and sct, and both their ad" antages and their limitations were evident. The history now becomes olle of expansion within these forms. Thc.great expansion in newspapcrs and magazines will be studIed separately. In book publication, the annual issue �ose from 2, O in th.c IB505 �o 6,0.H in 1901, and to 12,379 In 1913. raUlOg dunng and Just afler the First 'War, it was back to 12,690 (including 3,190 reprims) in '924, and by
�
�
-
�
,
, The Long Revolution
' 93 both literature and 'blolteralure' - in different societies and
annual average fell again during the Second War, but was
ways of lifc. On the one hand we must remember that two forms condemncd in their day as low and idle - the Eliza·
192
1937 had risen to 17,137 (including 6,347 reprints) . The back to 17,072 (including 5,334 reprints) by 1950 and in
Tht GrOWlh of 1M Rtading Public
1958 was 2:2,143 (with 5,971 reprints). Costs have risen again,
bethan popular drama and thc eightcenth- and nineteenth·
and the most notable c.hange of rcccnt years has been the
century no\'cl - are now heavily represented in our standard
increasing number of paperbacks, mainly reprints, but including, interestingly, a proportion ofnew works. Tills is a
literature. The preservation of quality is by no means wholly the preservation of traditionally sanctioned forms. The
development of great importance to t.he expansion as a
newspaper and the periodical are also substantial gains, in
whole. The commercial circulating libraries have continued to grow, at different levels, and it has been estimated (for there are no complete figures) that they now issue nearly 200 million volumes a year. Serious booksellers arc still insecure, but for paperbacks many new sclling points have been found, from tobacconists' shops to garages, to add to the railway
themselves, in spite ofvcry many bad e....amplcs. On the other
hand thel'e is that body of work best described by Coleridge
"
characlcl"izcd by the l)Owcr of reconciling the two conlralY yet coexisting propensities of human nature, namciy, indulgence of sloth and hfltred of\"ucancy.
bookstalls and the chain store. The public library service was
Reading as this kind of easy drug is the permanent condition
available to 62'5% of the population by 191 1 , and to 96.3% by 1926. It is now almost universally available, though with
of a great bulk of ephemeral writing. But the question still is onc of the circumstances in which the drug becomes llCCCS·
many inequalities between different kinds of community.
sary. I think there are certain circumstances - times of ill·
The figures for public library book issucs have steadily risen, and had reached 3 1 2 million in '948--9 and 431 million in
ness, tcnsion, uisturbing growth as in adolescence, and simple
1957-8. Taking all kinds of book distriblltion into account, a figure of about 1 5 books read annually per head ofpopula tion is about the present stage, or 20 per head of the adult population. The average, of course, conceals very wlequal individual uses, but it is probable thal in the 19505, for the
fatigue after work - which arc much too easily overlooked in sweeping condemnations of' reading as addiction> . 1 doubt iC any educated person has not used books - any books - in this way. The kind ofattention required by serious literature is both personally and socially only variously possible. The conditions of social variation ought to command our main
first time, we had a majority book-reading public (as com
attention: the association of railway travel with an increase
pared with a majority Sunday-ncwspaper public by 1910
in this kind of reading is obviously significant. More difficult to analyse is the cvidcnt distinction between ways or living
and a majoritydaily-ncwspaper public soon after 1918). With this expansion, the argument about quality - the old distinction between litcrature and 'blotterature > - has
which stimulatc attcntion and allow rest, and ways which produce neither attcntion nor rcst, but only an unfocused
inevitably sharpened. But this can only be negotiated in
restlessness that bas somehow to be appeased. These are
terms of historical analysis and by reference to the develop
radical questions about the society as a whole, and my own
ment of all parts of the society. The worst error is to suppose
view is that there arc dcep reasons in our social organization for the especial prevalence of this mood: in particular the
that our ancestors - the date may vary, but they are always ancestors - had no such problems. On the evidence
this is
plainly untrue; it has been a problem ofthe whole expansion.
The more relevant inquiry is into the changing character of
difficulty ofiiving a restlessness through to some orits sources, as we find so many channels blocked. These problems cannot be solved in the field of publications alone, but within this T-o
The Long Revo/fllioll
194
limited field we can all sec the difference between relatively harmless and harmful drugging, and such evidence as that
�
adduced by Q. D. Leavis and more recently by Richar . i of great importan� e, if its Llll social context IS s . always taken into account. I t IS the buslIless of education to
�
Hoggart discover
i
teach and discuss this diffel'ence, as well as the
3 THE G R O W T H O F T H E POPULAR PRESS
larger d fference between literature and the �phemeral. It is the business of the society (neglected except III the much less
�
important field of ' o bscenity', which has b��n th roug ly ? muddled) to creale and maintain the eon ltlons � n which this necessarily difficult growth can go on, III particular by
TUE development oflhe press in England, in particular the
more adequate principle than that of quick profit with the
of a middle-class reading public in tlu: late se\-entecllth and earlycighteenth cen turies, through the widening of[hi5 public
�
the creation and strengthening of institutions based on some speculators setting the pace. The changes we have traced, . and the consequent realization that forms ofproductIOn and distribution arc not permanent, may at least dear the way to our consideration of the next stage.
growth of the popular press, is of major importance in any account of our general eultlln'd expansion. The \'ital period of de\'c!opment is signifienlll i n itself, from the establishment
to Ihe vii'lually universal reader'Ship of our own time. And the newspaper, as a cOlltinuing clement in Ihis period of growth, is an obviously significant ckment for analysis, both bec
establish - a few indeed arc impossiblc, due to records lost or not kept. But there arc quite enough facts to establish a general pattern, and the histories of newspapers reproduce these faithfully enough. \Vht"1l it comes to analysis, however, there arc two genel'al defects. There is still a quite widespread failure to co-ordinate Ihe history of the press with the econo mic and social history within which it must necessarily be interpreted. Even more, there is a surprising tendency to accept certain formulas about the deHlopmenl, which seem
less to arise from the facts of press development than 10 be brought to them. The gcneral cultural expansion has been interpreted in a particular way, and the history of the press has been fitted, often against the facls, to Ihis general interpretation. The most common of these formulas is that before the coming of Til-Diu and Allswers in the 1 88c1S, and of North cliffe's halfpenny Daily ,Hail in 1 896, thcre was no cheap popular press in England . The basis of the ncw press, it
i s
,
I
The Long Revolulion
The Growth qf the Popular Press
means of which the said was the Education Act of 1870, by At this poin � read. to ed ord nary people of England learn a result of tlus as , Either gs. endin ative the formula has altern democracy, lively a of ne keysto the press, ar popul process, a s on to masse the of could be established. Or, with the entry 'ivi t rt, pa large in e, becam �l and � the cuhural scene, the press . ty, Ithad Ilunon ted educa an g servin , bcrorc dt..'gradcd, where been responsible and serious. y matter, and the Now these altcrnali\'C endings hardl i that to the fact s for ant, irrelev really debate between them is the history of or press, the of y histor thc s know anyone who I I can. be traced, education, such an account is nonsense. s."ud to 1\'lax who clitTc, intercstingly enough, LO NOl'lh
The tagos saw the introduction of newspapers sold at a halfpenny
196
{
.
Pemberton in 1803 :
eds of thousands of boys The Board Schools arc turning out hundr cart: for 'cad, TI�ey d� not to s anxiou � arc who lly annua and girls ut , y ct Cl S J1l 1 r� _ \C m no ha\"c ? the ordinary ncw�paper, They _ su ffiCi ently I�Hc�tlllg � he is and $implc i� lieh ingwl anYlh read will thmg bigger a of hold got has ls Til-Bi man who has produced thi� ing or a dC\'e!opmenl than he imagines, I Ie is only at the begir�n . 1 shall try to ahsm. ofJourn face whole the e which is going 10 chang
? �I:cy
getin with him.
lator (and was noted as This is the frank thinking of a specu , As an ind.ieatian of Siteet) Grub New in g such by Gissin . e somethmg more. attitude it is important. But It becam Ellgland 1870-1914 y istor H d R, C, K. Ensor, in the Oxfor of a dignified spoke and shed, water a relcrrcd \0 1870 as h whic ' alism journ glish phasc ofEn '
beyond. Yet the seed of reigned unchallenged till 1686 an� in�ced . III 1880, tell yean after its destruction was already gc:rmlnallng became:: aware that the new Forster', Education Act . _ . Newncs ial n:�del"ll - people who schooling was creating a ne::w class of Jlotent leanung much else:. He ut witho t n i r p cr deciph to t had been taugh started Til·Dils.
educated minds, and Alter this, the i(wmula was firm in most ntable number uncou an print into way casual its has found ission on the Comm of times, We find even the 1947 Royal press saying:
1 97
a�d a�drcsscd, 1I0t to the highly-educated and politically_rninded tnIllOI'lty, but 10 the millions whom the:: Education Act of 1870 . had cqUlpped with the ability to rcad.
�1I1 ir, as commonl)" we start an inquiry wi th an assumption . ltkc tillS, offered as fact when it s i not fact, it is unlikely that we s all go on to ask the really relcvant contemp orary questlOns, o reach the point at which OUl- present urgencie � s , ca� be Illum' .n:�ted by the aClual lessons ofhistory. rhl' faets, l l lS hoped, will become clear in the account that follows. But it seems worth seuill" down finit in summar y � 1Ie careI·Illal points of the history, and the questions they , .he newspap lIl( l tcale. 1 er was the creation of the commercial middle class, mainly in the eighteenth century. It served this . class with neWs relevant to t he conduct of bu siness, and as such established itselfas a financial ly independent institutio n, �t the same time, in periodicals and magazines, the wider mteres �s oftlle � i dle class as a whole were being served: the f rma t ' 11 01,op 1110n, the tr�ining or manners, the dissemin a ? ? � tIOn of Idc s, r l om the midd le of the eighteenth century, � : theSe functlollS, 11\ p ]"t) wcre additionally taken up by the � �ews�apers. In relation to the formati on ofopillion, succes. stve Governments tried to control and bribe the newspapers, but c�'eIHua_lIy failed because of their essentially sound com merCIal ba�ls. \Vhcn onc of these newspapers, The Times in carly nillctecmh cen tury, claimed its rull independencc, II found that it was thcre for the taking and with the new . mochamcal (sleam) press as its agem, a powerful position, . _ an WIde middle-class dislribution, could I>e achieved. The d tly p.ress, .led by The Times, became a political estate, on tlllS solid middle-class basis_
l�
"
�
�hc
,
� ,,:
Before this had becn achieved, however, other points of
grO\� th wcrc evident Between the 1 770S and thc 18305, but parlicularly i n the last twenty years of this period, repeated ,
allempts. were made, against sc\'crc Government repression, to establtsh a press wilh a different social basis, among the n wly organizing working class . These attempts, in their
�
direct form, were beatcn down, but a press with a popular
The Growtit fij the Popular PmJ
The Long Revolutioll public was in fact established, in another way. This was through the ill5titution of the Sunday paper, which, par ticularly from the 18205, took on a wholly different character and function from thc daily press. Politically, these papers were radical, but their main emphasis was not political, but a miscellany of malerial basically similar in type to the older forms of popular literature: ballads, chapbooks, almanacs, stories of murders and executions. From 1840 on, the most widely selling English newspaper was not
The Timts, but one
or other of these cheap (penny) Sunday papers. In 1855, with the removal of the last of the taxes on news papers, the daily press was transformed. A cheap (penny) metropolitan daily press, led by the
Tdegraph,
quickly took
over leadership from papers of thc older typc, led by
Times,
The
and gained rapidly in an expanding lower-middle
class. At the same
lime, a provincial daily press was firmly
established. With improvements in printing, with falling prices for newsprint, and with railway distribution, circula tions gl'ew rapidly, and were aronnd 700,000 in 1880. Still, however, the Sunday press was in the lead, and
by 1890 had
reached 1,725,000, with a leading paper selling nearly a million. In the
t
8705 and ! 880s, meanwhile, a new kind of
evening paper, taking mueh of its journalistic method from the Sunday press, was successfully launched. In the tB9os, after a period ofrenewed c.xpansion in popu lar periodicals, the spread of the daily paper through Ihe rapidly-growing lower-middle class, especially in the large towns, was notably forwarded by a cheaper daily paper, the
halfpenny Daily .lI.Iai/ - a conscious imitation or The Times for
a different public. The basis of the change was economic, in the substitution, for the old kind ofcommereia I class support, of a new revenue, based on the new ' mass' advertising. By
19oo, the daily public had climbed (in a still quite gradual curve) to t,5OO,000, and by 1 9 1 0 to 2,000,000. The Sunday press was still well in the lead, with ils older and somewhat different public. In 1920, after Ihe demand for news in the war, the daily public was above 5,000,000, and the Sunday public above
' 99
1 3,000,000. It was now, in the period between the wars that expansion of the daily pr�ss to th� working class really b gan,
�
although by '937 the d,uly publIc was still smaller than the
Sunday public had been in 1920. I t was now also' that the transform�tion of content of the daily pa ers radically occurred, III the course of a race for circulation and thus for
�
the 'mass'-ad�'ertising revenue without which Ihe papers would be rUllnlllg at a gl'eat loss. The l\Jail was overtaken by a new type or paper, Ihe
Elpre.sJ, which carried the mixllu'e
of political paper and magazine misccHany much further than I i �herto - a mi.xt�re clearly visible i n changing appear ance �[ h e full expanslOn, 10 something like the fuil reading . : public, look place III the daily press during the Second War : rea�hing ov�1' 15,000,000 ill 1947. The Sunday press, mean whLle, had Increased to over 29,000,000. The really sleep �UI'\'es, and the real establishment of a popular press, occur In the Sunday press between 1 9 1 0 and 1947, in the daily press between 1920 and 1947. It was an establishment
�
moreover, first on the lines, for the press as a whole ofth traditional content and methods of the Sunday
PilPC;'S since
the 1 8�.!Os, and, second, in terms of the ncw economic basis of newspapers - running at a loss and making up with tlte revenue from ' mass' advertising. In this same period, how� ever, 3 new type �f Sunday paper (Observer, Sunday Time.s), . . eonsclOuslY lmltatll1g the methods of the older daily press, . . . won a growmg public, whde the surviving older-style papers also markedly gained. During the last decade oftht: major expansion, a new type of paper, the Daily 1\/irro" took over leadership fi'om the ExprtJJ, and is now clearly ahead. This is an even further application oflhe technique of combining a news sheet with a miscellany> and involved a further change of appearance. In method and content, the
iHirror draws partly on the traditional Sunday newspaper, partly on the techniques of the new advertising which was now the daily paper's eom mereial basis. In the 19505, the general expansion was slowed, . \'mh the whole reading puhlic effectively covered, and what thell happened (and is still, in the 60s, continuing 10 happen)
200
The LQ1Ig RtveJ/ution
The Growth of the Popular Press
was a kind of polarization, willl success going, on the one
of the social and industrial organization of our kind of
hand to the most extreme form of paper-miscellany, on the older style. Papers representing carlier stages ofthe mixture
capitalist and industrialized society, The essential novelty of the twenticth-century popular press s i its discovery and
Now the qucstions one asks from these cardinal points
detailed devices of the formula, is a question about the rcla
other hand to thc most clearly surviving newspapers of the between newspaper and miscellany arc losing readers.*
(which need to be amplified from the fuller account that
follows)
are these. First, what is the real social basis of me
popuJar press as now established ? It grew, in content and style, from an old popular literature, with three vital trans forming
factors:
first, the vast improvement in productive
and distributi�c methods caused by industrialization; second, lhe SOCial chaos and the widening franchise, again caused by inclustriali7,ation and the struggle for democracy; third, the institution, as a basis for financing newspapers, of a kind of advertising made necessary by a new kind of eeonomic organization, and a differently organized public. �iteracy was not a transforming factor, in itself, even suppos �ng that the 1870 Act was tIle basis ofpopular literacy, which It was not. There were enough literate adults in Britain in 1850 to buy more than the total copies of the
Dai(y AlirrQr
now sold each day. Literacy was only a factor in terms of the other changes. I n seeking improvemenl in the popular press,
therefore, while it is wise 10 work for a higher literacy, we s�all only arrive at the centre of the maller by asking ques tions about the social organization of an industrial society, about ils economic organization, and about the ways in which its services, such as newspapers, nre paid for. Second, what is the communication-basis of the popular press? The eighteenth-century
Advertiser,
and the nine
teenth-ccntury TimeJ, had, as their basis, rhe image of a particular kind of reader, in an identifiable class to which the owners and journalists themselves belonged. The twentieth_ century popular press has, as its image, a pal·ticular formula,
201
successful exploitation of this formula, and the important question to ask about it, while it is wise to attend to the tion of the ' masses ' formula to rhe actual nature of our
society, to the expansion of our culture, and to the struggle for social democracy. These questions arc at once the means of underst� nding our press in some depth, and the mca lS ofunderstandlll the � . : nature and conditions ofOUi' expandIng culture, to whIch It is so important an ill(.Iex. To ask them, and to look for answers in the field which thcy open, is the real consequence of our actual press history. While we hold to existing formulas we shall ask wrong questions, or be left to the sterile debate between those who say that at any rate the press is free and those who say that at any pl'ice it is trivial and degraded. We need to get beyond this deadlock, and the history of the press is the means. I turn now to Ihe actual history, in seven periods : 1665' 760, the early middle-class prcss;
1 760-1836,
the struggle
for pres.� freedom, and the new popular press; 1836-55, the popular press expanding; 1855-96, the second phase pf expansion; t8g6-1920, the third phase; I 92o-4?, th� expan
sion completed ; the 19505, and the new tendenCies wlthm an achieved expansion. (i): 1665- 1 760
The story of the foundation of the English Press is, in its first stages, the story of the growth of a middle-c1� re��ing public. The first half of the eightccnth century IS a cntlcal pcriod in the expansion of English culture, and the news paper and periocliC<1.1 are among its most important products,
which, beginning perhaps ill the 1840S, has been rapidly
together with the popular novel and the domestic drama.
developed since the institution of the new advertising in the IB90s. This formula is that of the ' mass', or ' m asses', a par_
The expansion is significant, in thaI it took place over a wide range and at many diffel'ellt levels. The development of the
ticular kind ofimpersonal grouping, corresponding to aspects
press fully reflects the range and the levels, and sets a pattern
202 The umg Revolutioll in this kind ofcxpnnsion which is vitally important in all its subsequent hislOry. The cultural needs of a new and powerful class can never merely be set aside, but the ways in which they arc met may be determined by \'arious legal, technical and political factors. The factors which most clearly affected the press, in the lale seventeenth lInd early eigh teenth centuries, were, first, the slate of communications, in particular the postal scrvice.�, and, second, the passage [I'om State-licensed print. ing to conditions of comm�rcial printing for the market. Slale control o\'cr printing was, in its turn, an obvious political control over the powerful new means of dissemin. ating news and opin ions. Th!':I'c had been many effons, in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, to use printing for this obvious social p urp ose, but all had been hampered by direct pol itical ccnsorship. J n one fOl'ln 01' another, the Coral/tos, Diumaf/s, Passages aud IlItdfigel1cers did theit' b(.'"ll t to break through, yet all these wcre still, essen tially, books or pam phlets. The establishment of the week ly public post in ,637 made pos sible a new technique, that of the news-letter, which was circulated by suuscription to booksellers, and which, being ha'ldwritten byscrivcnel's in the booksellers' cmploy, escaped the restrictions on printing. This advance in fi'eedom was, however, obviously techn ical ly regressive, and when the same freedom found a progressive technique the news-letters were left far behind. This was not to happen, howevcr, until nearly the end ofthe century. * The important technical advance, the development of a news paper instead of a book or pamphlet, in fact took place under official dir·cction. This was in 1 665, when an oflicial Oxford Ca?;.elle was ' published by Authority', in tire ncw single-sheet form. This huer became the Londoll Caeefle, now onl y an onidal publication, but then a Irue ncwspaper. In the same period, h owcvcr, Statccontrol ofprinting was being put on a new basis. The Liccming Act of 1 662, 10 prevent 'abuses in priltling, sed i tious, treasonable and unlicensed books and pamphlets ', limited lhe number ofmaSlcr printers
The Crowth of the Popular Press
203
to twenty; and in 1663 a Surveyor of the Press (L' Estrange) was appointed, with a virtual monopoly in printed news. Thus, while the right technical form was being found, the conditions for its cxploitation were firmly refused. Yct the balance of political power was now evidently changing, and as 1 688 is a significant political date, so I6gS is significant in the history of the press. For' in that year Parliament decl ined 10 renew the t662 Licensing Act, and the stage for expansion was now fully st:!. In addition to the new freedom, there was also an improved postal service, with country mails on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, and a daily post to Kent. The expansion was not slow in coming, for in the years between 16g5 and 1 no a public press ofth�ee kinds became firmly established : daily newspapers, provltl cia] weekly newspapers, and periodieals. Between them, thcse new organs covered the whole range of the cultural expansion. The first daily newspaper, the Courallt, appeared in I ;O'J., and was followed by the Posl ( ' 719), t he JolITllol ( ' 7�20) and the Advertiser ( 1 730). Many thrice-weekly morning and eveni ng papers began pub li cation in the same period, on the days of the country mails. At the same time, provincia! weekly papers were being established : two in t695-t700; eight in '701-10; nine in Q [ t-20; 6\'e in 1 ; 2 1 -30. In periodicals, Defoe's IVcrk!')' Revirw began in 1704, and Steele's Taller in 1 709. Almost immediately, howe\'cr, a new form of State control was attempted, with the imposition of a Stamp DUly (!d. or td. according to size) and an Advertisement Tax (IS. on each insertion) , not to raise revenue, but as the most ' effectual way of sltpp ressing libels '. The new form of eontrol is characteristic of the new conditions : the replace ment ofState licensing by a market tax. The pressures ofthe expansion in faCl fairly easily absorbed these impositions. The daily press, in particul ar, was serving so obvious a need of the new class that hardly anything could have stopped it. A glance .tt its contents makes this ciear, for the commereial interest eould hard!y have been better served. The news at first is mainly foreign, including news ofmarkets
The Growth of the Poplltar Press
The Long Revolutioll and shipping. Of home ncws, a principal item is 'the Prices of Stocks, Course of E.xchange, and Names and Descriptions of Persons becoming Bankrupt '. Lists of exports and imports are gin:n, and after these come a few miscellaneous items of such other news as marriages, deaths, and inqucsts. Finally comes the material which was in r.'l.ct to sustain the eight eenth-century newspaper: the body of small commercial advertisements. \Vilh the growth of tr;1de, this last item be ca me ror a time the p" incipal feature, and the Advutsu, i 1730, convenicutiy marks this emphasis. 11 began as a strictly commercial sheet, and then broadened itself, when advertise ments werc �hort, to inclode ' tile best and freshest accoun� of all Occurrence!! Foreign and Domestick . 1\ became the leading mid-eighteenth-century newspaper, and the priority it gave to advertisements, in putting thon rather than news on its front page, initiated a fonnat of obvious subsequent imporlance. At the same time, however, the broader interests of the rising class wcre being served, at many lev<:is, by the peri odical press. The daily newspapers Oi"dinarily abstained from political comment, not because comment was thought unnecessary but because this could obviously be more con veniently done in pcdodical publications. Dcfoe's Wukry Re"iew is the first of thcse political periodicals, and it had many successors and imitators. There was also, however, the need lor social commentary, on manners and politc literature and the theatre. This was met by the Tatftr, which again was widely imitated. After the first phase of establislunent of these classes of periodical, a wide expansion took place betwcen 1730 and 1760. The word ' magazine ' conveniently marks the expansion, beginning with the GlIlluman's lHaga �iJlt in t730 and going on, in rising scale, to the London J\faga;;;ilU, the Ulliursal A/aga{.ine, the TowlI alld Country ."Iaga;::int, the Oxford .\Jagndne, the J\lagadlle of klaga�ilus, and the Gralld Jla.t:a::ine of Maga{illef. These publications illustrate very clearly the broadening cultural ambitions of the classofreade� they served. Their contents vary in quality and intention : from original work that can properly be '
classed as literature, through polite joufllalism to an obvious ' digest' function. It is what one has le rned to recognize as characteristic of such a stage of expansion in a culture : a range of publications serving everyone from those who want a first-hand acquaintance with facts literature . and oplluon, to those who want these in summary and convenient form as a means ofrapid cultural acquisition. In the whole fidd it is an impressivc record of work, though it must not be idealized. Thcre is much good writing, but also much self-conscious pre-digcstcd' instruction III taste and beh:l\'iour, and some exploitation of such accompanying inten.:sts as gossip and scandal about prominent persom. There is not only Steele's Tnf/(f, but J\lrs de la Riviere Manley's Female Tatltr p.lrs f..lan1cy was the author of
�
'
.
.
<
Steffi j\Icmoirs alld Mallllers ofStIJrm! Pnsrms of (bwlily, rif both St.ws) ; not only Johnson's essays in the UlIiv('fsa! ChroniC/c, but also the Gralld Alagadlle of J\ raga;:Jnef, ar UniIJersal Registe-r,
'comprising all that i5 curious, useful or entertaining in the magazinC"S, rcviews, chronicles . . . at home or abroad '. The fact is thaI when a cuilure cxpauds it docs so at all its levels of interest and seriousness, and often wilh some of these levels exploited mthet" than scrved. Mc:anwhilc, thc daily newspapcr was changing, alike in contellts, organization, and ambition. Increasingly, features that had been left to the periodical press were being absorbcd to the daily papers : comment, gene"al news, and ' maga;;::ine IIltereSI' such as thcatrical notices, light literature, and reviews. This expansion took placc on the basis ofa solid and growing commercial function. Since the l 74os, advertising had grown in volume, and a successful newspaper was an increasingly profitable business enterprise. Onc mark of this development is the beginning of a new type of ownership. Ordinarily, lhe firSl papers had been the property ofprinters. who had welcomed thcir regular printing as a way of keeping prCSSt.' Sfully occupied. From a sideline, papers were becoming in some instances a main activity - a development which as a whole is not complete until the early nineteenth century. In this situation, the floating ofjoint stock companies to run
�n
'06 TIlt Long Revolution newspapers, the printers being hired agents rather than proprietors, was a natural commercial development of the times. The first such company was formed in I H8, to run the Londo!! Ca<.ttlttr, and the change was later [0 be of consider able imponancc. Circulations continued to rise. A total annual sale of 2,250,000 in ' 7 1 1 had become 7,000,000 in ' 753. Reader ship was much larger th;\n saIes, for more papers were taken in by coffee-houses and similar institutions than by private individuals. The r:lising of the Siamp Duty in 1757 did no more tochcck the expansion than had the original imposition. The lime was coming, ill fact, when with increased pros perity the papers would aspire to a higher political status. Their political importance was already sufficicntly rt:cog nized to make them the objects of Jlersisu:nt Government bribery : vValpole, /or example, paid om more than £50,000 to newspapers and pamphleteers in the last ten years of his administration. But the time was coming when the freedom ofthe press, as a political institution in its own right, would be . seflously claimed. The key issue in this was the freedom to report Parliamentary proceedings, and here the pedodicals had been in the van. Cave began to report Parliamentary debates in J 736, in the Cl/ltleman's AJaga<.ine. \Vhen in J 738 this was declarcd a breach of privilege, Cave continued to publish reports, as of the ' Senate of LilliI'm', and in 1 752 resumed direct reports, with only the first and la.st letters of speakers' names. The battle was not yet won, but the claim had been staked. For thc ncxt three quarters of a century, the freedom and political status of the press wcrc to � dominating isslles in its development. For the ne"''Spaper had broken out into the open markel, and had prospercd : i t now sought, with all those whose history had been similar, to take a greater share in the government of the country. (ii) : 1 760-1836 The first number of Wilkes's North Briton, in 1762, is a con venient introduction to the coming battle for independence. vVilkes wrote:
The Crowlh of fhe Popular Press
The liberty or the Press is the birthright or a Briton, and esteemed the firmest bulwark or the libcrti<.'S or lhis counlry.
207
si justly
By the cnd of the decade, the liberty had been taken, in the remarkable series of LCllers of Junius in a daily newspaper or lhe old commercial kind, TI,e Public Ad1'utistf. Then, in '771, at \Vilkcs's instigation, sC\'cral papers began printing full Parliamentary rcporL�, and privilege, though not for mally sct aside, was successfully defied. This victory, how ever, was to some extent offset by Lord Mansfield's judicial interpretation of the law of libel, in a case arising from a Junius leiter. This had the dfect ormaking the Crown, rather than ajury, decide whether a given publication was libellous, and therewere several prosecutions and scntt'ne<."S on printers in these terms, until the Libel .'\etof, 792 restored the decision of substance to juries. Yet while individual printers suffered, the press as a whole was buoyant in these years. Two very important newspapers, the. ll'lornillg Chronicle and the ,\'loming Posl, were founded ill 1 769 and\, 772 respectively. With these, the London daily press had reached the bcginnings of its political establish ment. The Times followed, in '785, Although the Stamp Duty had been again raised, in ] 776, circulation continucd to grow. The 7,000,000 total annual sale of] 753 had becomc 12,230,000 in ' 776, and by 1 8 ] J was 10 reach 24,422,000. I n J 784 there w�rc �ighl London morning papers, in ' 790 . founcell. DlstnbutlOn had been improvcd, first by the com ing of Ihe Mail Coaeh, in J 78+, and then, in 1 785, by the separation ofnewspaper distribution from the ordinary mails. The first regular evening paper appeared, as a I'esul, ofthcsc improvements, in 1 788: the Star, which gained a circulation of 2,000. The COI"iu followcd, i n '78g, and ]'eached a circu lation of 7,000. The leading morning newspapcrs at this time had circulations \·:trying between twO and three thousand, and a profit cOlild be shown on this. \Vhen the !HQming Post temporarily declined, in the 1 7905, circulation fcll to 350 before closure was threatened. Meanwhile, in '779, the fil'St Sunday paper, theSllnday MOllitor, had appeared, and was fol lowed by many shon-lived imitators and by others destined
,
208 for success
d
TM Long Revolution Tht: Observer ( I 7 9 1 ) , Bell's Week£y Messenger The Week{y Dispatch ( I So I). In every dir�ction,
( I 796), an the press was expanding, but atjusl this time taxes on It were . sharply increased. 10 1 789 Stamp DUly was raised to 2d., and the Advertisement Tax to 3s. In ' 797, Stamp I?ulywent up to 3�d. In ' 789 the practice of hiring out papers was forbidden, though not slopped. These measures produced a . temporary decline in circulation, though demand co�unucd
to grow. 10 the excited political atmosphere followmg the
French Revolution, the inAucnce of the press was deeply feared by the Government. The Tory Anti-Jacobi!! RroUw puts the issue, and its contcxl, most clearly, in 1801 :
in thi, . 1"'S \Vc have long considered the cstabli�hmcnt o ncwspa.pc country as a misfortune to be regretted; but, slIlce t eL� lIlflucnce . has become predominant by the universality of thClr Circulation, we n.·gard it as a calantity most deeply to Ix: deplored.
�
�
The matter was not Jeft a t deplol'ing alone. The subsidy system had been continued, and surviving accounts show substantial expenditure in
r
782-3. 1788, and '789-93' The
latter years show nine papers in receipt of subsidies, from £600 p.a. to the lHornillg Herald �nd the World, th-:ough £300 to
The Times to £100 to the PublIC Ledger.
ProductIOn costs for
the Oracle in 179'� show an annual expenditure of about £6,864, and for The Times in 1797 £8,1 1 2 . Th�s the ��b sidies quoted formed a notable but not necessanly decIsiVe dement in a paper's finances : the subsidy would clearly be
welcome but at the samc time the Oracle could make a profit
d
given a aily circulation of 1,700, and The Times i n facl did make a profit all a circulation around 2,000. These figures . exclude overheads on the debit side, and advcrusemcnt revenue to credit bm clearly, taken overall, the commercial
position of thc s ceessful paper.! allowed independence if it
�
was desired. At the same lime, lhere were other means of Govcnlment iJlftuence. Direct payments were made to journalists, at least £1,637 in the year ending June 1 793. Later, and rising to a peak in the 18200, the Government tended to confine its advertisements to amenable news-
The Growth of the Popular Press
'°9
papers. When the situation is seen as a whole, it seems that while influence could obviously be bought, it was bought because of the strength and effect of lhe press, and that this strength and effeet - small circulations being multiplied by multiple readership, and made financially possible by the advertisement revenue which had throughom been the key to development - would make possible the achievement of real independence whenever a determined bid was made. There were, however, new counter-measures to come. In 1815, Stamp Duty was raised to 4d., and the Advertisement Tax to 3s. 6d. As a dircci result ofIhese new impositions, an important new factor was introduced into press development. Cobbett, by dropping news and concentrating on opinion, sold his
Political Register
unstamped, and at 2d. weekly
achieved the c.'1traordinary sale of 44,000 (nearly half a million in actual readership). Wooler began his Black Dwarf in 1817, and achieved a sale of 12,000. Here, in thcse critical years, a popular press of a new kind was emerging, wholly independent in spirit, and reaching new classes of readers. The marked rise in the political temperature was creating a fully independent political press, and behind Cobbett and Wooler i n this new spirit, if not in opinion, were the out spoken new quarterlies (The Edinburgh Review, 1802, and the rival Qjlarlerly Review, 180g, each sold 14,000 in 1818), the Radical weeklies (News, 1805, and Examintr, 18'9), and the growing independent spirit of
The Times (Barnes was
made editor in (817). The spirit ofindependenee came from
all these sources, but Cobbett and Wooler were extending i t to a new public. The Government was not long i n counter_ attack : the Circular Letter of 1816, and then two of thc Six Act! of 18 Ig, were directly aimed at suppressing press opinion ('blasphemous and seditious libels'), and the power of the new popular press was, if not crushed, at least gravely weakened. Lord Ellenborough explained tJle Government's attitude clearly :
lL was not against the l'C$J>ectable Pre$ that this Bill (Newspaper Stamp Duties Act, 1019) was direeted, but against a pauper press. T - II
The Long Revolfllion
"0
'"
The Growlh rif Ihe Popular Press
Ever since this period, there has been an important factual
Times move to a new position. Opposing the Govcrnment on
split between the ' pauper press ', expressing new kinds of
Peterloo, taking the popular side in the Queen Caroline COntroversy, it steadily emerged as the principal organ of
political and social opinion, and the 'respectable press', advancing to financial independence and editorial indepen dence within the terms of' respectable opinion '. It is easy to
class public. Its sales had reached
write the history of Ihe press in terms of Ihe latter alone, but
Caroline controversy rose temporarily to morc than
the histOry of the independent radical press is fundamentally
With its more radical rivals openly suppressed, it moved
open
repression,
'respectable ' Reform, with a coherent and growing middle·
7,000 by 1820, and in the 1 5,000.
Cobbett, \>Vooler,
ahead on the basis of its solid commercial organization, wilh
Carlile, Hetherington and many others fought hard and
growing advertising support from the class which it politically
well, and Ihe Chartist press was an important temporary
represented. That
success. But the economic basis of such papers was and has
other paper of the same general kind, is due to the combina· tion of this economic basis for independence with the dceis
important.
Against
remained profoundly difficult. As the
line s i followed down Daily Worku and
The Times took the Icad, rather than some
through Blatchford and Lansbury to the
ive desire for it, in the adoption of a Rerorm policy in the
TribUllt
critical years between 1815 and 1832, There s i another, technical, reason. From its foundation, The Times had been
of our own day, it is a story of continual financial
pressure mel by persistent voluntary or ill-paid e/Tort, not only by journalists but by collectors and sellers serving
closely connected with improvemcnts in printing (it was in
a causc rathcr than a commercial enterprise. The resources of the ' respectable press ', in advertising revenue and organ
fact founded to advertise the new ' Logographic' press) . Now, in this decisive period, it was always technically ahead. The
ized distribution, have hardly ever been available
first steam printing machine in the world printed The Times in 1 8 1 4 (after experiments sincc 1807). From 250 sheets, the
10 this
kind of papet', yet the !lew ventures have kept coming, in direct rc!alion to phascs of political change. \'Vithoul Ihis
hourly rate was raised to I , I 00 and then
1,800 (goo on both The Times office, raised
dissenting press, the history not only of journalism but of
sides), and further improvements, in
politics and opinion would be very different, The fact is that the economic organization of the press in
lhis by 1827 to 4,000 on both sides. Expansion of circulation had been limited, previously, by just this printing-rate
Britain has been predominantly in terms of the commercial
factor. Thus, its commerciaL status, its policy ofmiddle-class
middle class which the newspapers first served. \.yhen papers
reform, and its technical superiority, gave
organized in this way reached out to a wider public, they
decisive lead. The ractors are interrelated, for alike in its
The Timts
its
brought in the new readers on a market basis and not by
commercial, political and technical elements,
means of participation or genuine community relationships.
was the perfect organ of the middle-class reading public
beginning of thi� long histol), was evident. The community
which had created the newspaper press, and was now can)' iug it with it to a share in the government ohhe country.
As the ncw public appeared, in the time of Cobbett, the
The Times
as a whole was nOt providing ils newspapers, but having
Certain other aspects of press development in this period
them provided ror it by particular interests. The radical prcss
must be briefly noted. The most important is the growth of the Sunday papers, whose beginnings have been noted.
diverged, on a political basis, while the 'r<:spcctaLle ' pl·CSS went on to commcrcial independence, not only from the Government, but eventually from the society. The years between
1820 and 1850,
1810, these had circulations well above thosc of the daily
papcrs, with a leading circulation of 1 0,000, which was not
in which the indepen
dent radical press made its first sustained effort, saw
By
TIlt
to be reached by The Times until the 18205. Most of the lead· ing papers were for Reform, and had an important political
The Long /Uvolution
2I2
influence. At the same time, however, led by the
Dispatch,
The Growth of th� Popular Press
an income of £200-£300 p.a. could not afford a taxed daily
they were beginning to give a good deal of space to detailed
paper at 7d. per issue, and it was evidently to such people
accounts ofmurders, rapcs, seductions, and similar material,
that the penny magazines mainly appealed. The expansion
and also to sport (racing, wrestling and prize-fighting). From
of daily newspapers into this public had to await the next
1815 on this tendency is clearly marked, and a typical front
important legislation affecting the press, which initiated a
page of the 18208, from Bell's Life in umdon, describes its contents as ' combining. with the News of the Week, a rich
new period.
Repository of Fashion, Wit and Humour, and the interesting
(iii) : 1836-55
Incidents of Real Life ', which in practice means a column offoreign news, a column report of a lively election meeting,
In 1836, Stamp DUlY was reduced from 4d. to Id., and in
half a column of general domestic news, an account of some
to
' amusing cases' of corpulency, and a miscellany including
expansion, both in the daily press, dominated now by Times, and, more rcmarkably, in the Sunday press.
reports of two murders, a prison-break attempt, and a robbery. The style of reporting is direct, and there arc only small headlines. Since the increase in Stamp Duty, all papers had used small and close print, and avoided any waste of space. All are consequently very difficult to rcad compared even with eighteenth-century papers. It should be noted, incidentally, that rcpcated attcmpts werc made to declare
1833 the AdvertiscmCIH Tax had been reduced from 3s. IS.
6d.
6<1. per insertion. These changes led to a considerable
The
Though at exceptional times in thc twenties the circulation
ofT/Ie Times had risen toahove 1 5,000, its avcragc circulation
in J!130 was about 10,000. This rose a little in 1831, but by 1835 was distinctly lowcr than it had been in 1830. The political imponance of the paper was already established, but its next phase of expansion did not begin until after the
Sunday newspapers illegal, but in spite of great strength of
1836 rcduction, and then most notably in the 18405. From
feeling in the matter, all the attempts failed. While allowing
1 1,000 in 1 837 it climbed to 30,000 in 1847, and continued to climb until it had reached nearly 60,000 in 1855. Tht: sur
for the terms of polcmic in this context, it seems probable that the Sunday papers reached poorer people than did the 'respectable' daily press. The other main development in this period was in maga zines. The successful quarterlies werejoined by such month lies as
Blackwood's (1817)
and the
London A1agarine ( 1 8�1O),
prising thing, at first sight, about these figurcs, is that the
rise in circulation was not even greater, for The Timu now had no real compctitor - the other dailies were all still below 10,000. The key is price, for at 4d. or 5d. a paper of one's own
and by a ncw type ofweekly, widely regarded as 'scandalous',
was limited to a still narrow income range. The Daily News (1846) reached a circulation of 22,000 at 2!d., but was
inJol1ll Bull ( 1 820), which quickly achieved a 10,000 circula· tion. There were successful new literary weeklies, and then,
insuRiciently capitalized and fell back.
in the early 1830$, the extraordinari l y successful cheap magazines,
Chambers', PetlllY,
and
Saturday,
all founded in
1832,
which achieved circulations varying between 50,000 and 200,000 - a dccisive expansion into a new reading class.
:Meanwhile, however, masked from nonnal interest by the rise of The Times, the expansion thai one looks for was taking
place in the Sunday press. Already by
1837
t'ovo Sunday
papers, the Dispatch and Chrollide, were selling about 50,000 an issllc, and in the 18.�os there is a remarkable general rise,
However, though intended for the working class, these
in a fiercely competitive sphere. The two typical papers are
magazines seem largely to have been bought by middle-class and 10wer-middle·c1ass people, who were still starved of
lloyd's Weekly ( 1 842) and the News of the World (1843). By 1855, both had circulations in the region of 100,000. The
print. It was said in
1830 that a middle-class household with
estimated total Sunday circulation in 1850 was 275,000, as
214
The Leng Reuoiul;oll
The Growth oj I/Je Popular Press
"5
against 60,000 for total daily circulation. Here, i t is clear, is
business had, from the beginning, set this course, and it s i
the first phase ofexpansion of the modern commercial press.
clear how appropriate these factors of concentration and
The contents of Sunday papers in the 18�ws have l>ccn noted, and the new papers of the 18405 were their true
cheapnc:!s were, in a continually expanding culture. A wide range of interests was being brought into a literate form, and
successors, alike in their predominantly Radical tone and in
the pioneer of eaeh expansion was the cheapest and most
their selection of news. At first, however, to avoid even the Id. stamp, Llo)'d's Wukry published no actual news, hUI serial
extensive print.
slorics and fictitious news, with ample illustrations. By ,8,13. however, it had conformed to the older style, and a distinc· live ' Sunday paper look' had been established. A few
(iv) : 1855-96 In 1855 the l;lst penny of the Stamp Tax was rcmon�d, and in 1853 the Advertisement Tnx had also finally disappeared,
examples can be given. From February 27. [842, there is
These changes came at a time when the press was already expanding, and also when ncw techniques in news-collection
spiracy and Altempted Violation ', and this is illustrated by
The combined effect of these factors was a new and remark ablc phase of gcneral expansion. Before we turn to examine
Bell's Penny Dis/mlch, subtitled Sporling and Poliet Gazelft, arid Newspaper oj Romance. The main headline is 'Daring Con a large woodcut and backed by a detailed stol·Y. This was an
and in distribution were beginning to be widely exploited.
ordinary format, though it should be noted that the first
this, however, we should try to make some estimate, in social terms, of how far the expansion had already gone, and of other social factors, such as literacy, which were obviously
small headline and no illustration.
to affect it. A distinction must be clearly drawn bctween tlte daily and the Llllda?, press, if we arc to understand this process
numbcr of the News of the World gives its (unconncctcd) • Extraordinary Charge of Drugging and Violation' a very The provenance of this class ofjournalism is in fact not Jar to seck. There is a long history of chapbooks and ballads carrying this kind of material, especially in relation to mur ders, executions, and elopements. These had been excep
�
�
of expansIOn �\llt any accuracy. The impression one gains, from the begmnmg of Sunday newspapers, is that a class
tionally popular in the eighteenth century, and the woodcut
different from readers of the daily press was being catered
illustration, with title headline, had been typical of their
for. From the very day of their publication, they were never part oCthe ' respectable press', and, in the first decades ofthe
format. These continued into the nineteenth century, and the circulation of comparable fiction similarly expanded, but the time came when the newspaper, with its advenise
nineteenth century, their readers wcre (;ommonly identified as thc ' lower classes '. Yet a typical Sunday paper of the
ment revenues, its political ncws and opinion, and its superior
18::!Os sold at 7d., on a par with the daily papcrs, and at this
techniques, was clearly the most effective means of buying and selling the same material.Just as the eightecnth-eentm'Y
price fcw evcn among middle-class peoplc would normally
newspaper had absorbed a proportion of' magazine interest ', so these nineteenth·centul'Y papers absorbed the chapbook, ballad, and almanac interest, and at a mueh cheaper price.
havc bought them. The key here, as in the earlier history of the daily prcss, is buying by institutions. New coffee-houses \�ere started, �t which nearly a hundred papers and maga_ zlIles were avaliablc, and a typical price for reading at one of
This is the recurring tendency in the history ofjournalism:
these, through the extended hours made possible by gaslight,
the absorption ofmatel'ial formerly communicated in widely varying ways into one cheaply produced and easily distrib
was Id, Papers were also collectively bought, and even read
uted general-purpose shect. The economics of the newspaper
shop were, increasingly, the main reading places. In both
aloud, ill workshops, but lhe public-house and the barber's
, The Long Revolution
The Growth ojtM Popular Prm
these places, Sunday morning was the most popular time,
40s. Paper duty was abolished in 1860, and there was con
and this undoubtedly is the explanation ohhe lead in expan
siderable subsequent improvement in manufacturing tech-
"7
sion that was taken by the Sunday press in the first half of
niques : the p rice of this main raw material continued to f:.>.ll.
the nineteenth century; a lead, it should be noted, that has
General improvement in commerce led to a rising demand
been maintained to our own day. Even as the price of papers
for advertising space, although most newspapers were slow to increase their rates and take full advantage of this. In the
came down, and morc people could buy private copies, the Sunday papers retained their advantage, since they appeared
collection of news, the electric telegraph had been available
on the only day on which the majority ofpcoplc had any real leisure. The figurc� already quoted for 1850 � 275,000 total
since 1837, and had been regularly used since 1847, though
Sunday circulation, 60,000 lotal daily � show clearly enough
tion by railway was bceoming widely available, and by 1871
the two publics, anel the disparity in readership was probably
sale-or-return distribution to railway bookstalls had become
its full exploitation was not to come until the 187°5. Distribu
even greater than this, since it seems likely that a higher
established. All these factors operated within the general
proportion of Sunday papers were collectively bought and
mood of the whole economy, which was confident and
read at this time. When it is further remembered thaI dis tribution was to a l
expanSIve.
it would seem that by mid-century a Sunday press that can be genuinely called popular was firmly established in the capital, and that the hi5tory of the expansion as a whole must be rewritten in
these
terms. The daily press expanded,
The repeal orlhe Stamp Tax became law onJune 20, 1855, and on the same day the newspaper appeared which for forty years was to lead the expansion of the daily press : t.he Daily
Tilegraph. Within three months it was selljng at Id., and by 1860 it had a circulation of 141 ,000. The ,\Jorning Slar, at Id.,
Standard reduced to ld. in 1858. Standard as principal competitors, the
through the rest of the century, largely into an expanding
appeared in 1856, and the
middle class. The history of the popular press, in the nine
With the J\"tWS and
teenth century, is the history of the expanding Sunday press, aimed at a largely different public.
Tdegraph
Between 1 8 1 6 and 1836, the period of the 4d . Stamp Tax,
there was a 33% rise in newspaper sales. Between 1836 and 1856 the rise was 70%. In the quarter-century following
had reached nearly 200,000 in 1870, 250,000 in
1880, and 300,000 in 1 8go. From the 18i05, ncw machines were printing at 168,000 an hour. The Daily Tdtgraph, which set the pace in this rise of the
had begun. As a direct result of the 1 855 tax abolition, two
l y press, was conceived as scn-ing 'an entirely new cheap dai public who never sa.w the weeklies and monthlies ' : it was tbe paper oft.he man on the knifeboard of the omnibus '. rn
new clements appeared; a cheap
daily press,
style it had certain obvious differences from the early
and a widespread provincial daily press. While these rose and flourishcd, the Sunday papers and the more expcnsi\'c daily
press, the first newspaper to adopt a light style ofjournalism.
1856 the rise was at least 600%, and the major expansion
metropolitan
papcn also reached out to largc new circulations. Conditions for expansion were exceptionally favourable
<
Victorian TimlS, but it was not, of course, e\·cn in the daily Thc pioneers in this had been thc ,\loming Post and the World,
back in the 1 7805, and we must remcmber that the ViCIOtian
at this period, quite apart from the effect of the tax abolitions.
TimlS was itself much heavier in manner than at any carlier
There was still regular improvement in printing techniques :
stage in its career. t..,lxlUchere omen·ed of tile
the hourly rate of 4,000 in 1827 had been raised to 20,000 in
when persons entirely unconnected with literature themselves are the owners ofnel'"spapers, they naturally sacrifice all decorum to the desire to make thejourna! a remunerat ive speculation.
1857. The price ofpaper was falling again ; a ream which had
cost 21S. in
1 794 cost 555. in t845, but by 1855 was down to
Telrgraph that
.
r
TIle Long Reoollliiol!
The Growth of the Popular Pms
The owners orthe Telegraph were the printing family of Levy, but Labollcherc's implication that the separation oflitcraturc
Times and a few of the older papers served the established
219
classes with a ncw and more objectivc journalism; the
and journalism was new is impossible to accept. The separa
Telegraph and
tion between wfilet'S andjournaiisis is clear, in spite ofocca
middle class, with a new journalism in which liveliness was
the new papers served a new lower and rising
sional overlaps, before the end of the eighteenth century, and
applied, not only to politics, but to other kinds of news. The
printer-owncrship had always been common. \Vhat is certain
is that Levy had a new kind ofpapcr in mind: ' what we want
ordinary reaction of readers of
i s a human note', he instructed new entrants to the
crudc and v\llg:ll" . It must again be emphasized that no lion of thc new journalism would have had anything to leach
Ttftgroph,
and politics must not be assumed to be the sole imcrcst of its readers. l'"Jatthew Arnold, observing the result, called it the •
newjournalism '. In terms of contents, it is not really new. But undoubtedly,
The TimtS was the same as Daily J\1ail: ' lively, but
the latc!' reaction to the halfpenny
cigillcenth-ccllturyjournalists i n the mallcr of crudeness and vulgarity, but, given the rate ofdle c..xpansion, the emphasis was now very cvident. ' Extraordinary Discovery of a :Man
in this period, an attention to crime, sexual violence, and
''''oman at Birmingham ', announced the
human oddities made its way from the Sunday into these
'Furious Assault on a Female', in 1857; and so on and so on.
daily papers, and also into older papers like the
Burnham (a descendant of the Levy family, who remained associated with the TelegrajJh) writes in his history of thc
Post. As early as
Aloming
1 788, the J\lornillg Posl had written:
Newspapers have long enough cstranged themselves in a manner totally from the elegancies of literature, and dealt only in malice,
least in the prallle of the day. On this head, however, news
Tdegraph in
1856;
paper:
RC\liewing t.he rilcs, the hon..st biographer cannot dispute t hat the
papel'S arc not much more to bl;\me than their patrons, the p\lbJie.
Daily Tclrgm/lh thrivcd on crime.
The Victorian
a woman remind us that a popular old item i n cheap litera ture was now establishing itself in the daily press. There is also, at this time, an evident change in the style of reporting, due to the now regular usc of the telegram. The
or
at
i"omil1g Post
had become respectable, but
under Borthwick ( I BS:z-t908) it certainly published very full reports of crimes. The ' new journalism' is complex,
because the c..xpansioll was producing something new: dis
Such items as a threc-column description of the hanging of
journalism, with a much greater emphasis on nevvs than in
older style was, at its 0(,'51, that of books ; at its worst, what the language textbooks still cal( 'journalese ' (which has survived longest, significantly, in local newspapers, which
the faction-ridden first halfofthe century. I n a period which
lISC
saw the consolidation of sentiment from the middle class
to save money on the wire, led to shorter sentences and a
tinct levels of seriousness within the daily press. The period from 18S5 is in one sense the development ofa new and better
upwards - a unity of sentiment quile strong enough to COIl tain constitutional pa!'ty conflicts - most newspapers were able to drop their frantic pamphletecring, and to gen'c this public with news and a rcgulated diversity ofopinion. On the
h:lcgr;\ms so vcry much less). The desirc for compression,
grcatcr emphasis of key-wolxls. There is oflen a gain in sim plicity and lack ofuadding; often a loss in the simplification of complicated issues, and in the distoning tendency of the emphatic key-word. The balance in these issues has eve!'
other hand, this change in political atmospherc had to a large
since been cruciaI in newspapcr style.
cxtent removed politics f!'om the primary place which i t had
I n one other way, the Dairy Telegraph wa� a pioneer. I t shared with Tile Times and others the organization of public
in the cheap press of the first halfofthe century, and allowed the ncw emphasis on a more general news miscellany.
The
appeals, uut it was a leader in organizing public f\lIlctions
220
The Long &voiulion
(such as bringing 30,000 children to Hyde Park for the 1
The Growth of the Popular Prm
�7
221
political paper financed by the Conservatives, but was made
Jubilee), and in self-advertising stunts, such as the campal�
successful by Northdiffe in the ninelies. By then there was a
is to say, it
TechniquC!l such as the interview, the cross-heading, and
to keep the dephantJumbo, in 1882. On the other hand It
was still, typographicaUy, conservative: that
adhered to the dense 'daily paper' look, which had beeD established in the expensive days ofstamped paper and which had already been abandoncd by the Sunday press. The elearer layout and rather larger headlines of the A meric�n press of the period (itself roughly comparable to the m ld
twentieth-century news pages of The Times) were frequently
condemned and certainly neglected. To be elassed with the Sunday papers was really what the cheap daily press feared.
Meanwhile, from 1855, a flourishing daily provincial press was being established. Seventeen new papers ofthis kind were established in 1855 alone, and the development of news agencies increasingly freed them from dependence on the London prcss. The most successful rcached circulations of up to 40,000. Though this is small for the period, the spread of so many of these papers represents a considerable further expansion of the newspaper public. Because of their pro vincial position, they escaped the competition for different levels of the public whieh was appearing in the London daily press. Seeking to serve all the readers in their area, they followed a general rather than any angkd policy. It is no accident that several ofthem have developed into some ofthc best newspapers of our own time. The forces making for cheap newspapers gathered strength
as the press moved into the 18705 and 1880s. An unsuccessful halfpenny newspaper (the umdoll Halfpenny Newspaper) had appeared in 1861, but there were successful halfpenny papers in the provinces from 1855. In London, the evenmg Echo came outata halfpenny in 1868, and it was in evening papers,
in the seventies and eighties, that this new stage of the cheap press began. With the rise of interest in sport, particularly football, thc evening paper had a new function, and the new London evenings of the eighties (Evening News, 1 8 8 1 ; Star, 1888) were eventually to found themselves on this as a main interest. The Eveni'lg News was at first unsuccessful, as a
successful model, the Star, which in method is a landmark. American-style headlines had been introduced by Stead's
Pall l\iali Ga::;elle (founded
1865; edited by Stead from 1883),
and thcscand other featurcs ofthe newjournalism were taken
furlhel" by O'Connor's Slar. O'Connor promised : length, and it II ill usually be confined within haIfa column. The oth("r items Qf the day will be dCltlt II itlt ill notes lef'S(", pointed and plain-spoken . 'Ye believe that the reader of the daily journal 10llgs for olher reading than mere politirs, rmd we shall present him with plenty ofentirely Ull political literature - somctimes humor ous, sometimes pathetic' allccdocal, statistical, the cra;\c of fashion s and the art:; of house kccping - noll' and thCIl, a short dl'ama r.ic and picturesque talc. In our l'e]>ol'l ing columns we shall do away with the hack neyed style of obsolete journalislll ; and the J!len and women thal figure in the fOl'um Or the pulpit or the Jaw court shall be presented as they are living, bn'alh illS, ill blushes or in tcarsand not merely by thedead words they ut tel'. 'Ve shall hale daily hut on(' article oLmy
:
The description is apt, but O'Connor's policy is a landmark not a revolution. The tendcncies that have been noted in th cheap morning papers werc now being extended in lhe new product, the cheap evening paper. The essential novelty of the Slar is that the new distribution of interest which the second half of the nim;teenth century had brought about was 110W Iypographically confirmed. From now on, the new jom'nalism began to look like what it was. Thc first issllc of the Slar sold 142,600 copies ; the Daily . TtltgTaph was stili at around 300,000. But the really big circulations were still in the Sunday press. In 1855 the total ci �culatioll o the Sunday papers had riscn to about 450,000, wll h tl u . : lead.lIlg p:lper at J 07,000. By the end ofthis pcriod, total �Irculallon was about 1 ,725,000, and the leading paper, loyd's Weekly N s, was at goo,ooo in 13g0, and 1,000,000 � III 1896. As preVIously emph asizcd, the growth of a large circulation press was, from the 18205, led by lhe Sunday
�
�
f
'"
The Long ReooifitiQ/l
TI,e Grow/h oj Ihe Poplliar Press
press, and the existence of circulations like these, before Northcliffe, is a radical factor in assessing the nature ' NorthclifTc Revolution'. The contents
of these
of the
successful
Sunday papers arc what one would expect from their tradi tion. ThcJack-thc-Rippcr murdcl'S, for c..xample, did much to push
Llo)'i's Wttkb' ;\flU:S
towards the heights. Also, the
Sunday papers gave the news of the whole week, and w�re thus welcome to a public which still, aner the expansiOn noted, did not buy a daily paper. (v) : 1296-1920 When the expansion of the period 1855-96 is reviewed more closely, it becomes evident that the most rapid advance c�mc
in the period 1855-70, and that there was then a slowmg down. Circulation of daily papers trebled between T8S5 and 1860, and doubled again between 1 860 and 1870 . Between 1870 and 18Bo the exp,lIlsion is just under 30%; between 1880 and 1890 about 12%. On the other hand, the main expansion
of circulation
in the provincial daily press came
between 1870 and 1 8go, and the evening press was growing markedly from 1880 on. There arc some explanaLOry factors within the press indus try itself, in particular the growing imparlance ofa ncw kind of advertising. The commercial prospcrity of thc old ne�vs papers had depended on a large number of sm,lll advertise ments, of the kind we now call ' classified'. In other media, notably billposting, the style of � d\'ertising had been eh�ng iug since the [ 830S, but the atlltude of the press rcmamed cau tious. ]n particular, editors wcre extremely resistant to any break-up in the regular column layout of th�ir pages, and hence to any increase: in display type. Ad,'erllscrs tried in many ways to get round this, but with little success, and the pressure on newspapers to adapt themselves to techniques drawn from the poster (whichwere eventually really tochange the face of journalism) began to be successful only in the 1 88os. The change had come first in the illustrated magazines with a crop of purity nudes ami similar figures advertising pills, soaps and the other pioneersof new advertising methods.
Eventually, with Northc1iffe i n the lead, the newspapers dropped their column fule, and allowed large lype and illustrations. It was nott:d in 1897 that ' TI,e
Times itself'
was
permitting adverdsemenu in type which IhrL'C years ago would have been
considered iiI only for the Slreel hoardings
while the fronl page of the
Daily Mail already
held rows of
drawings, from the new department stores, of rather bashful
wom�n in co:r binations. Courtesy, Service and Integrity n . acquIred the dlglHty oflargc-typc abstractions. Behind these changes were impo1'lant changes in the
economy. The great
bulk of products of the early stages of
the factory system had been sold without extensive adver tising, which had grown up mainly in relation to novelties and fringe products. Such advertising as there was, of basic articles, was mainly by shopkeepers : the classified advertise ments which the newspapers had always carried. In this comparatively simple phase, large-scale advertising and the brand-naming of goods were necessary
only
at the margin
;
or in genuine.ly new things. In the second half of the century
the range WIdened (branding is especially notable in the new palcnt foods) but i t was not lIntil the 18gos that the emphasis deeply changed. The Gre,it Depression which in general dominated the period from 1873 10 the middle 18905 (though uroken by occasional recoHries and local strengths)
marks the turning point between two moods, two kinds of industrial or�anizati�m, and two basically different ap . proa�hcs to dlstnbUtlon. Afler the Depression, and its big , falls III �l"Ices, there was a more general and growing fear of . productIve capacity, a marked tendency to l'eOl'ganize industrial ownership into larger growing desire
to organize
units and
combines, and a
and where possible control the
market. Advtrtising then took on a new importance, and was applied to an increasing range of products, as part of
�he systtm o.f market contl'O[ which, at full deyelopmctlt, lllcluded tartffs and preference areas, cartel quotas, trade campaigns, price fixing by manufacturers, and economic
"4
The Long Revolution
expansion of export imperialism • There was a concerted rtising campaign adve est bigg the e hom advertising, and at tobacco firms ral seve yet seen accompanied the merger of t Amencan resis to , pany into the lmpcria\ Tobacco Com ed for the offer was ' sum s ulou 'fab competition. In 'gal , a sed four refu n this was entire eight pages or the Star, and whe pages were taken, to print .
an evening cOIl\·incing ad\'crtiscrncnl in the most costly, colossal and o·cr. newspaper the wide world
from the old eightecnth The systcm o[ sclling space changed, spaper announcements, new in' century shops which ' took ers, to the establishment through systems of agents and brok g agencies, and, in the of full-scale independent advertisin agers who advanced man g newspapers, full-time advertisin stams, Pressure was r senio to or juni very rapidly from rtising agents, to pub brought on the newspapers, by adve initial hesitations after lish their sales figures, Northcliffe, without it), was ers Answ run 10 led about advertising (he wan for nc\vspaper basis new a as cs biliti possi its ze the first to reali enged his chall es, finance, He published his own sales figur modern the ted crea t effec rivals to do the same, and in n of essio cxpr an and stry indu an as structure of the pn:" ic', publ ing market relationships with the ' mass read in any case The production costs of newspapers were By tying the won, be to was n latio increasing, if a large circu e found heliff Nort , lation circu large to rs pape policy of news rtising adve new the the fonnula and the revenue from ical techn rapid quite make situation, He was then able to Daily enny halfp the d startc He , itself advances in journalism sive machinery (new Mail in IBg6 with new and expcn ing rate to 200,000, print rotary presses h
The Growth of the Popular Press 225 , and eved, the new scale of advertising revenue was a ach� , the neces.sa y inves ent, The true 'North c�PJtal factor m � � , , cliffe RevolutiOn , IS less an mnovatlOn in actual joW'nalism t�an a radical c�ange in the economic basis of newspapers' tied to the new kind ofadvertising, , I-:10rthehITe ,had begun, like Pearson who was to found the Dally Express In 1900, in the periodical business, There had �en two phases ofgrowth in this field since iJle penny maga Zines of the 183°5: (il'st, the rise ofillustrated magazines fiom the 18403, reaching circulations of 200,000 and a�ve; s���lld, lhe deve[�pmcnl �f consciously light weeklies, in the SlXties and seventies (Vant!! Fair (1 868), World ( 1874»)' In , Newncs's penny Til-Bits, and 1881, a new phase � larled, wllh ,Its subsequent I, mllawrs PlOrsOll'S IVukl)! and Northcliffe's , �"�Wlrs, �entlal!y these represent an emphasis of the miscellany trend m the daily papers since 1855, and in the S unday pap�rs from th� 1 8:!Os, but now separated altogether , lews tn the ordinary sense, The 'bittiness' of these ftOm � has often been adversely noticed, and the reaction of w�ckhes tillS mcthod on the reporting of serious news is certainly deplo�ablc, B�lt the right emphasis, fmally, is on the similal'ity of their funcuon to that of earlier periodicals, at particular stages of cultural expansion: the mid-eighteenth-ccntury . a , the penny magazines of the thirti...... �" , crhere ls magazines, marked, ' popular educator' emphasis, particularly in �or�hchffe, and the lowering in quality, despite this, is a slgnifi�anl symptom ofgeneral cultural history: in particular �r the me�eased distance of their promoters from real educa lion and literature, The existence ofmarked cultural ' levels' ofreal eultu,ral �ass-distinctions, is mueh more evident in th� lB80s than m either of the �arlicr periods, Moreover, many o�the �eopl� who were servmg rcal popular education in late Vlctona,n England would, at an earlier stage, have been , SC�tng It through the press, Pearson, Newnes, and North ch�e wcr� s�eulators, in the strict sense, The circulation of theIr �eflodlcals was dcJ�beratdy built up by advertising , m of the uneven development of stuniS, some an cxplollatJ , � with I'eadership which servICes (such as thc free IIlsurance
The Long Revolution
Newnes started, and which was to be a major selling-point in the popular press until the 19305) ; others in the form ofgam
bling (sovereign treasure-hunts, £1 a week for life for win ning
a guessing competition,
and so on). At least two of the
latter were soon declared illegal, but by then the trick had been done: not only in getting readers, but in getting money for further investment in this kind of press. For example, Norlhcliffc's Answers sold
1 2,000 of its first issue, and at the
end of a year sold 48,000. Then came the £I-a-week-for-life
competition, later judged illegal, and with it sales elimbed in the second year to 352,000. Again it is not so much the journalistic novelty, in the strict sense, that marks the ad vance but the appearance ofa new kind of sales and adver tising policy. The tenfold increase in Northcliffe's profits enabled him to expand: first to other periodicals, Comic Cuts,
Forgelmmol and Home Chal,
then to buying the ElItllilig News,
and finally, on the success of these new enterprises, to the
Daily Mail. In 18g6 the leading daily paper, the Telegraph, was selling around 300,000 copies: aftcr its initial rapid expansion it had reached a' relatively slatie period. Northeliffe, with his halfpenny papcr based on a different economic conception, took the expansion into iL� next stage. At first the
JUait's
average sale was about 200,000, and in 18g8 over 400,000.
By 1900 it had reached 9B9,ooo, and a new period had decisively come. It must be emphasized at this point that, by comparison with the Sunday papers, the
}.Wail was
rela
tively traditional in method: there were advertisements on its front page, and the main news-page W,IS similar to the new evening papers in layout, with single-column headlines, cross-heads, and a general lightening of the page. It looked, and was meant to look, not unlike the existing morning papers ; its changes were matters of degree. Its success, and its dominance of the press in its immediate period, arc remarkably similar, in analytic terms, to the rise of
Ti1l1tJ earlier in the century.
The
For, first, it was based on a dear
conception of the economic basis of a newspaper - a large volume of advertising interacting with circulation; second,
The Growth cif the Po/mlaT Press . 227 it was technically in the lead, both in production and dis tri u tion methods ; third, it pursued a popular political pol iCY - the Imperi�1 sent�ment in the JJail corresponding
�
to the Reform sentLment m The Timu. Just as The Times rea�hed its fir:>t peak with the Refonn Bill controversy, the Afatl reached Its first peak with the South African War. The Times s public had been the commercial middle class · the AtJail's, primarily, wns Ihe lower-middle class of mall '
;
businessmen, clerks, and artisans. The elIeet of the success of tl�e Alail wa� to double the daily-newspaper_buying . pubhc lil the p:nod �896-1906, and then, with its competi tors, to. do�ble I t �gam bY lhe outbreak of war in 1914. The . . expanSIOn IS stnk mg, but It must be remembered that even
afte� the further increase during the war years, which for obVIOUS reasons brought a considerably increased demand daily-newspaper buyers were still, in 1920, only 5'430,oo
�
as co�pared with �ver J 5,000,000 in t947. Large-scale cxpa;tSIOn of the daily newspaper into the working-class . pubhc did not take place until the years betwecn the wars,
and the war of 1939-45. The Sunday press was cOllSiderably ahead, throughout.. Indeed, in this period 1896-1920, which appears to be dommatcd by the rise of the Daily Mail the
/
biggest expansion is again in the Sunday papers. By 920, these sold 13,000,000 - nearly two and a halftimes the total IY- � dai I ewspaper �ubJic, and a figure not to be reached by the dally press until the war years of 1939-45. The history of the popular daily, evening, and weekly press s i , throughout, an expansion of these types of paper into a public already served by the Sunday press. Yet in nearly all discussions ofthe history of the press this fact is ignored, in favour of the idea of a lIew public which had read nothing until the 1870 Educa tion Act had taken effect. The real novelty of this period, it must again be empha sized, is a change in the economics of newspaper publishing. The elIect of the Daily Alai/, embodying the new conception on the existing papers, conceived in older ways, is very strik� ing. the
TM T£mes, of course, had already been outdislanecd by Teleglaph, and this, in social terms, seems to record the
The 1A:mg Rellolution increasing emphasis on the division of the middle class into upper and lower sections, with the
Telegraph
serving the
numerically larger lattet'. From 1870 the circulation of
Times had
been declining ; by
Th4
1 gaS it was down to less than
it had been in 1855, and it was bought by Northcliffe, after a struggle with Pearson. The Telegraph, itself outdistanced by the
J\faii, lost readers slowly - it was down to
180,000 by
1920. Of the other popular penny papers, the
Standard
declined hr:avily, and ("eased publication in 1917, while the
News also declined until it lowered its price to �d. Thr:se facts are significant in showing that the Alail did not scn·c only a new daily public, bUi a substantial pan of the older public. Following Nonhcliffe, Pearson started a daily paper of the new typc
(Alomil1g Herald,
later
Daily Express)
in
1900·
The
other member of the trio of penny-weekly publishers, Newnes, hild tried and failed with a penny paper, the
COllner,
in
1896.
In terms ofjournalistic method, the
was more novel than the
,Hail:
Daily Express
it had news on its front page
from the beginning (following the fashion of the successful cheap evening papcrs), and was the first to introduce streamer headlines. Then Norlhc1iffe introduccd another new paper, the
Daily Mirror (1903),
which failed in its
original design as a paper for women, but succeeded when i t was reduccd to a halfpenny and turned into the first picture-newspapcr. From
1 9 1 1 on, thc ll'Jirror had an even larger circulation than the Mail - it reached its million (the first daily paper to do so) in 191 1-E!. Thus the change in the economics ofncwspaper publishing
led to changl!S in methods of ownership, of far-reaching importance. Occasionally, in earlier periods, the same prin ter or proprietor had owned two or three small-circulation papers but the rule, throughout, had bcen the ownership of a single paper, either by a printer, a printing family, or a joint-stock company. Now, around the new kind of specu lative owner, whole groups of papers and periodicals were bcing collected or begun. Capital was built up with a first successful enterprise in the penny-weekly field, then invested
in new periodicals, which in Uleir turn were the basis lor
The Growth � Ihe Poplllar Press "9 starting new papers or acquiring old ones. Thus Answers was capitalized to start the Daily Mail and then the Daily Mail
was capitalized, the first time a daily newspapcr had gone to the in�esting public. y the end of 1908, Northc liffe had not on y m 1 group of penodicals, but the Daily Mail and Daily
�
�
1I>1"ror as lIew enterprises, and The Times, two Sunday papers (Observer and Dispatch) and an cvening paper (News)
acquil·ed. Pearson, at the same time, had his group of peri odicals, and then the Daily E...:press, new, and theStal ldardan
E.;enillg Standard (including the St James's Gazette)
d
acquired. Other similar organizers were wailing in the wings, and among new papers foundcd in this general way were the Sunday Pittonal (Rothennere, 1915), Sill/day Graphic (then
Illustrated Sunday Herald; Hulton, 1915 Hulton already owned �he Sporling Chronic/e, SUllday Chronicle, Daily Dispalch, �nd DOIly Skelch) ; Sill/day E,.press (Bcaverbrook, 1918). Thus, 111 the general expansion, and conditi oned by the new kind of ' mass' advcrtising, the real 'Northcliffe Revolu tion' in �he press occurred, taking the .newspaper from its status as an IIldependent private enterprise to its membership of a new kind of capitalist combine. The real basis of the twcntieth century populll!" press was thus effectively laid. -
(vi) : 1920-47 Between 189li and 1920 there had been an expansion of readership and a concentration of ownership. After 1920, the expansion of readcrship continued, the concentration of
�
owners ip appeared in new areas of the prcss whilc relaxing . a hule 10 others, and, for the first time i n the whole history of the press, a declille began in the actual number of news papers. These positive and negative aspects of cxpansion are the basie ractors within the period to be cxamincd. Expansion of readership took place in two phases : 192037, and 1937-,1-7. ]n the first phase, the main expansion
is
in the national daily press, and this was promoted, as is well
known, by extraordinary non-journalistic measures of the kind begun by the Daily Newnes,
Telegraph and rapidly devcl�ped by
Pearson and Northcliffe :
the organization of
TIlt Long Revol1ltion
functions and campaigns, the offering of insurance, and (now particularly dcveloped by Southwood for the Daily Herald) the offering of many kinds of goods with readership. Since all the popular papers vied with each other in thcse characteristiC forms of commercial advertising, the effect was a general expansion in readership ..ather than the emcrgenee of a single leading newspaper, as had been normal in earlier periods of growlh. From a daily tOlal of 5,.-\-30,000 in 1 920, the national lllorning papers had reached 8,567,567 in 1 930, and 9,903,.-\-27 in 1937. In 1920 thel'e had becn twO papers with a million-plus circulatio n; in 1930 there were five; in '937, IWO above two million and three abovc a million. The Mail had continued to lead until 1932, bUl was then p,used by the E.\1JrlSS and HtraM. By the mid thirties, the expansion had reached into all social classes, though not evenly. There is at this time heavy buying in the income groups above £500 a year, and quite heavy buying in the group betwccn £250 and £500, but in the group between £125 and [250 buying is distinctly less heavy, and in the group below £125 comparatively light. The com parison with Sunday papers is still significan t: in 1930 a Sunday total of 1 4,600,000 against a daily IOtal of 8,S67, 567; in 1937, 1 5,700,000 against 9,9°3,427. It will be noted, however, th.1t the rate or Sunday expilllsion between 1920 and 1937 is much slowN than that of daily expansion : a 20% as against an 80°" increase ill total sales. !\1"eanwhile in the provincial press, thcre is no expansion at all, but even a slight decline. The period had begun wilh considerable difficulties for the press. Newsprint, which had been £ 1 0 a ton in ' 9 1 4, wasal £43 in 1 920, and £22 in '922; by ' 935 i t was lo drop again 10 [10. In Ihe cady years of high costs, several news papers ceased publicatioll, .md the mounting cost of the competition for cirClllalion reinforced this tendency. Be tween 1921 and [937, the number of national morning papen; declined from 12 to 9, and national Sundays from 1 4 t o 1 0 . Provincial morning papers declined from 4' to 2 8 in the same period, and provincial evening papers from 89 to
79·
Tilt Grow/h ol the Popular Press
231
�ssoc�ated with this decline in the provincial field, though
not Its pnmary cause, was thc extension of combine control into large areas of thc provincial press. Chain ownership of provinci
'127 in 1937 to 1 5,449,.-\-10 in 1947, and Sunday sales rose e\'cn morc strikingly from '5,;00,000 to 29,300,000. There was also an expansion in London evcning papers, from 1,806,910 to 3,501 ,599. The pattern of this expansion is somewhat changed, for among daily papers two now took
The Long Reuoirdifm
The Growth oj the Popular Press
and A1i"or both nearing 4,000,000, a decisive lead, the while their competitors advanced much more slowly. In the
Express
News
Sunday pn:ss there is a comparable pattern, whh the rising from under 4,000,000 to nearly 8,000,000, and two other papers (Plople and Pictorial) rising above 4,000,000. It is ofcourse impossible (0 say when an expansion of this kind is complete, bUl it would seem that it is in the
oj the World
that the daily papcr becomes fuJly popular, pedod regularly bought by people in aJl classes, and widely being even though the aggregate sales arc s til l only a little over half those of the Sunday press. At the same time, having reached this peak ofexpansion, papers of all types were encountering
1937-47
.
new kinds of difficulty. In the war years and after, the greatly increased pricc of newsprint had been offset by very much smalle'· papers. Now, with the limits on size about. to be removed, a new kind of competition was to bcglll : no longer to expand the buying-public as a whole, but or i ncreasing shares or the existing public. The expanSl�n . between 19,10 and 1937 had been marked by some decll�le III
F
by relatively and the number or papers ; between stable conditions. The phase that lay ahead was to see renewed pressure towards concentration. Il must be not<.--d, finally, as a significant fact about this
1937
1 947
( Th4 Times, Tele
period, that newspapers of the older kind made an aggregate gain in their pc.rcentage or �he tOLal daily public, and that there were also unporlant gams In by the new kind or Sunday paper
graph)
it anothcr way, ifwe transbte sales into readership,
av�rage figUl·e of readers a copy (which will be an under cshmate in earlier periods and a slight overes timate in later) �Ild then e;"prcssillg readership as a percentage of the vary. 109 adult population, we can sec how the expansion has gone to its prcsent stage. The daily press rose from " in · I 850, to I o 1 .2 / "0 In in 1875, to in '900, to . III LO 54°/., I I I to 75% in and to 1 2 0 % i n 1 9,n · I he Sunday press rose from in 1800 t o 5% in 1850, t:> 1 9 in 1875, to 3 % in 1900, to 60% in to m 192 �, �nd to 23 in Thus the daily press became a m
3
�
IJ% 192fl,
191 °; ,
%
125%
1937-47
�
(vii) : The Prescnt In Britain, there arc 609 copies ordaily newspapers for evcry and an J ,000 people - the highest figure in the world :pa�er, Ily a da read population avcrage 88% of the adult PUltlng paper. Sunday a 93% and paper, evening 65% an
3 3��
I�
1 °/
18% 1930, 1 ·3%
19%
1910�
19+7.
�
!
Sa es from 1937 into the 19505 arc as follows :
Tolal dailics : T01a! Sundays :
1.9.17
0,9°3,427 I J' 700,000
1957
' 7,000,000 26,B8IJ,ooo
'J.449d1o 29,300,000
In purely numerical terms, il would secm that the expansion at this level is in its final stages.
At the same time, the actual number of ncwSpa pers has been steadily falling :
(Observer, Times).
expansion, these ' qual ty' papers pal"licular, in the made substantial gains in circulation : not belllg dn,:,cn down or out as in earlier expansio!ls, but slowly expandIng their share of the expansion as a whole. This is only one sign of the !lew stage which the expansion had reached.
233 using the
Nalional morning LondOll c,·cning Provincial morning Sunday Provincial evening W(''ekiy papcT'6
'9U "
4 4' "
"
1405
1937
'947
9 3 ,8 '7
9 3 '5 ,6
9 3 '3
79
75
75 900
1303
1 6\1
1
1959
'5
This contracting field has further emphasizcd the concen tration or ownership. Tn the national daily press, f our groups control 77% of total circulation, and the same four control 57% of Sunday circulation. Two other large Sunday groups
234
The Growth rtf tht Popular Press
The Long Revolutioll 14% and 24%, putting 95%
of Sunday control a funher six groups ownership into six groups, Two of these same and one of control 66'7% of London evening circulation, 30% of tban more l contro six the of these two and onc other ship is wide owner Chain tion, circula g evenin cial provin in magazines sprcad in the shrinking local weekly press, while t wholly almos twO ced produ recent amalgamations hu"e g six leadin the of twO also are which , dominant groups a majority press newspaper groups. The contrast betwcen area of real and minority ownership, within a diminishing go much to likely seems and g, choices, is already strikin already noted, be should it s, group same The further yet, * ion, havc important holdings in commercial televis expansion, to \Vhat is happening, within the general usual rough the take we If ? aper newsp of different types ' tabloid ', we and ar' popul ' y', qualit ' into , cation elassifi find the following trends: 1957 1947 1937 % shrlfes of actual sales
'Quality' drlilies ' Popula r' dailies ' Tabloid ' dailies ' Quality ' Sundays ' Popular ' Sundays 'Tabloi d' Sundays
7t'7
9'5 62'4 28-g
3'5 82 1 4 '5
3 '5 76 '5 19'5
8 20' 3
9'5 55'S 35 5'5 71 23'5
a steady if slow These figures do not support the idea of improving euu to n development ora bellel' press, in relatio uing, quite cOl1lin s i s papcr ty' cation, The rise of the 'quali rise of the the is t pmcn develo cant signifi steadily, but the ant when i t is impon more even is this and press, d tabloi opment, in maga noted that there has been a steady dc\'e! There the market , alism journ of kind zines, towards the same on to adyertising relati direct in lized, specia ily is being stead of reader is kinds all income, and the popular magazine for n to look begi even not docs being steadily driven oul. This , Instead cracy demo ted educa an of press like the developing in communica et mark ized organ singly increa an it looks like the dominant social tions, with the ' masscs ' formula as
, . ' pl lnell'Ie, and wllh the varied functions of
2�
'
the pre55 mCI.cas-
lllgl � limited to finding a 'selling point', \'\-hat, finally, is the social distribution ord'� ILlcrcnt k'Inds ;> ' 0.f newspaper , Here arc some recent figures by the d l' ' , ISU\g agents' definitions ofsocial class (almos{ all read r i , . to advelll . P Igures are now collected III relation . "sLng' WIHch ' SIlOWS tIIe domlOan t principle dcarly enough) , and by agegroups :
�
� ��
All
By 'Social Class' r-,"irror Herald Skelcll
3· 25
3· '0
•
DE
16-24 o· N
,
3 8
"
"
"
3' '4 '3 8 5 3 3 6 •
'4 "
,8
3' '5
'3 • 7 ,
3 7 6 '7 47 53
"
'7 "
3
"
,
,
" "
'7 58
49
4'
, ,
33 3· 34
4'
'3
"
"
o· ,0
3. ,8
'3
"
25-34
%
44 3' ,8
"
's '" 7 '. 47 '4 '0
Sunday Express News of World Pictorial
Chronicle Tek-gl'3.ph The TilllC'S GU3.L'dian Observcr Sunday Times Sunday Express News of World J>iewri3.i
,8
"
Observcr
Expl'css Mail 'ierald Sketch
,.
4 •
Chronicle Telegraph The Times Guardian
l\.l irror
C,
%
0
Express Mail
By Age CrOlfp
C,
5,580,000 6.570,000 1 1,6g2,OOO 13,78 ,000 3 0' 0 \
35-44
45--6-1,
'"
"
0,
4' 35 '5
0
3' 33
"
'7 ,6
'3
"
8
'3 7 3
"
, ,
6 • ,8 ,,6
H
65+ ",
'0 ,. ,.
'3 7 '4 8 ,
,
5 • 'S 30 33
4 5
"
" "
The Long Revolution
236
Here again, we find no simple process of desi�able evolution, . nor quile the simple class affiliations used In popular dlS� cllS.'lion. Ifthe age-group tendencies are projected, the tr�n�s noted can be expected to continue. In terms of class, It IS worth noting that the \cading daily paper of the rich and weU�to-do is not The Timu (which is in fact excceded by the Daily Mirror) nor the Telegraph (which is roughly equalled by the Alail) ; it is the E:r:press, which of all the ' popular' papers is nearest the tabloid style. Similarly in Sun?ay papers, the Observer s i just beaten in this class by the Prclonal, and both Observer and Sunday Times arc beaten by the News if.the Worldand, very thoroughly, by the Sulldaj E�press. ]fthe �ch and well-to-daare in fact (as issomclimes claimed) defendmg traditional culture, and the inlen:sts of the 'highly.cdu�atcd and politically-minded minority ', against the vulgarity of the intruding masses, they seem, in their Luying of newspapers, to be doing it in a very odd way. . Is it all to come to this, in the end, that the long hIStory of the press in Britain should reach its consummation in " declining number of newspapers, in owne�ship by a few v�ry large groups, �nd i� the acceptance (va�led be�ween s?cla . ?"" groups but eVident In aU) of the worst bnds ofJo�rnahs The process is evidently something ot�er than the l.ncurslOn of the 18-0 masses, or the 1820 masses If the process IS merely back-dat�d. I t is something that is happcning to the w�ole . society, and all the elements - not only the bad Jour,:ahsm to relatIOn the but also the questions of ownership and to is be process the if considered be 10 have advertising understood. We do not solve the critical questions by under� standing the history, but still an a�equatescnse �flhe hist�ry, as opposed to the ordinary functional myths, IS t�e b�sls of any useful approach. I shall return to these qucslions 10 my third part.
!
_
4 THE G R O W T H OF 'STANDARD ENGLISH'
TIl E. importance of spcech a s an indi cator of social class is �I Ot likely to be undel"t!stimated by anyo ne who has lived in EllgI�nd . OUI" reactions to speech are in any case fundamen_ tally Important, fOI" certain sounds, certain words, certain rhythm� carry f r most of liS a very deep charge of feeling ? , . and memory. I he feelin g that we should speak as other �e.mbers o� o�r grollp �peak is also very strong. Indeed it is . IIm . In Just tim �atl�e d�irc and capacity that the possibility ?f l�nguage, wllh Its vI�al co�u� ication of our humanity, . IS ccntr�d At the same time, ti llS Imitative process is dynamic, : for no hvmg language is ever fixed. The re are variations of speech l�abit within the simp!cst group, and the complication of ex'pc�lence and of c ntacts with other groups is constanliy � modlfymg the v ry tlung t1 �at we are imitating. Si.nce it is � both a confi�mat,on and a discovery of our changing experi� el�ce. of reailty, language must change if i t is to live. Yet witJun any human liretime, and with in any society, our �llachment to known ways will remain significant, and our unportant sense o� beJollging, 10 a fami ly, to a group, to a . . peo�le, WIll be vitally mter wovcn with the making and . soun beanng of cerlam ds - the making and hearing being a very large part ofour social sense. There �s then a n?c ssary tension in lang uage, between � powerful lmpul�es to Imitation and to chan ge. This tCllSion is part of o�r baSIC processes of growth and learning. In the general hlstory of lang age, we ean see two quite opposite � . tendenclcs : an extraol"d'na y evolu ion of separate languages, � � and a remarkable growth, m cel"tam cond itions, of common lang uages, AJm�st all mo�crn European languages, from Welsh and English to Italian and Russ ian, together with
238
The Long Revolulitm
such Asian languages as Hindustani and Persian, have developed and separated, through history, from a common root. And still, in simple societies, there isan almost incredible variation, within liny regions, so that villages SL,,{ or eight miles apart can often hardly understand one another, or on an island of 100,000 people there can be as many as forty dialects, often mutually incomprehensible.
As a group
develops its own way of life, which may extend ovcr a few miles or over haifa continent, it will, as part of this develop ment, create its own [orms of language. The very factor which gives the group its social cohesion can become the factor cutting it otT, to an important extent, from similar groups elsewhere. But, on the other hand, and especially now as communities become larger and develop greatly improved communication systems, certain languages (of which English is notably one) expand and flourish, serving as a common basis for many different groups. Even within these common languages, however, and alongside the power ful tendencies to expanded community of speech,
the
processes of growth and variation wi!! continue, in different ways in different groups speaking thc common tongue. The variations may be ofa rcgional or ofa class kind, and the case ofclass speech is particularly imponant, for here the tension between community and variation may be seen at its most sensitive. A class is a group within a geographical community, and not a community in its own right. In certain extreme cases, a class will so emphasize its distinction from the community
ofwhich it is a part that it will i n fact usea separate:language :
either one of the various hieratic languages, such as Sanskrit, or, as in nineteenth-century Russia, a foreign language,
Tlu Growth of'Stalldard Ellglish'
239
is veryhigh: a verylarge number ofEnglishmen have become
tense and anxious about the way in which they speak their own language. This problem has a deep bearing on the development ofEnglish socicty, but it is still not very clearly tndel'stood. There is commonly a lack of historical perspec � tive, and there arc also many prejudices, both theoretic and practical. Yet English has been served by many fine scholars and histodans, and, with certain notable gaps, the material for a better understanding
is
available. I propose to review
the historical material, as a way of gaining perspective, and to suggest, from this review, certain necessary clarifications.
!
he period . in which we arc now living is of exceptional Importance In Englisll, and behind the history and the theory we c�n surely all feel the pressures of a complex social experience.
II
In England, after the Norman Conquest, two different lan�uagcs were spoken - French and English - and a third, Latlll, was not only the international language of learning, but was spoken and developed by scholars. The division between French and English was on class limo'S; it is best described by the ehroniclcr known as Robert of Gloucester •
writing in about 1300, and herc translated:
Thus England came into Normandy's hand, and the Normans at
that time could speak only their own language, and spoke French
jusl as lhey did at home. and had their children laught in the same manner, so lhal people of rank in this country who came of their blood all Slick
10
Ihe same language that they recci\·ed oflhem for
if a man knows no French people will think liule of him. But'the
lowcr cJaw.."lI slill stick to English and their own language.
French, which is thought ofas a mark of cult ural superiority.
BUI in 1204, Normandy was lost to the English crown
More usually, however, class speech will be a form of the ordinary speech ofthe region, and the relations betwecn this
and the French ofthc NOI·mans began to develop along separ�
class dialect and the ordinary speech of the region (which will usually itself be further sub-regionally varied) form a complex of great importance in the development of a lan guage. In the case of English, the sensitivity ofthis complc.'C
ate lines, and with influcnce from English. Old English itself had changed by this time, aITectcd by the Normans' French. Gradually, a new language developed, the product of both these changing tongues, and after the legal recogni tion of English in '362, the growth of the common language
Th Long Reoolulion
240
.
was paramount, reaching a rccognizably modern form In
l;to
abQut 1 500, and relative stability by a
u� 1 700. The social processes involved in tillS hlStory are of .gre�t . interest. Wc can trace the minor relics of class prejudice In
the lasting equation of moral qualities with class names :
h(lJt, villain, bQ()r, and churl for the poor; /ci1Id,jree, g�ntle, /lohlt,
butalsoproudand dangerous, for the rich. But a more Impor�ant legacy was that affecting the wh�le Ianguage of \canllng. . English passed, during the separauon, mto the mouths ofthe uneducated and the powerless. Thus the grea�er part of the vocabulary ofleaming and powcr t�gcthcr With the bulk of � the vocabulal), ofa richer way ofhvtng, came from orman sources. The only substantial alternative source, tn lh�
�
malters, was Latin, and down to the fourteenth ccntury thl! . was taught in the grammar schools through the medIUm of French. Of course, once the common language emerged, the whole vocabulary was theoretically available �o al 1. But !he . long continuation ofeducation restricted to a mm.onty, which . learned Latin and French as well as speakmg Its own lan guage, gave this limited class an acc�S5. to the f(:=50urccs of their own language which, for thc majority, remamed mU:h marc difficult. Though wider education can res�l;e tius, extending the area of the truly common language, It IS prob ably still important, in En�lish, t lat �o much ofthe language
�
oflearning should have t hIS specIal kind ofclass stamp.
A further consequence of this particular history � ...as the splitting of English into many mor� dialects than hlther�o. . Old English had had three or four I�portant reglOnal. la . ng IcclS, but within these here t were Important centrahzl . tendencies. In any language, it is thc devcl?pmcn� <:>fmajor
�
central institutions literature
_
_
government, law, learning, religIOn, and
which Icads to the emergence of a reasonably
common language among men drawn frOtn .v�rious parts of . the rcgion to take part in these central actlvlu�S. But, under Norman rule removal of
this central language was ahen, and the
these centralizing
tendencies in English led to
o?
n m ero a greater variation in ordinary dialects. Wh ; . English emerged, as the language ofthese centra l mstltutlOn.!J,
The Growth of 'Stalldard English'
241
the relation of the centre to the outlying areas was more complex than hitherto. How ever, the centralizing tend encies continued to operate, and slowly the speech of the centre became accepted as the basis of the new comm(fn language. The old East Midland dialect, with some influen ces from other rcgioru, became the basis of the common lang uage of the centre. Yet it is less the rise of one regional dialect than the emergence ofa clas s dialect. The regional dial ect had the advantage ofbein gspoken in an area reaching to the capital, London, and the two uni vcrsities ofOxford and Cam bridge. But the n w common lang uage, from the beginning, � showed marked differences from the speech of the ordinar y inhabi tants of thesc cities. If we .say the best speech was Ihat of London, Oxford and Cambridge, we mean the evo lved common speech of all those who had come 10 these centres to take part in governmen t and learning, rather tha n ofth maj�ritics who ad cen born there. In the written lang uage, particularly, thIS dl\lerg enee was quite evident, and it was largely from the forms of this written languag e, spoken by men who had been trained in these centres and gon e back to their regions, that the ncw common language spre ad over En�land. The existenc e of a common written language, hlch wh�n spoken still sho � wed the results of reg ional In fluence, lS the first key to the subsequent history of class dialect in England. Through the emergence of a common written lang uage, marked regI.Onal speech variations still continued, evcn at the centre. Between the sixt eenth and the end of the eighteenth centuries, Englishmen in touch with the central inst itutions wrote a c m mon language, but still , in diminishing degree, . spoke II diff erently. In Elizabethan Lon don, the divergences ofeducalcd spcakers wcr e still quite marked, but the signs of unease and self-consciousn ess about this were already begin ning to show. Palsgrave, in 1530, makes the first recorded mention of a 'true kynde of pronuntiacon' , and Put tenham wrote:
� ?
?
Our maker therfore at th¢!: e day¢!: shall nOI follow Pi "! plowmoll nor Gower nor Lydgou n or yet Cizauctr, for Iheir language ill now out T-.
�
242
TIle Long ReIJ(Jlution
of we wilh US; neither $hail he take the termes of Northenmen,
5uch all they use in dayly talke, whether they be noble mcn or gentle
t i best clarkcs, all is a matter; nor in c!Teet any speach
men or of he r
wed beyond the river ofTrcnt, though no man can deny but that theirll is the purer English Saxon l\l this day, yet it is not so Courtly nor so currant
:u
our Southeme English is ; no more is the far
,"Vesterne mans spench.
Ye shall therefore take the usuall srench of
the Court and that of London and the shires Iring about London within LX ylcs, and not much above. I say not this but that in cvery
;"
shyre of England there be gentlemen and others that speake, but specially write,
as
good Southerne all we of Middlesex or Surrey do,
but not the common people of every shire, to whom the gentlemen, and also their learned clarkes, do for the most part condescend; but . we are already ruled by th'English Dictionaries and other
herein
bookcs written by learned men, and therefore it needeth none other direction in that behalre.
This, indeed, is the shape of things to come, but meanwhile the written language was itself still changing. There was a very important accession of Latin vocabulary and scntence forms, particulady in the sixteenth and carly scventeent� centuries, although parts of this influence were later deCI sively rejected. And there was also the vitalizing influence of the still varied speech on the written forms: an influence at its greatcst at the timc of the Elizabethan dramatists, The extraordinary invigoration of English at this period can be seen as the flow of the living and varied speech into the narrower common written language. Only when this extcn sion had been made could the tendency towards uniformity prevail over the varied strengths of the sp,ce�h. . Puttenham speaks, significantly, of dictiOnaries, but the real influence of such instruments lay nearly two centuries ahead. The language was stiJi changing, though mOl'e slowly than in previous centuries, and changes in the social struc ture of England were now to exert a decisive cffect. The process of standardizing the written language continued, with growing confidence. yet the source of the standard was now a matter of dispute. \IVhen Puttenham wrote, the standard was evidently the Court and the Metropolis, with an afterthought of acknowledgcment to 'learned men', But
The Growth of 'Standard English' 243 the Court, after the Restoration, with a foreign-influenc ed manner that held fashion for a period, was no longer in fact a centre, and Swift, acknowledging its fonner pre-eminence, came to describe it as the ' worst school in Engl for that . accomplishment '. Similarly, deprived of the and real t !homa� Sprat, in his History ofIhe ROJ'al Society, lookedCour Impartial Court of Eloquence according to whose for a� all books or authors should cither stand or faU', yetcensure recom mended a close, nake�. natural way ofspcaking; positive expression s; clear se� ; a n tl\'e easincss; bringing all things as near Ihe � mathc ma,lIeai plalllncss as Ihey can; and preferring the langu age of artisans, countrymen and merc hants, before that ofwits orsch olarll. The class-�tf�eture of England �....as now decisively changing, . at the begmnlng of a perio d which can summed up as the effort of the rising middle class to estabbe lish its own common speech. By the nineteenth century, after many important . changes, tl1l5 had been achieved, and it is thcn that we first h�ar of' Staldard English', by which is mcant spee ch : a very � g from the writt dlffcrent thin en 'standard' established so much earlicr. Indeed, its naming as 'standard '' with the implication no longer of a common but ofa mod el language represents the full coming to consciousness of a new of e.lass speech: now no longer merely the func concep; tional con vente?cc �f� metropolilan class , but the means and emphasis . . ofsocIal dIstinction. It IS to the history of this proc ess that we must now turn. HI
The late seventecndl and eighteenth centuries saw a strenu ous �fTort to rationali�e English, by � num ber of diffe ?I0tlva�ecl groups. 1he Royal Soclcty's Committ rently ee 'for wlprovmg the English tongue' (1664) represen ts the effort of a new scientific philosophy to clarify the lang purp?ses of its own kind of discourse. A diffeuage for the runnmg fro� Addison and Swift to Pope and Johrent group concerned wnh the absence ofa ' polite standard ' nson, wer� n i the new
The Long &volution
The Growth if 'Standard EllgLish'
society. Yet behind these intellectual groups there was the
into spelling but into sound. The principle of following the
practical prcssure of a newly powerful and self-conscious middle elass which, like most groups which find themselves suddenly possessed of social standing but deficient in social
'45
spelling changed the sound offen into ofulI,fom'd intoforehead, summal into somewhat,
tal/skip into lalldscape, )'un!er into
tradition, thought ' correctness' a systematic thing which
humour, 01 orne into at home, wtskit into waistcoat, and so on, in a list that could be tediously prolonged. Words like these
abounded n i spelling-masters and pronwlciatioll-<:Daches: many ofthcm, as it happened, ignorant men. Yet if they had
cated ' and ' uneducated ' specch, yet the case is simply that
had simply to be acquired . Eighteenth-century London
all been scholars, within the concepts of their period, the
rc5UIt might not have been grcatly different. The scholarly
teaching of grammar was locked in the illusion that Latin
are among the pressure points of distinction between 'edu the uneducated, k'SS exposed to the doctrines of' correctness',
have prcserved the traditional pronunciation. An amusing sidelight on this process is the development,
grammatical rules were the best possible guide to correctness
in litcrature and joul'llalism, of an ' o rthography of the
doctrine equally false: that the spelling of a word is the best
the English middle class to rccord the hidCQusness of people who say orf, 01" wol, even though these can spell the standard
n i English. And Johnson himself emphatically expounded a
guide to its pronunciation, ' the most elegant speakers . . . [those] who deviate least from the written words '. The new 'standard ', therefore, was not, as the earlier common lan guage hac! been, the result mainly ofgrowth through contact and actual relationships, but to a considerable extent an artificial creation based on false premisses. The habits of a language are tOO strong to be wholly altered by determined yet relatively ignoJ'nnt teachers, but the mark of thcir effort is still on us, and the tension they created is still high. Common pronunciation (as distinct ji'om regional varia· tions)
changed considerably during this period : partly
through ordinary change, partly through the teaching of ' corrCCllless'. English spelling, as is now well known,
15
m
fact extremely unreliable as a guide to pronunciation, for not only, at best, docs it frequently record sounds that have become obsolete, but in fact many of these were obsolete when the spellings were fixed, and moreovcr certain plain blunders have become embedded by time. Iland, SiSSOfS, sithe, coud, and olleor were altered, by men ignorant of their origins, confidcnt of false origins, to s i land, scissors, scylhe, could, and anchor, but in these cascs, fortunately, pronunciation has not been affected. Similar false alterations, however, such as fauLl, UQuli, assault (which need no1's), or advantage and advance (which need no d's) have perpetuated their errors not only
uneducated ' . It has been one oftoe principal amusements of
pronunciations. The error consL�ts in supposing that the ordinary spelling indicates how propcr people speak. We may look .at one case among thousands, from a current detective novel (written by an Oxford dan's wife), in whieh there is an awful north-country don:
Field 9100d blinking and rubbing his chilblains. Then he smiled woodenly. '\VeU, Mr Link, you may havea chance ofshowillg your principles at once' (he pronounced them channse and wonnct).
The difficulty hefe is how a nice person (without chilblains)
would have pt'onounced them. If he had followed the plain spelling, his 'chance' would have been as likely to be North country as anything clse, and his 'once' would not have been English at all. Submerged in the demonstration, i n fact, are the understood values of ,hahnCl (to make i t quite certain) and
WI/lice
(but that belongs to children and the ignorant).
It is difficult to estimate when people will know enough about their own language to stop this, so that naked preju dice no longer goes bowing graciously down the street. Meanwhile we call try to see when it started. It is uscd in Elizabethan plays to indicate such foreign elcments as \·Velsh soldicrs or Somerset peasants, and in Restoration plnys thcre are the beginnings of fincr distinctions, socially based, whethcl' in the affected pronunciation offops, or the 'errors'
246
TJu Growth flj 'Standard English'
The Long Revofutioll
. But it is in the of those from outside the fashionable world real develop· the t lha plays, and novels in y, centur eighteenth . luneteenth century ment is noticeable and of course by the this dcvclo� it is in full spate. J nd it interesting to set beside . anSlocratlC entury enth-c eighte of letters ment the actual spellings·by-car women, which contain such phrases and as these:
fi
between you and I, Sis Peg and me, most people thin.ks, sa�\·e, . sartinly, larne (learn), sehollards, Frydy, Mund,Y, byled, gme (J�I1l), went down of his knces, jcst agoing to be maHH;d, the wca hcl has been wonderfull stonnie, he is reasonable well agane, 1 don t sec no likclyhood of her dying.
�
These letters show also a tone which the anxiously correct
a
'47
futer, as ifhe was some marcbant ofeowcumbcl'll or reddisbes. And he wcal'll a eyap and weskit like sal'vant's, and sits in his cheer like some chaney Injun. You know that kyind. IL is interesting to sec how much of this would now slip into the fashionable middk-class skctch of vulgarity. Between about 1 7 7 5 and 11350, what was later called 'Received Standard ' pronunciation changed markedly. One of the crucial changes was the lengthening of the vowel in such words as past and
path :
now a mode of class speceh,
but until this period a regional and rustic habit. Boiled lost its biled pronunciation, as did almost all the 'oi' words, and the ' aI" pronunciation (dating from about '500, in ' correct ' London speech) in words like servanl and
learn also went out,
exccpt in one or two words, such as clerk and Derby, which,
middle class sought to reform:
amusingly, arc now highly valued, for their anomaly, in
I believe 1 shallJumble my Guts Qut between this and russell slre<:t.
ean still heal'. The ' r ' in most words was further weakened,
(Anne Countess ofStrafford)
class speech. Hadand mall verged towards head and mtll, as one more moving towards maw, and the endings of such words as
I was at her Graee ofShrewsbery's who I thillk is more rediculouse . in her talk than evel'. She lold all the Company as they came III that sbe was very much OUI of humour for she had things growing upon . her toes like thumbs. (Anne Countess ofStraflord) I danced with Ld Petre, and he is a nas ty load, for I 10ng\l lo spit in his face. (Lady Sarah Lena,,)
orator diminishing to a mere glidc of the voice. Dropping the
'
1"
in such words as bird produced a new and valued vowel
sound in what remained. Thcse and similar changes were spTt�ad by improved communications, but the main agency,· undoubtedly, in fL'Iing them as class speech, was the ncw cult of uniformity in the public schools. It was a mixture of
Sbe is femenine 10 the grealC!lt degree, laughs most heilrdly at a dirly joke, but never mak� one. (Lady Sarah Leno,,)
'correctness ', natural devclopment, and affectation, but it became as it were embalmed. I t was no longer one kind of
\Ne can of COUl'Se see the standard changing within lhis class
English ', 'good English', 'pure English ', 'standard English'. In its name, thousands of people have been capable of the
itself as Mrs Behn found to her cost. Meanwhile, as a last gest rc to the ' orthography of the uneducated', we mig!tt set
�
down, in its orthodOX manner, the speech of an educated late eighteenth-century gentleman, a�eording 10 known pro nunciations of that class at that penod:
Aye, he's an OjU5 feller, if he is a Her Icddyship's �ore oble<:gin, J'\,e offen taken a coop ofIlly III 1J(�r gyarden, and adlllired her lalocs which she thinks more of than goold. A umorolls ooman, and her yearls the prettiest in L nnon. Hilt to in t 1e Dook s neighbrood's summal dauntin. He lalks only of JllS fortlll and h15
�k.
�
ll
t>:e
�
:
English, or even a useful common dialect, but 'correct
vulgar insolence oftclling other Englishmen thal they do not know how to speak their own language. And as education was extended, under mainly middle-class direction, this attitude spread from being simply a class distinction to a point where it was possible to identify the making of thesc sounds with being educated, and thousands of teachers and learners, from poor homes, became ashamed oflhe speech of their fathers.
But this takes LIS on into the continuing social changes of
'49
The Lcng Revolution
The Growth if 'Standard English'
the present century, and we must look at lhe effect of this histOl), on present theory and practice.
dissemination of print; with increased travel and with social mobility affecting wide numbers of people, the evolution of·
,v
a common English speech was dearly hastened. The diffi
It is now customary, in language theory. to mark three kinds
evolution ; it is this question that ' Received Standard ' begs. lfwe look at the situation as a who!.::, we can sec a mal'kcd
culty lies in estimating the point we have so far reached in this
of English speech : Received Standard, whose history we have been tracing; Regional Dialects, the varied survivors of
decreasc in purc Regional Dialects ; it does not often happen
many localities; and Modified Standard, which has gained currency in varying kinds in different areas, representing a
ofthe country find plain difficuhiesofmeaning in each other's
development from regional dialects Uut falling short of Received Standard. .Most people who
usc
this classification are, of course,
attached by thcir own speech habits to ' Received Standard ', and this has had important effects, even at a scholarly level. Thus a fine historian of language like H. C. Wyld can slip into special pleading, as when he argues that the long ' a ' in Received Standard
path
and last is more ' beautiful and
sonorous ' lhan its alternatives (this is a natural affection but quite arbitrary), or that to ' insert' the ' r '-sound in bird would lose the quality and length of the vowel (but to me, with different speech habits, thc sounding 01" 1" is ' beautiful and sonorous ') .
Of R. W. Chapman can write:
In phonetic� England doe'! not yet groan under a democratic tyranny; we arc free, within wide limits, to speak as well as we can.
But to anyonc who has thought about language the class prejudice of this will be espccially cleal'. Chapman goes on to definc Recciv(:d Standard as the speech of
i necessarily limited a c13$ which though not arrogantly cxc1usi"e s
in number.!. 11$ tradition, are maintained not primaril)' by the uni\"Cr.!itics. but by the public Khoob.
Wyld al'gues that the class among which ' the " best" Eng lish' i s ' most consistently heal'd at its best' is that of ' officers of the British Regular Army'. But of course it is just at this point that one sees why ' Received Standard ' will not do. With the growth of towns, and especially the new indus trial townsdl'awing on wide rural areas for their populations ; with the increase in literacy, and the vast increase in the
now, as it certainly used to do, that men from different parts speech. t-.foreover, although there arc still very many people who speak a clcar regional form, though commonly purged of certain extreme habits in vocabulary alld construction, there arc very many also who, while using regional sounds, in all other respects speak a common tongue. We can say with some confidcnce that dialects, in the true scnsc. are rapidly ceasing to exist, and that in their place arc a large number of regional ways of speaking a common language. Some of these are, in pronunciation, purely Regional ; olhers seem to represent the growth, over certain extending areas, of forms which are certainly not ' Received Standard ' but as ccrtainly not the old local dialects in thcir earlier forms. Within these two kinds, which in individual cases will be seen to be a continuous shading and not a sharp distinction on either side of a line, lhe majority of English speakers in this country arc contained. But the terms offcl"ed to describe them, Regional Dialects and Modified Standard, arc both misleading. MoreaccurateJy they are Regional and Modified Regional forms. 't-.lodified Regional' is, however, very different in sense from ' Modified Standard ', which assumes that everybody in this category is aiming at the class dialect but failing to achieve it. The next stage in development is, of course, Inter Regional, and here the real problems ofa common language arise. \Ve have seen that ' Received Standard ' had as one of its leading elements the habit of where possible pronouncing by the spelling. However misleading this might be, as a principle, it was obviously a general and permanent develop ment. In so fa!' as ' Recei\'ed Standard' included changes
The umg Revolutioll
a made on this principle, its changes have been widcly' � In But, orms, f nal io reg zably recogni cepted, even in many , evelop d the mply sl was ' d Standar d Receive ' , other respects , , mc1ude ment of a particular Southern form, and It came to r spe�ts certain purdy class clements. Thus, while in certain � n, Ill evolutIO of line general the in was ' 'Reeeh-ed Standard , fact of I� the by this, from away moved it s respect other , eours Of � It becoming identified with a particular cla� asung, broadc III then and on, became entrenched in educati but at and so had wide effects on the national development, s operati1g, the same time the ordinary linguistic proccss wa , n ccomtl� g ? through the other kindsofsocial �ha�ge" 'ndecd, � , IS III fac Its identifiable as ' Public School Enghsh , winch ralsed mOl'e accurate description, certain bal'l'iers were . set agaillst against its general adoption, and these have to be . the latter, the effects in education and broadcastlllg, I n n, bccause variatio rable considc already is interestingly, thcre The standard ble, accepta ally univers not is dialect class the toris as o!ten accent of the popular entertainer or commenta, , , den its or choo � atlves, rhc pseudo-American as Public . or Imported class and regional complex IS aVOided by an ative, ahel'll etic synth . , School nghsh It looked, indeed, fOl' a lime, as If Public , but It now Speech ional Reg Interwould lx: the effective forms then the in be, not will it that certain seems quite dist nclion (and envisaged. Every use of the form for class tts chance, of Ihis, of course, has been widespread) l'e ueed. , WIth cahon Idenllfi Its , speech on comm becoming a true s natur�lly (factor success al materi and g learnin power, by strong feellllg!! making for its imitation) was countered of snobbery and area human ive against it, in the explos shown by an first was go would things way The resentment. the un�du of interesting adaptation of the ' o�thogl'aphy , h (partl�u Enghs l Schoo cated' 10 an orthography of Public , the Bntlsh of s officer ' class best ' Wyld's lady npplied to Regular Army), e,g,: bahd in the hcnd achahnceofpahchasing that fohm, but3
?
�
�
'
�
\Ve head
seemed maw \'chluable, e\'enchalleh.
�
�
�
'
The Growth of 'Standard English'
251
Here the class form encountered the powerful current of pronullciation by spelling, and of course once the so-called 'Received Standard' could be used not only for comic reprcScntation but also as a distinction from the ' correctness' of pronunciation by spelling, its chances of common adop tion, ill spite of all the powerful factor,� in its favour, were small. What in fact has happened is that Public School English, too hastily called Received Standard, has itself begun to shed certain sounds found wrong on the ' correct ness' principle, and the actual inter-regional speech that is developing is
some of the more important i rodified Regional forms, The ...
breathed sound which acknowledges the ' h ' in 'what' and similar words, counted as not Received Standard in the nineteen-twenties, is becoming normal, even in 'Received Standard' speakers, bec
tam than the dropping or softening ofsounds which had been
identified as ridiculous, is the spcaking-by-spelling ofa more widely educated society. ' Received Standard' , as defined thirty years ago, is becoming a loc
Tlu Long Rtvolutioll
problems in this. To American cars ' Received Standard' was always unacceptable, and lherc has in fact been a con siderable interaction between American and English forms, with American predominating. Not only have hundreds of American words, speech forms and pronunciations been taken, onen unnoticed, into English, but American speech has had an influence on almost all kinds of traditional English speaking, and it is worth noticing that it works against evcry single sound that was identified as peculiarly 'Received Standard '. Moreover, by giving other accents to power and material success, it has deprived Public School English of its former monopoly in this respect. The process
a still going on, but it is not simply the Americanization of
English; it is, rather, the addition of another faCLOr to the long and complicated history of spoken English. It is by no means certain that any one form will emerge as univenlal, but in any case what matters is that we should reduce the arca of mystification and prejudice. The U and non-U conU'oversy, at its popular level, was pathetic rather than dangerous, for it showed, in the end, how shifting the class boundaries, in this case of vocabulary, are. There
will
doubtless always be people and groups who are anxious to show that they are not as other men, but the deep processes of the growth of a great international language will not be mueh affected by them, though they may for a time be
blurred. We want to speak as ourselves, and so elements of the past of the language, that we received from our parents, are always alive. At lhe same time, in an extending com munity, we wanl to speak Wilh each other, reserving our actual differences but reducing those thaI we find irrelevant. We are almost past the slage of difficulties of meaning, in ordinary discourse, though with a limited educational system there are still serious and unnecessary difficulties wherever the world of organized learning is touched. For the rest, the problems are of emotional tcnsion, and these, while certain to continue, can be much reduced if we learn
to look at them openly and rationally, with the rich and continuing history of English as OUl' basis of understanding.
Tile Growth if'Slandard Ellglish'
253
'Vor bote a man conne frense me telth of him lute'' wrote l obel't o� Gloucester, noting the social supcliority of the Norman l-rcnch of the masters ofrile time but the language he nOI!..-ci as superior is even farthe r from us, in the same c�lIll\ry, than the language in which he noted it. Nor did 1�ls.lory end around 1800, or in the nineteen-twenties. The Il\'LOg language ofTers iL� deciding witncsscs.
�
,
The Social History of English Writers
255
have been used, to indicate main source ofincome : indepen
5 T H E S O C 1 A L H I ST O R Y O F ENGLlSH WRITERS
dent (inheriu.'d or propertied); employed (in work other than that for which the writer is known) ; and vocational (main income from work in the field in which the writel" is knO\�n). A good deal of overlapping has been found, especi ally III the last c
W E argue a good deal ahout the effects on literature of the social origins o[wrilcrs, their [ol'm ofeducation, their ways of getting a living, and the kinds of audience they expect and get. Theoretical questions, often very difficuh, arc of course involved in this argument, bur the most obvious difficulty is the Jack of ally outline of facts by which some of the
tive importancc in the society, have v�ried historically, and . lhal tlus must be remembered as the SIgnificance of origin is assessed. In spite or these difficulties, I think thc general outline that emerges may be useful. The historical periods used have been half-centuries. For several reasollS, including the terminal dale, the actual peri ods used arc 1480-1 53°; 1530-80; 1580-1630; 1630-80;
theoretical principles could be tested. There arc occasional agitated debates in wl�ich people quole lists at each other, to
1680-1730; 1 7 30-80; 1 780-1830; 1830-80; 1880-1930. As . II has turned out, I think these periods arc more relevant to
prove their own version of the origins and a{Eliation� of valued writers. Yet the principle ofsclection, in these hsts,
sion. The assignment 10 pel'iods has becn on the basis of the
is usually quile obviously related to the particular thesis. We seem to need an outline of such facts based on a standard list, and then to restart the argument from there. I have attempted such an Olllline, based on the index of the Oxford
In/rodue/loll to Englisll Lileratllre, and with the Dictionary of Natiollal Biography as main authority. Ideally, of course, we need a much more extensive piece of research, but this examination of nearly 350 writers, born between 1470 and 1920, may perhaps serve as a preliminary sketch. The
the actual history of literature than any other regular divi tenth year after the particular writer's birth, since this is obviously a crucial agc in one ofthc decisive facton cduca. _
tion. This also means that no writers born later than 1920 have been included, and fol' such writers there is ofcourse as yet no reasonably standard list. In the first period studied, from 1480 to 1530, we are looking at the men who created Tudor literature. Of the twenty·one writers listed, the origins of three are uncertain. Of the remaining eighteen, eleven came from the nobility
questions asked are in three c
and gentl"y (three and eight respcClivcly) and four from
reasonably continuous kinds of family, based on the eeon·
arc known to come from oUl�idc these classes : two from farming and one from a craftsman's family. The homo
of education; method of living. For social origin, eight
omic and social standing of the father, have been listed: nobility, gentry, professional men, merchants, tradesmen, farmcn, craftsmen and labourers. For education, fo� r kinds of schooling have been listed: national grammar (� IIlCC �he
professional families closely related to the gentry. Only three
geneity or this predominantly gentry culture was greatly advanced by the universities or Oxford and Cambridge, to which seventeen are known to have gone. Of tile fOllr cxcep.
1860s caJled ' public schools '), local grammar, dLSScntll1g
tions, one is a nobleman, two as Scots went to Scottish
academy, and home or private. For univel'sities, the tradi tional division between Oxford and Cambridge, and others, has been used. For method of living, three general categories
records, four went away 10 national grammar schoo!s, five
universities, and one is not recorded. Schooling is k'SS unified,
in terms of institutions : of the fourteen for whom there are
256 The Long Revolution schools, and five we.re educated. at mar gram went to local has a high home. In content the literature of the periodng, and it is writi al ation educ proportion of the�logical and y. as t�n man as find we that hasis emp only in relation to this ma n, �nly In living by the vocation for which they arc know ds of perio rent diffe in , church and university. Three vary arc .. st. and ent, loym emp and their lives between vocation tions t insti of on nexi -con inter e clos � The d. mairuy e�ploye loyment: serVlCe at and families is shown in kinds of emply . Only two seem to fami e nobl court or as tutor in a royal or many cases there in gh thou ent, pcnd have been wholly inde erty. . was supplementary family income foom propare �ng at. the In the next period, from 1530 to 1580, we. Oflook y-clght thlrt ture litera an beth men who created Eliza ining rema the writers, the origins of twO are uncertain. Of nd c (thrc ry gen� thirty-six, fifteen arc from the nobility and esSIOnal fami.',,:lies, prof from arc twelve respectively), and nine appcar now lcss regularly eom,eetcd with thc gentry. s,The smen trade ancc of twelve from the families of merchantly) marks an ctive respc and craftsmen (four, three and fivc Oxford and important change. Yet the importance ofgrea t. Of the still is s, ution instit g ljnkin Cambridge, as went to ven ty-se thirty-six for whom there are records, twen ersities abro ad, univ ded atten Oxford and Cambridge. Two t) cour at page one and eman nobl one and seven (including of sons the attended no university, three of these: being schooling tradesmen or craftsmen. Of the nineteen for whom schools, mar gram nal natio to is recorded, eight wenl away ated educ were t\vo and ls, schoo mar gram nine went to local ly whol were at home and court. In method of living, sevenendence with indep l antia independent twO combined subst from their servicc at co�rt, and cleven were employed, away enoity and univ law, ch, chur t, cour in rs, writc vocation as earlier the of Some as secretary or tutor in a noble family. d saw perio this but h, churc vocational basis remains, in the first the rs: write al ssion profe of class the emergcnce of a on Lond the generation ofElizabethan dramatists, centred on drama and een betw thcatres. The ordinary earlier ties
The Social History of English Writers 257 church or acadcmic institution had bcen largely replaced by t!IC ncw theatres. I t is significant that almost all thcsedrama tlsts came from the newly represented classes : either pro fl.'$Sional f�!lies .not relatc? to the gentry, or tradesmen and . the radically craftsmen . I IllS new clement while in the re�t :>ft.he n.ttional literature the distribution �f content and orlgms IS very much that ofthe earlier Tudor period. In the ncxt pCI:iod, 1580-1630, we arc looking at the Jacobean dramausts, the metaphysical poets and the Cavalier anti Puritan poets, together with politic'al theorists up to Hobb(.'S. Of the thirty-three writcrs listed the origins o� three are uncertain. Of the remaining thirt�, there are mne from the gentry, thirteen from professional families one �rom a merchant [amily, four from trad.:, two fro� farm.mg, and one from the family of a craftsman. The . �n�lll�cd n:nportanc e of Oxfor� and Cambridge as linking I11stl\�tl?nS IS m�rked : twenty-clght of the thirty for whom there lllf01:matlOn went to these universities. Twelve went away to natIOnal grammar schools, nine to local grammar schools, �nd t1)fe� were educated at home or at court. It is �otable, III Jl�a.ny mdividuaJ careers, that meeting at univer_ SIty was a cntlcal factor .in the lives of many of thc poorer men. There �'?s some e�Idence of this in the previous half century also. 1 he result IS a good deal ofsocial mobility once Oxford or Cambridge has been reached. In method of life t�le. dramatists can sli.1I follow their vocation in the thcatr� . (l.t IS perhaps lOtel"cs�lng that their social origins arc rather dIfferent fi'om the Ehzabethan generation, with a shift back towards the gentry and professional families related to the gentry, and a marked decline in those coming from the merchant-tradesman-craftsman group). More writers are now employed, away from their vocation as writers both in the older institutions and, with a significant inc;ease secretary or tUlor in a noble family of whom a membcr'has �n met at univcrsity. Scven of the thirty-three arc wholly mdependc.nt, and there is a decline in the number of those based on the church. In the next pcriod, 1630-80, we are looking mainly at IS
IS
.
�
TIle Long
Revolution
Restoration writers, and at some of the early Augustans. Of the twenty-two writers listed, the origins of twenty-one are known. In the smaller total, there is a proportionate swing back towards the nobility and gentry, who provide nine representatives (two and seven respectively). Seven are from professional families, three (one of whom did not publish until the eighteenth celllUl'Y) from trade, and two (one of them Bunyan) from craftsmen. It is both a mot'e limited and a marc clearly class-based culture than that which preceded it. The importance of Oxford and Cambridge is still evident, with these universities taking thirteen of the twenty-one for whom there is information. Three others went to Irish and one to a French university, while two of the four remaining are noblemen, and two poor. Of the eighteen for whom there
is information on schooling, six went away to national
grammar schools, seven went to local grammar schools, one went to a dissenting academy, and four were educated at home. In method ofliving, the smaller number ofdramatists were still largcly based on the fewer theatres, and these account for most of the ten who lived by their vocation. Eight were employed, significantly often now in government service, while four were wholly independent. In the next period, l68o-t730, we are looking at the Augustans and the mid-eighteenth-century novelists, poets, dramatists and philosophers. On the whole, between about 1660 and the I 730S there had been a slowing-down in the general ex.pansion of the national literature, and propor tionately less writers are recorded. The period 1680-1730 shows a marked change in social origins, with thirteen out of nineteen writers listed coming from professional families ofa mainly middle-class kind, only two from the nobility and gentry, and four (one, two, one) from the merchants, trades men and craftsmen. The relative importance of Scots and
The Social History of ElIglish Writers
2 59
home. In method of living, only two of these writers were w�ol1y in�ependent. It was becoming possible for some
\�Iters to hve wholly, if often inadequatdy, by their profes SIOn, and the emergence of a class of professional writers, m ny of them hacks, was noted in the period. Most of the � wnters we now read combined authorship with some form
of employment, normally in the professions (including the churc� but less often than in earlier periods) and in some cases 10 the old form ofservicc as secretary or tutor. More government t:'osts were als becoming available. Money � . thro�gh mal'nage IS notable 10 a number of cases. This was a penod of t:'atronage, a�d of the emergence alongside it ofa more organ.lzed booksclhng market. The ordinary career of . � good wnter was exceptionally uncven, with irregular mcome from a variety of sources, and with a good deal of halld-to.moulh living until some favourable opportunity, . . either IO P ? tronagc or from the market, turned up. There is . a� � dlst mct sense of emerging classes of writers, with a dl.vlSlon between those follOWing traditional forIDS usually
Wlt� some patronage, and those adapting to the new market. But III several careers tltis division was blurred for the whole period is one ofoverlapping ofdifferent syste� and forms. In the next period, 1730-80, we arc looking at late . elghteenth-�elltu�y writers and some of the first generation of Romantic wnters. The predominance of writers from pl'ofe�sional families continues, with eleven out of twenty_ five listed. Only two are from the nobility, and none from the gentry. The new element is the greater representation from tradesmen, farmers and craftsmen, who between them supply cleven (four, four, three), an equal number with the professions. One is from a merchant's family. The relative Imp?rtance of Scots and Irish continues. Again, as in the earher period, the significance of Oxford and Cambridge is
lrish is mucll higher, and for the first time less than half
l� : n�w only eight, out of twenty-five, went to either umverslty. Four went to Irish or Scottish universities but
schooling, six went away to national grammar schools, nine
nattOnal grammar schools, eight to local English grammar
those listed (eight au! of nineteen) went to Oxford or Cambridge. Of those for whom there is information on
went to local grammar schools, and two were educated at
thi�teen went to no university. In schooling, four we�t to schools, five to Scottish or Irish schools, and three (including
TJu umg Revolution
two women) were educated nt home (the third is Cobbett, who was really self-educated). Some distinctly new ways of thinking and feeling seem to enter with the greater represen tation from the farmers and craftsmen (Burns, Cobbett, Blake, Paine) . 10 method of living, three were wholly inde penden!. There was still �ome patronage, and some writers who went to national grammar schools made influential friends there, who hllcr helped them in various ways. There was the usual reliance on other professional employment, in the church, law and medicine. and the importance ofgOYem ment posts made itself further fel!. Bm the predominant impression of the period is one ofthe great po\'crty ofwriters, apparent in the preceding period but now affecting more mCll. Thcre was just enough of a bookselling market, and associah-ci hack work, to offer the possibility of li\'ing by writing, but those without any private income and with no influential friends, who tried iI, were often c:xceptionally ..
poor and exposed. In the next period, 1 780-183°, we are looking at the second generation of Romantic writers and at the early and i that the expansion mid-Victorians. The most deeisive fact s of the national literature, partly if unevenly resumed in the eighteenth century, is now very marked. In social origin, the largest single group of these writers came from professional families: twenty-five out of fifty-seven. One came from the nobility, and eight from the gentry. Nine came from the families of merchants. From the families of tradesmen, craftsmen, poor fanners and labourers came thirteen (five, five, two, one). In terms of new ways of thinking, mainly on social issues, the contribution oflhis last group was especially distinguished. The emergence of a significant number of important women writers is paniculariy notable. Ofthe fifty-two lor whom there is information on schooling, eighteen went to national grammar schools, fourteen to English local grammar schools, four to Scottish or Irish schools, and sixteen (including eight women) were educated, in many cases inadequately, at home. The importance of Oxford and Cambridge revived to some extent, with twenty-
Tlte Social History of ElIglislt Writers foul' entrants out of fifty-seven. Seven went to Scottish or Irish universities, one to London, and one to a French Catholic university. Looking over the whole list, it is notice able that few writers follow any standardized route. Only tell of the fifty-seven went from the gentry or a professional family to a national grammar school and then Oxford or Cambridge. In method of life there was a marked change, due to improvements in the bookselling market and in particular to the greally increased importance and stability ofmagazincs. Where previously the Elizabethan theatre, or in a looser form the eighteenth-century I;:olfee-house, had served as institutions through which professional writers lived and made contact, there was now an evident concen tration around magazines, in London and Edinburgh, and in particular the emergence of a new kind of established ' literary London'. Some nine of the fifty-seven were wholly independent in income, but many more became comfortably established as prof(,'SSional writers, not only through books, but through artieles, revicwing, editing, travel-writing, and of course serial publication in the magazines. Far fewer writers, proportionately, were employed quite away from their work as writers. Of those who were, government service and education were the principal occupations, with some in the church and the law. For writers at case in the world of novels and magazines, the period was comfortable, but it is noticeable that the poets either had independent incomes or were dependent on help and patronage, or, if these failed, were as poor as their eighteenth-century pre decessors. Among Victorian novelists, the contribution of women and ofmen from the poorer social groups is especially marked. In the next period, 1830-80, we are looking at writers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The dominant impression is of a more highly organized upper middle class making the major eOlllribution. There are no writeJ'5 listed from the nobility, but from the gentry and merchant and professional families, now commonly elosely related, there are no less than forty-four out of fifty-three
TIlt Long Revolution
TIle Social History of English Writers
(seven, six, thirty-one). The remaining nine came fro m lhe
four to other English universities, one t o a German university,
,6,
families of tradesmen and craftsmen. This is a notably less varied social origin, to the disadvantage or tilt: poorer groups, than in the eadier part of the nineteenth century. In school ing, nineteen went to national grammar schools, sixteen to English local grammar schools, seven \0 local Sconish and hish schools, two to dissenting academics, and scven were otherwise educated (two women and two men adequately at home, the olhers inadeqlUHcly). The relative importance of Oxford and Cambridge is maintained, wilil twenty-four out of the fifty-three listed. Nine went to Sconish or lrish uni versities, six to other English universities, and fourteen to no university. Six were independent in method of living, and eight were employed away from the work by which they arc known. The vocational basis, either in the expanded market for books and magazines, or in relevant institutions such as universities, is very clear in the period. The imaginative writers arc more varied in every respect than the philosophers and historians, who in majo"ity follow a typical career of professional family, national grammar school, and Oxford or Cambridge. In the final period, ,880-193°, we are looking mainly at the writers of the inter-war years, and at contemporary writers born before 1920. In social origin.�, the pattern is basically similar 10 that of the previous period, with one from the nobility, and thirty-nine out offifty-three from the often closely rdated gentry and merchant and profcssional families (seven, two, thirty). The importance of professional families as the largest single source is marked as in earlier periods. From the families of tradesmen, fal'lllcrs, craftsmen and labourers there arc thirteen of the fifty-three listcd (five, two, four and two). There arc notable differences in the educational pattern, with the first modern majority from the national grammar (now ' public') schools: thirty-two out of fifty-three. Eight went to English local gl'ammar schools, two to pri\'atc schools, fO\lr to elementary schools only, and four
263
and fifteen to no university. The typical career, noted in the . earlier period for historians and philosophers, is now more generally spread : professional family, public school, Oxford
or Cambridge. Four of the firty-three had substantial independent means, three were employed away from the work by which they arc known, and the majority had a fairly clear vocational basis, in the world of books, magazines and
related institutions. \Ve can at present take this factual inquiry no further since there s i no standard list for writers born sincc 1920. has been generally assumed that there has been some shift in the years since 1945 fi'om the regular majority pattern of te earli�r period .. A rough check, on the basis of a personal I �st of.writers of t1\1s age who have attracted particular attell lion, mdeed shows a more varied social origin (six out of twelve from the ramilies of tradcsmen and eleric,,1 and
l�
�
industrial workers) , a differcnt pattern of schooling (two public �chool, sevcn local grammar school, three other local aUlhol'lty schools), a continuing relative importance of xford and Cambridge (seven out of twelve), and a voca tional pattern divided between full-time professional writing
and university English leaching. Too much weight should not be given to these figures, since the list is necessarily highly
selective, and covers writers who still have much of lheir work to do, while certainly neglecting others who must eventually be included. But so far as they go, they confirm the impression ofsome change. "
11te evidence of this whole inquiry is obviously limiled in value, and will need to be checked and amplified by longer research. So far as i t goes, howeyer, I find i t interesting, even
when it only confirms gcneral impressions of the writers of a period gained by other means. Looking through the body of detail, it is impossible to accept the extreme view, still held
(including two women) were educated at home. Thirty-two
by some people, that the growth of a national literature is
went to Oxford or Cambridge, one to an Irish uni\'crsity,
wholly autonomous, unaffected by variations in institutions,
The Lollg RetJOlulion
The Social History of English Writers
audiences, social and educational opportunity, and available
movement in which all social classes, cducational patterns and methods of liIe are represcnted, oftcn with marked individual variations from inherited social norms; perhaps the only factor that is significant, since this would certainly have a relation with part of the character of the movement. The imporlance of new social groups in much of the most original social thinking of the ninetl.ocnth century, and of these groups and of women in the major period of the Victorian novel, is a positive correlation. In the period
methods of living. Indeed sueh a view is so unreasonable that
it would probably not be held at all if the: converse were not often stated in a similarly extrcme: and untenable way. Thus the social origins and educational history of writers dearly often influence their work, but to think primarily of social classes and institutions, and then of individuals as merely their representatives, is wholly misleading. Not only, in certain important cases, do individuals deviate from their group of origin, but also the whole process of individual growth is more complicated than any simple assignment to
groups would indicate. Equally, however, since the individ ual grows in relation to a learned pattern, which is of social significance, the assumption of autonomous creation - the creative individual acting wholly freely - is misleading and naive. I t is worth looking briefly through the evidence to sec what kinds of correlation between a socicty and its literature are reasonable. The relation ofTudol' literature to its social context seems quite dear, and the broadening into Eliza bethan literature seems certainly connected with the greater social variety cvidenced in its writers. It is difficult to say how far this should be taken, but there seems a possible relation between the majority origin of the Elizabethan dramatists in rising social groups, and the swing back from
this in their Jacobean and Caroline successors. The change in the charactcr of the drama over these ycars, thc swing.
back from a popular drama toa more socially limited drama, follows this line. Moreo....er, the linc is continued into the period of the frankly class-base:d Restoration thcatrc. Again, in the early eighteenth centUl)" thcre is a dcar correlation
bctween about 1870 and 1950 perhaps the most signific.ant correlation is negative. It has been widely noted that an ullusual proportion of the important imaginative literature of these years was written by people out.�idc the majority English pattern. This had been true to some extent of the Victorian novel, but in these later years the relative impor_
tance ofwrilCl'S from abroad or from minority groups, as well as of women, is marked. Hardy, James, Shaw, Synge, Yeats,
Eliot, Conrad, Lawrence, O'Casey,Joyce, Thomas compose a short list of some significance, not in the fact that, with the
exception oCthe Irish, any particular minority is noticeable, but that diflicult questions are raised about thc majority pattern, the normal English mode, which certainly seems, in
this period, relatively uncrcative. Since judgements of quality are involved hcre, the analysis is not simple, but it Seems to me there is some evidcnce of a social and imagina_ tive narrowing which can be related to the emergence of a more standard social history of the principal contributors. Thc cmergence ofcertain ncw clements in mood and content in more recent years might then be factually related to thc limited variations which seem to have occurred in this standard pattcrn.
between the majorityofwriters from professional and trading
There is no single relation between Ihe nature of a society
families and the new forms and modes ofwhal has often been described as a middle-class literature. The later eighteenth
and the character of its literature, but there arc significant and possibly significant relations whieh scem to vary with
century shows no such simple couelation. It is socially a very
the actual history. Since social origins ha....e been factually
varied period for writers, but the outstanding literary development, that of Romantic poetry, shows no consistent
related, in varying ways, both to educational opportunity and to methods of life which affect a writer's following his
relation with the social history ofits creators. Indeed it is a
vocation, it can be said that this complex is of permanent
,66
The umg Revoiuli(m
significance, and has visibly affected pariS of our literary development. Yet the emphasis should not fall only on origins. The character of literature is also visi�ly �ffCCICd, in varying ways, by the nature of the communication system and by the changing character of audiences. vVhcn we sec the important emergence ofwrilcrs from a new social group, we must look not only at them, but at the new institutions and forms created by the wider social group to which they belong. The Elizabethan theatre is an c..xccptionally complex example, since as all institution it was largely created by individual middle-class speculators, and was supplied with plays by writers from largely middle-class and trading and artisan families, yet in ract was steadily opposed by the commercial middle-class and, though serving popular audienccs, survived through the protection or the court and the nobility. This very protection, later, steadily narrowed both drama and audicnces, until in the Restonllion a very narrow class was setting the dominant tone. The rormation in the eighteenth century or an organized middle-class audience can be seen as in part due to certain writers rrom the same social group, but also, and perhaps mainly, as an independent rormation whieh then drew these writers to it and gave them their opportunity. The expansion and rurther organization or this middle-class audience can be seen to have continued until the late nineteenth century, drawing i n new writers rrom varied social origins but giving them, through its majority institutions, a general homogeneity. This general situation has persisted, but already in the nineteenth century there were signs of a break, with indi viduals deviating rrom the majority pallcrns, and, by the end or the century, a distinct and organized minority deviation. The social situation or literature in the twentieth century has been largcly the interaction or continuing majority palterns, with an increasingly standard routc into them and this marked dissenting minority, which has tend�d to support and value writers rrom outsidc the majority pattern, and to provide an alternative outlct and affiliation for dissenting members ofthe majority groups. Ifwe compare
The Social History of Ellglish Wrilm
�67
the social basis oflitcrature between 1850 and !870 and that between ' 9 1 9 and '939 we find ill both cases an organized middle-class reading public as the major clement, but whereas in the earlier period the literature was compara tively homogeneous, with most orits creatOl'S drawn fi'om the same social group as the actual public, i n [he later period there is evidence or two publics, a majority and a minority, the rormer continuing the earlier type or rehilionship, the latter, while allraeting individual dissenters, finding its major figures rrom outside, either rrom another culture or rrom other social groups. A large part of important modern literature - many novels, many plays, almost at! poetry has been communicated through the institutions or this minority public, in sharp contrast with the mid-Victorian situation, where the majority institutions were stil( closely related to the most important work orthe timc. The appear ance or contributors rrom new social groups within lhe culture, which has attracted allention in reCent years, has been normally through the institutions or this minority. Most or the new writers rrom the ramilies or clerical and industrial workers arc in ract being read not by the social groups rrom which they come, bllt by the dissident middle class. The expanding audience ror novcls and plays certainly includes members or new social groups, but in general they arc simply being absorbed into the existing majOl'ity public. The danger of this situation is that the minori1Y public may soon be the only identifiable group with an evident and particular social affiliation - defined largely through univer sity education. There is some evidence that the separation or the majority public rrom its most creative mcmbers is leaying a cultural vaCllum easily penetrated from outside. The rapid Americanization or most ord1e popular art-rorms can be undcrstood in thtse tcrms, at a lime whcn so much or the best English an and thinking is closely relatcd to an ideillifiable social minority which, with a limited cducational system, most British people have no real chance or entering. Thus the relations bctween literature and society can be seen to vary considerably, in changing historical situations.
268
TM Long Revolution
& a society changes, its literature changes, though often in
unexpected ways, for it is a part or social growth and not
simply its reflection, Al limes, a rising social group will create new institutions which, as i t were, release its own writers, At other times, writers from new social groups will simply make
their way into existing institutions, and work largely within
tbcir terms, This is the important theoretical conte.'(t for the discussion of mobility, of which we have heard so much in our own generation. It is significant that mobility is now
normally discussed primarily in individual terms and that the writer is so often taken as an example : he, like other artists, may be born anywhere, and can move, as an indi vidual, very rapidly through the whole society, But in facl there arc two major kinds of mobility: the individual career,
which writers have often exemplified, and the rise ora whole social group, whieh creates new institutions and sometimes, as in the early eighteenth century, brings its writers with it.
The problems ofmobility can never be adequately discussed unless this distinction is made. Thosc affecting writers, in our own day, are primarily the result or a combination of indi
vidual mobility with the relative stability orinstitutions. This
can be secn in the many literary works which take contem porary mobility as theme. At the end of the eight«:nth century, Godwin, in Caleb Williaml, produced an early example or such a career, with individual mobility very limited and with thc institutions in relation to which it
operated both powerrul and harsh. Stendhal, in Sca�lel and Black, took the same situation much further, ending With the individual being destroyed, first in character and then actually, instead of being merely hunted down to a com promise. The usual implication of Victorian treatments of this theme was (in default of one or olher or thc several magical solutions) that of control : the terms ororigin must be basically respected, or the individual would degenerate. Hardy's protest, in Jude Ihe Obscure, leaves the very effort hopeless. Lawrence introduced the new situation: the rapid ir resentful rise, characteristically through art, into the
dissident minority cuhure, but then, finally, into exile. Tn
TM Social History of English Writm 26g our own period, the characteristic pattern has been that or c mo�e freely mobile individual mocking or raging at the , �nstltutlon� which are made available ror him tojoin, or else, If he acqUlcsces, suffering rapid personal deterioration (cf.
�h
LllckJ! J�m, Lal)" Back ill Allger,
Room at the Tl)p) , There is a COnllnumg sensc of deadlock, and much of the experien ce generated within it seems sterile. This is because the terms of mobility, thus conceived, are hopelessly limited, The com. ination of individual mobility .....ith the stability or institu lions and ways ofthinking leads to this deadlock inevitab ly. nd the experience or artists and intellectuals is then par l1cularly misleading, 101' while such experience records paniculur local tensions, much or the rcal experience or mobility' in out' own time, is that of whole social groups . . movUlg Int? new ways or life : not only the individual ris ing, but the SOCiety changing. This latter experience is howeve r, ' very d'ffi I Icult to negotiatewhile the institutions towards which writers and thinkers arc attracted retain their limited social referencc, and wlile new groups have been relative ly un , � successrul In crealmg their own cultural institutions, There is an obvious danger or thc advantage or individual writers drawn rrom more varied social origins being limited or nullified by their absorption into prc./!xisting standar d patterns (as obviously now in the system orhigher educati on) or by their concentration on fighting these patterns, rather , th�!l n Ing or hcl.r ingto create new patterns The problems . . or mdlv!dual mobdlt y h�vc in ract been worked through to , the POlilt where the definition or mobility in individu al terms can be plainly secn as inadequate, The whole socicty is , moving, and the most urgent issue is the creation ofnew alld relevant institutions. The good writer may be born anywhere, and the evidenc e , IS t at the pallern of his social development call be very vaned, �nd that thcre may be danger in attcmpt ing to , , �tandar(hze It. But tim docs not mean that his development � auto lomous or that what the society does, by way or , � �tltutlons and forms of communication, will fail to affcct him. What a society can properly do is revise and extend its
�
�
�?
�
270
The Long R(fJolulioll
institutions, first in education, second in means of communi cation until these have an effective general relation with the
�'
6
real st ucture of the society, so that both writers and audi ences can come through in their own terms. We are so
far
T H E S O C I A L H I S T O R Y OF
from this, in our own society, that we can say with certainty that the social history of writers which we have been traCing .
D R A M A T I C F O R �'l S
will continue to change.
WE are used to saying that drama is one of the most social of all art forms, and in certain obvious respccts this is evidently true. The dramatisl, like the poet or novelist, works in lan guage to create a particular organization of experience, but
the nature of the organization, in his case, is in terms of
performance: the words he has arranged will be spoken and acted by other artists, the actors, in the normal process of communication. Already, by virtue of this, and in spite of the
fact that the relation between text and performance, the
literary work and the acted drama, varies greatly ill different periods and societies, the extension from an individual
creative activity to a social creative activity is clear. Again, whereas it is normal in the case of pOCIIl.'i and novels for the work to be reccived, in the first instance, by temporarily isolated individuals, it is normal (though nOl universal) for
drama to be received by a group, an actual audience. Thus
not only
in transmission but also in reception and response
drama normally operates in an obvious social context, and
this seems to be the reason why the social history of drama is in many ways easier to approach than the social history of some othcr ans. As a practical experiment in the possibility of this kind of inquiry, I propose to look briefly at the social history ofEnglish drama : partly asa way ofdescribing actual changes in the relations betwccn drama and society in the course of m(U'e general changes in the society as a whole ; partly, also, as a way of approaching a much morc difficult question, as 10 whether any relationship can bc discovercd between such social changes and actual changes in the forms of drama, changes of an artistic kind. We are used to the general idea that some relation must exist between social and
2)2
The Long Revolution
a"tistie change, but in detail this is always very difficult to demonstrate, and because of the difficulty many people find good reasons for joining in the general retreat which would promote or relegate art to an autonomous area. If we can
find certain demonstrablerelations ofthis kind in drama, and if, where we cannot find them, we can look frankly at the difficulties as a way ofrevising the general idea, we may have made real progress in the whole field of ,h(:5C relations, of a kind useful in our inquiries into less obviously social arls. 1
a particularly clear case of an evident relation between social and dramatic forms. The earliest plays took their form from the liturgy, and were primarily a way ofiJlustrating parts of the story of the scriptures to congregations few of whom could have understood this story when it was read in Latin.
Quem Quaeritu?
2 73
the Ascension and the lives ofthe saints. The immediate form in each episode, was determined by the primary J i lustrativ
;
function, but the whole form, as it developed' became a particular kind of episodic drama, determined by the fact . of procession. This basic construction became a popular tradition, which was one of the manv clements that later combined to make certain of the wholly new and character. istically English forms of the Elizabethan drama. To tllisclear relation between a social function and method oforganization and a particular dramatic form can be added the equally interesting relation between medieval society and
The medieval period in English drama is, at first glance,
Thus the form of the little
The Social Hutory of Dramatic Forms
plays, showing
the angel speaking to the women at the empty lomb ofJesus, is a clear example ofdirect dramatic reference to the purposes of a major social organization. Beginning as dramatic insets within the form of worship, the medieval religious drama moved out into a processional function: first the procession towards and within the church, later the procession through the town. As a social development, this is of considerable importance: the integration of dramatic performance, not only with the religious festivals but also with the life of the medieval town and the organization of trade and industry, became unusually close. The Corpus Christi processions, with their cyeles of mystery and miracle plays, were not only official events in the life of the towns, but were organized through the trade guilds. each ofwhich had a particular play
The LaJt Websters, The
as its continuing responsibility (as the Bakers,
Supper; the Tanners, The Fall of Lucifer; the Day ofJudgement). The form that had begun with the illuslra· lion of particular events in the Chfistian story, tying phrases of the liturgy to dramatic enactment, c.xtended to a form of serial presentation of the whole story, from the Creation to
�he more sophisticated dfamatic forms of the morality and IlS succes.�or the interlude. The morality play lakes its whole form and method from the pattern offeeling characteristic of m:dievl'II 1·c1igi?n and society. It is unlike the mystery and . . mIracle III that It IS not dramatizing a religious narrative but the shape of a faith and a common human destiny. It is . obViously only in certain societies, at certain stages of their development, that the idea of' Everyman' can be deeply con . ceived. When there are true common meanings in the basic issues of life and death, and therefore when the sense of a truly universal destiny can be naturally felt, the form of the moralitr, �ith its abstract representative figures, and its dramallzauon of general human qualities and weaknesses
that because they afe fell as general need not be tied to
!ndivid�al
human persons, takes organic shape. Yet this
1!ltercsllng form is not the whole fonn of the society. Even . . wltilln the morality, we sec the inAucnce of other kinds of imaginative construction.
EIJtf)'man's
structurally related to the castle in
House of Salvation is
The Casfdl ofPerseverance
�
�hich has obvious affinities not only with the place of ques In the long tradition of magical folk stories which had been developed in the Christian romances, but also with real elements in the organization of society - the central place, ChUfCh, �astlc, Of hil1, which in a practical way expresses the eommumty's sense of itself (it is united and communicates
in that place) and which is thcn a natural object of the search for value and security. Again, the development of the T-,
Tile Long Revolutioll
Tile Social History ifDramatic Forms
morality into the interlude shows in a very interesting way
inlo the medieval street. And the shepherds in the TowncJey
' 74
the interaction of a basic pattern and a slow social change. The interlude is differently based, socially, from the morality. Where the morality belonged in public places, in the towns, the interlude belonged in the halls of great houses, in the period when the medieval forms were beginning to change into those of Tudor society. The movement from popular religious drama to morc sophisticated ' mora l ' drama takes in the morality as a stage, but is only completed in the inter lude. At the same lime, the characteristic interlude retains much o[the imprcss ofmcdicvaJ social thinking ;
Tlle Follr P's,
for cxamplc, s i still the drama of men in their social functions, rather than ofmcn as particular individuals. The qucstion of the relation between, on the one hand, figures in a I'cligious story or in a religious or moral allegory, and, on thc othcr hand, individualized human beings in a particular social
context, is, while extremely complex,
crucial in the subscqucnt development of English dramatic forms. It is noticeable in the miracles and mysteries that whereas thc primary function is the reverent portrayal of figures who cannot be regarded as human in any ordinary sense, not onlyJesus and his mother but the prophets and the saints, thcre is a powerful tendency to treat in a quite different way, first the figures to whom I'everence need not bc shown, such as Herod - the raging Herod, perhaps the most popular figure in this whole drama - and sccond, certain ancillary figurcs, as notably the shepherds at the nativity, It is pcrhaps best to sec this whole matter as the interaction of the set roles ofthc traditional story with the living contemporary experi. ence which they offered to interpret. There are then diffcl'cnt degrees of interaction, and consequcntly different Ie\'cls of individualization and contemporul'y rcalism. E\"c1l the great figures are contemporary in one sense: Cod the Father is
watching this world, and Christ and the angels, Satan and
the devils, are alive and moving in it. Figures like :';oah think and talk in the medieval world, while retaining their traditional l'olt-s. Herod, in his raging authOl'ity, enters this contemporary wodd, going litcl",dly and dramatically down
2 75
Su/�lIda Pagina Pastorum
arc Yorkshire shepherds, speaking their own dialect, dealing with their own problems ' while also conceivable as the shepherds to whom the angel speaks and �h g down reverently to worship 1o.'Iary and Jesus, � � It IS slglllficant to take this idea of levels of individ ualiza . hon and contemporal'y realism into the larger and morc mature world of Elizabethan drama. Minglin g with new clements, both the episodic construction of the processional drama and the figured pattern of the morali ties had entered ths world, So too, at a further stage of develop mcnt, had t11l� graded contemporaneity, In Elizabethan tragedy, the mam figures (though heroically individualized , in terms we shall examine) retain the distancing dement, of other places and other times, of the m�ol" figures or the mediev al drama, yet, as has been often observed, arc histori cal figures who are also, in certain radical ways, Elizabethans alive in the dra�a's own time, Then, in rough gl'adin g, t lis process is carned further in Ihe ancillary figures, until gravedigger and . sexton m Hamlet, constable and headborou gh in AII/eh Ado and a host ofsi ilar figures, belong as frankly � to the drama' , own lime as dId the Towneley shepherds. This convc ntion seems to embody a transitional attitude to thc relation be. tween dr malic pattern and social reality . The mixcd form holds wI llIe a new society is evolving within the patter ns of the old, While the old society stood firm, the single pattern sufficed. When the new society comes to full consciousness the mixed pattern will be rationalized. 1o.1ean while in th J�ter medieval and Elizabethan drama, the mixed onven lIon all�ws characters to function, with varyin g degrees of emphaSIS, both as individuals and as symbo lic and social Iypes. 1o.1uch of the richness of Elizabethan drama and in particular its ability (0 communicate at several irrerent levels can thus be relatcd to a stage in consei ousncss CQITes. .. pondmg to an historical stage in the develo pment ofsocicty,
�
i
�
�
�
�
d
"
By the end of thc fifteenth century, in different degrees in
276
277
The Long Revolution
The Social History of Dramatic Forms
different parts of the country, Ihe popular religious drama
terms of a remarkable but necessarily temporary fusion of many complex elements in the national life: elements which
had in fact broken down in its old universal forms. We can relate this, not only to
�
�
hang("s in religious feeling w ich � were 10 erupt in radical changes in religiOlls orgaOlzallOn, . but also to social changes directly connected with the ra�a.
�
a lillie later were to fly apart. For this bricfperiod, the colour and richness of the European Renaissance interacted with thc vigour and realism of the popular tradition to create
By Tudor timcs, the guilds, on which the main organ� zatlC�n
wholly new national forms. The most striking new clement
function, and in somc cases had ceased altogether to be
medieval and early Tudor drama, set in markedly different
of the old drama had I·csted, had become ycry vanous
III
?
popular organizations, having been taken over y mercan . . tile interests in a new economy m which the conflict between craftsman and tradcl· was sharpening. Early Tudor drama shows some survivals ofthe old social organization, but shows
is a high consciousness of individual experience, which the social thought pattcrns, had so obviously lacked. In tragedy and romance, this new element, expressed in a new kind of rhetoric, raised the drama to unc.'(ampled intensity. Violent, rapid, and complicated action was the physical cxpression
also important devclopments of the new organization. wi�h . the growth of companies of toming actors, performmg III
of these new modes ofpcrsonal feeling, and the new drama
inn-yards, and ofperformanccs ofnew kinds ofplay in schools,
raised the language to comparable vitality and power. Yet thcse clements wen: in interaction with older ways offeeling.
t�
colleges, and great houses. Through es� related ehann:ls, and especiaJly through the close associatIOn of drama with places open to external influence, both ofciassieaI dr� ma and . the new drama of the Rcnaissance, major new directions were made possible, especially sinee the native popular drama had weakened. The decisive development occurred in the
1 570s, when the first theatres began t? be built. Typi
tists, themselves characteristically uprooted and exposed,
Where they wcrc not,
3S
in the different examples of Euphu
ism and the ' classical' drama associated with the Countess of Pembroke, the new influences ran away into meaningless display on the one hand, artificial refinement on the other. In the main body of popular Elizabethan drama it is clear that elements of an older tradition are present, not mercly as
cally, the organization of the drama passed IIlto the hands of . speculators, and the theatres :-vere blllit on the edges of . . London, still growlllg as a tradmg centre, III pa�t to attract
with the colour and richness of absolute individual expres
same time, the circumstances in which the theatres were
tween these modes is again and again the essential theme, but
audiences from travellers in and out of the capital. At the
built rcmind us of thc growing tension between powerful . social groups, which in the next century was to disrupt � he drama both physically and socially. The new theatres, 1lke . . the old tourillg companics, attracted the powerful 0l?poslt"m : of the eommel·cial middlc class that had estabhshed Its power in the towns. The drama W,IS kept going, throughout the period of its Elizahcthan greatness, by popular support certainly, but by a kind of popular sUI?�ort that would have been crushcd if thc court and the noblllt)' had not extended its active patronage. The brevity of the great period is remarkable as the greatness itself, and we can see both
�
11I
survivals, but as equal factors in its power. The sense ofsym_ bolic function, within an ordered pattern of values, unites sion, not only in the great tragedies, where the relation
be
also in thc high comedy of the later Shakespeare and Jonson. And then both the individual aspiration and the immanent pattern take vigorous life, through the language, from the actual life of the times, until i t seems that for this briefperiod aU that is creative in the national life finds expression in bewilderingly various and surprising drama. It
this
is customary to sec this exciting development cut off by
thc growth to power of a new ' Puritan' element, marked by
the closing of the theatres in 1642. Yet the disintegration of this national drama, the flying apart of the elements which had composed it, had begun much earlier. For perhaps the
Tht Lollg Rtvolulion
The Social HisfOry of Dramatic Forms
last fIfteen years of the reign of Elizabeth, and the first few
the �cveloJled chronicle plays) a national spirit, there was a
years of the reign of James, the conditions existed for the
de�hn� to posture of honour and destiny, within an . artlf claJ s oclal yrimarily motivated by intrigue, in . the herOiC drama . SIgns of these developments can be
drama to express the mainstream of the national life, at a high tension corresponding to the conflicts which were soon to break out in the overtly political field. Already, at thc bcginning of thc new century, we sec the beginnings of the movcment to a class drama, which had becn incipient in earlier Tudor developments. The ' pI'ivate theatres', though
�
t�IC
2 79
cOll�ext
traced .back to the great period, but with the narrowing of the socla1 base they became much more evident, as many of . the old I!ltel"csts farled. By the time of the closing of the theatres III 1642 , the nallonal drama had become a elass
in fac t opcn to the public, began to depend on an actually
drama, as the manner ofits restoration was to make obvious.
now incrcasingly, with the growing alicnation of thc court
Restoration drama was based on the two ' Patent Theatres '
narrowel' audience. '''here previously the court had pro· teeted a popular drama against the commercial middlc class,
from decisive elements in thc national life, the drama itself began to change in character. On the one hand, there was an increasing tendency to elaboration and spectacle as formal clcmcnts to bc consumcd and enjoyed, rathcr than as elements in the dramaticexperienct itself. On the other hand, and especially in comedy, there is a steady movement through Middleton and Massillger, Beaumont and Fletcher,
to
Shirley and Bromc, in the direction ofntw intertsts and new standards, leading naturally to the Restoration comedy of manners. As Dryden later observed, Fletcher ' undcrstood and imitated the conversation of gentlemen' much better than Shakespeare, and this development s i only one mark of the increasing preoccupation with social illtriguc, with shift· ing class relations, ancl with fashion, as the drama narrows towards identification with a single class, in a changing and disintegrating society. Both the national clement, which had
m
,�
authorized by Charks 11 ill 1 660. The theatres werc ofa Ile
kind, with sta�es half-way from the Elizabethan platform to the modem pIcture-stage. As the theatres were under court patrona�e, the audiences wefe virtually limited to courtiers an tIHII adherents, and there was continual difficulty in � : mall1t:u!lIng the theatres as slIccessful enterprises on so
�
fOl:m,
narrow a b�se. Tn there was a t first a development of the emphaSIS 011 musIc and spectacle - with more elaborate theatre seenery - which had first been cvident in the Jaco . an pnvO\te thea tres and then in masques and operas. . D Avenant, who directed one of tht two new theatres, had . Love alld Honollr �ot only wntten an early ' heroic play' III [634, b�t dU\ ing the closing of the theatres had produced : a� opera, The Suge ofRhodes, which blended the hcroic play
�
_
_
WIth the development of music and spectacle, itselfinfluenccd by French and Italian example. To follow the developmcnt
been so vital in the drama of Ihe 15905, and the traditional
of heroic drama is to sec what I have called the abstrac
patterns embodying the valw..'S of an older kind of society,
tion ofimpulscs (the i;}creasing formalization ofconventions
slowly disappcared. In comedy the movement was towards thc excitements offashion and appetite, which produced the
?f honour and innocence) transrorming the style of tragedy mto an elaborate mannerism. The reduction of mature
form of the comedy of manners, gaining in sophistication as
Elizabethan and Jacobean blank \'C!"SC, with its eloseness to
i t lost in general human reference. In tragedy thc movemcnt
orms of o�dim\r}' speech, eithcr into the heroic couplet, or Into the stIlted Rt."Storation blank verse, is a central mark of the general change. Yet, even after these changes, the . form of herOIC drama, and of the revived blank-verse tragedy which slicceeded it, bears little substantial relation
was towards the abstraction of impulses, in particular the abstraction of' honour from a social function to a mark of 1
breeding : so that from a man confronting a destiny both particular and universal, and f!"Om a hero expressing (as in
�
TI,e Long RtlJOilltiQIJ
Tht Social History ofDrarrwtic Forms
(:vcn to the narrowed )ifc which the theatres offered to serve.
and when non-aristocratic authors were increasingly in
The true growth of the period was in the developed comedy of manllers, which had a genuine correspondence with the
evidencc, the second and more brilliant phase of what we
280
narrow society on which it was based.
call Restoration comedy flared and died. Vanbrugh and early Farquhar arc a eurioliS survival of the modes of
We must distinguish two periods of Restoration comedy,
Ethercge and Wycherley, but Congreve, at such a time,
which correspond interestingly wilh actual periods in �he theatre's fortunes. From 1666, afler tht:: Plague and the Fire,
manners to its highest point. Yet when first produced, the
to the renewed political crisis in 1679. the true Restoration
succecds in The Way cif the World in taking the comedy of play was not successful, and the wholc episode is a curious
theatre, with its strictly limited audience, supported, as its
example ofthc complex relationship ben....een audiences and forms. In later Farquhar wc can see the influence of new
is crucial
which we can also date from the IGg05. But of Congrevc's
the fashionable sex-game.· The very fact thal comedy of this
finding its finest cxpression at a time when its social basis, if
best representatives, Ethcrcgc and \Vychcrley, in whom this direct relation between form and audience is most obvious. The actress, new to the stage with the Rcstoration,
in this form, which s i an elaborate illustration of the rules of kind was withdrawn, by its context, from other social groups
and their alternative feelings and values, pennitted a unity of feeling and style which, in its own terms, is a marked advance on earlier intrigue-comedies still complicated by a consciousness of other standards. Even when, as in Etherege and early Wycherley, lhe plays are simply flattering reflec tions of the lives of thcir audiences, the certainty of relation
modes offceling, consonant with the 'sentimental comedy'
Way of the World we must note the curious fact of a form not broken up, was rapidly disappearing.
Il
sometimes
happens, in the history of an art, that a form rcaches its highest point of dcvelopment when its essential conditions
arc already vanishing, but given the unevenness ofsocial and individual developmcnt this need not be surprising. The maturity and poise of Tlu W y ofthe WQrldseem, in retrospect,
a
produces a characteristic spontaneity and liveliness. To
related to the fact that this was as far as the Restoration form of the comedy of manners could be taken: the complete
criticize these plays on general moral grounds may well be necessary, as a next stage of judgement, but it is foolish to
undcrstandi ng of its patterns is also, in effect, a concluding and valuing summary of them."
allow this to obscure the temporary success oflhe form on its own terms. Yet alreacly in Wycherlcy's Plain Dealtr ( 1 676) the morality of the code itself is being questioned : his attack on personal betrayal and selfishness is difficult to contain
within a form which at its simplest reduced all questions of behaviour to a correct if brittle gaiety. In the 168os, ill the mounting political crisis which saw the middle class success fully reaching for the first stages of power, the theatres were in difficuiLies, and relapscd to revivals as a dominant policy.
Mter 1695, a new theatrical tradition is obvious, with the risc of the actor-managcr who was often also the playwright. Yet then, in a brief period from 1693 to 1 705, at a time when the true Restoration pcriod was over, when citizens and their ladies were beginning to attend the theatres morc frequently,
1J�
. \o\ cn an art·form changes, as the direct result of changes In society, we mect a very difficult problem in criticism for it quite oftcn happcns that a local judgement will show
� form
th�t has bcen brought to a high level of skill and maturity
hemg replaced by forms that are relatively crude and unsuc cessful. With the ending ofa Restoration drama based on an aristocratic and fashionable audience, and its replacement by a "cry mixcd middlc-cla� drama based on a wider social group, we sec one of the clearest and most famous of these cases.
Most critics have been natural Cavaliel"S, and have
represented the change as a disaster for the drama. Yet it is surely nccessary to take a longer view. The limited character of Restoration drama, and the disintegration of a general audience which had preceded it, were also damaging. Again,
282 The LOllg Revolrllion while the early products of cighteenth-century middle-class culture were regarded (often withjustice) as vulgar, we must, to tell the whole story, follow the development d?wn,. to the points where the ' vulgar' novel became a maJ.or IJlerar form and where the despised forms of 'bourgeoIS tragedy� and :sentimental comedy ' served, in their maturity, a wide area of our modern drama. The development ofmiddlc-class drama is in fact one of the most interesting cases we have ofa changing society leading directly to radical innovations in form. IV
Opposition to the theatre, by the commercial middle class, ed ean bc traced back to the sixteenth century, and the renew broke vely effecti which 169Os, tht: from sm, wave of critici little the Restoration dramatic spirit, in one way containsf';ew oJ Short (A r eollie of that is new. Behind the criticism with , 1698) Stage, h Englis t/Ie f o s allenes the Immorali!>, alld Prof t its itemized complaint against thc licentiousness of curren be can such as e comedies the old hostility to the theatr detected.'Bul now, with the court changed in character, and lass no longer actively protecting th� theatre, mi.ddlc-c Van a while and sly, senou more taken bc to had ition oppos �a brugh replied in kind, Farquhar and a new school. of c1l'adiate Imme C �l t meet to a dram the tists consciously reformed ....ity of any adequate Judge�ent of objections. The compJe. �e eighteenth-century drama follows from the fact that :n lso m y ficw.! super or antly cases forms were changed l'eluct ms fOl new s, s ea other in tone; l mora response to the new .? : SSiOn were:: made by extension or discovery, as a posmve expre in of the ne\� spirit. This mixed result is understandable 16805, the From nces. audie in e terms of the actual chang merchants and their wives had begun to attend the theatres, ce and in the eighteenth century this clement in the audien a from C1' co chang n sudde � grew steadily. Yet there was no s e-das mlddl table respec a to nce dissolute court audie the that times rian Victo until not was it d indee ' audience in this audicnce� of ordinary theatres became 'respectable ' that of ry, centu enth eighte way. The real situation, in the s i
283 elements of the rising middle class joining a still fashionable theatre public, at a time when thc public tone orthe court and aristocracy had itsclfbecn modified. Many authors began to be drawn from the commercial middle-class public; this is a period in which the ' one-play author' is a dKlracterislic figure_ I t is fail- 10 say that an impol-tant pal'! of eightecnth century drama offered conscious image of the middle class and its virtlles, but the creative possibilities of this new con sciousness were very uneven, and in the drama, panicularly, they were further limited. The uncertainty in dramatic forms combined with the strong fashionable element in the audi ence to produce a concentration orinterest on actOrs as such. Whenever Lbis happens, and plays, in consequence, are valued primarily as vehicles for particular acting talents, the drama tends to become mixed and eclectic_ Thus one finds, in eightecnth-century drama, a characteristic interest in theatrical effect for its own sake, and it is in this context that the new forms had to make their limited way_ Sentimental comedy is the least atlractivc ofthe !lewforms, though it has continued to hold the stage, as a majority form ofEnglish drama, to our own day. '¥e can trace its conscious development from Cibber's Loue's Last Shift (1696) and TIle Careless Husband (1 704), and Stecle's The L,J';lIg Lover (1703) . Elements of its particular consciousness can indeed be traced from much earlier in the century, but the direct application to contemporary behaviour is now much more obvious. A passage from Steele's preface to The l:Jing Louer clearly shows the new emphasis: The Social flistory of Dramatic Forms
a
He makt.-s false
lo\'e:, gets drunk, and kills his man, but in the fifth act
awakens from his debauch with thc compunclion and remorse
. . . The anguish only child and a tender fallwr in tbat distl'cs.� are, perhaps, an injury to the rules of comedy, but T am sure Ihey arc a justice to those of morality: and
which is suitable to a man's finding himselfin a gaol
_
he therc expresses, and the mutual sorrow betwecn an
passagesofslleh a nature beingso rrcq�lently applauded all tile stage, it is high time we should no longer draw occasions of mirth from
i i
those imagC!l which Ihe rel g on afoul' country lel1s trelnble al
OI'1·or
with h
.
us
we ought
to
The Long RelJolution The essential point here, as a descrip tion of the new form, is the mixture of comedy and pathos, with an explicit moral
reference, that led to the alternative descriptions of'wecping comedy' or the 'comedy of sentiments ' (moral opinions) the two clements uniting in the complicated history of the word 'scntimental '. Yet we must note also the curious way in which the ' compunction and remorse' are approached, for this clement of' fifth-act reform', after all thc c.""citements of
TIu: Social History of Dramatic Fonns
part or the new consciousness, and could not in fact be sum marily dismissed. The ability to take a judgement right through, as in traditional tragedy and comedy, showing sin leading to disintcgration and disaster, vice and error to
�
t lOrough ridicule, rested on a more absolute morality, based
either on religious sanct ions 01" the strict standards of an established society, than the new middle class actually had.
Already in Elizall(;lhan drama, and certainly in some
customary dramatic intrigue, became the basis of continued
seventeenth-ccntury developments, wc· see the traditional
charges of hypocrisy and sentimental ity : 'enjoy it while it lasts, then say you're sorry'. Goldsmith had this in mind,
modes of judgement Illuted, rOT similar rcasons. Romantic
when in attacking sentimental comedy he wrote : lfthey happen to have faulls or foibles, the spectator is taught, not only to pardon, but to applaud them, in consideration of the good nCSll oftheir hear!!.
This criticism reaches home, in many such plays, and this aspect of sentimental comedy has been so persistent that
kinds, and their basic: attitudes, often conruscd, and their
comedy had pioneered Ihe way of s entimental comedy, and
: fifth-act refor m '
,
where in spite of evcrything a happy cnd
lIlg must bt' contrived, is evidt'ntfrom Shakt:Spcare. Restora tion comt"dy contains these elements, but gains a measure of uni ty of feeling by eonfident j udgemclllS with reference to a very limited social scale: to offend against polite society was
to be driven nut orit, and thaL was that; but equally to offend
Coldsmith's words could be transferred, as they s tand, to a
ag
considerable part of modern drama. He continues :
the new middle-class drama tried 10 go beyond this, to a
But there is one argument in favour ofscntimental comedy, which will kcep it on the stage, in spite ofall that can be said against it. It is, ofaU others, the most easily written. Those abilities that can hammcr out a novd are fully sufficient for the production of a sentimental comedy. It is only sufficient to raise the characters a lillie; to deck out the hero with a riband, orgive the heroine a title; then to put an insipid dialogue, without character or humour, n i to thcir mouths, give them mighty good hear!!, very fine clothes, furnish a new set of scenes, make a pathetic scene or two, with a sprinkling of lender melancholy conversation through Ihe whole, and there is no doubt but all ihe ladi<:!l will cry, and all the gentlemen applaud.
This again is just, but the casual dismissal of the novel should make us pause. Both novels and sentimcntal comedies
�
were oftcn, certainly, confections of this kind, and Gol smith despiscd them by reference to older standards (hlS attack on mixing comedy and pathos was in classicist terms, as a conrusion of the old distinct kinds). Yet, while the bad examples multiplied, the feelings which they exhibited were
forgivable. At different levels, and for some good rca'sons,
new kind
of judgement. Certainly, like its predecessors, i[
contrived happy cndings, and padded the lash or the old
c�medy, Often on se�lti�ental grounds. But also, in dealing with contemporary lifc, iI necessarily challenged the tempor_ ary certain t ies or the Restoration comedy ofmanncI"S, oITering as absolutc \·i rtues the sanctity of marriage, the lire of the . ramlly, and the care of the weak. These had been neglected, or made ridiculous, in Restoration comedy, simply because the class �vhich it served was parasitic: the true consequences of behaVIOur had never to he rully lived out. Narrow as the
�
urgeois morality was, it at least rcrerred to a society ?ew 1Il wh1eh consequence was actual, and in which there was more to do than keep up with the modes of an artificially
protected class. When we speak or the 'sentimentality' of appeals to Ihese valucs, and of thc 'smugness ' of what we
think �\le can dismiss ;lS merely ' domestic virtues ', we should
be quite sure where we stand ourselves. The identification
286
The LOlIg Revol1ltio/l
which some Cfloes seem to make, in phantasy, between themselves and the insouciance of Cavalier rakes and whorcs, is usually ridiculous, if onc goes on to ask to what moral tradition they themselves practically belong. Nor is Ihis the only respect in which, if we aft: honest, we shall conf� OUf selves the heirs of the eighteenth-century bourgeOIs. The wider basis ofsentimental comedy, and ora main tradition in the novel, was that particular kind ofhumanitarian feeling, the strong if inarticulate appeal to a fundamental ' goodness of heart '; the sense of every individual's closeness to vice and folly, so that pity for their exemplars is the most rd:vant emotion, and re<:O\'cry and rehabilitation must be beheved in; the sense, finally, that there arc few absolute values, and that tolerance and kindness arc major virtues, In rcbuking the scntimental comedy, as in both its eady examples and its subscquent history it seems neeessal'y to do, we should be prcpared to recognize that in lhe point ofmoral assumptions, and ofa whole COlw.:quent feeling about life, most orus arc its blood relations. Sentimental comedy (3ilecl, and continues to fail, because it never works through, to any point of intensity, the conflict between the belief that certain social virtues afe paramount and yet that good men can offend against them. Its history is an evasion of this conflict by artificial solutions or ' a sprink ling of tender melancholy '. It is significant that while in respect of real personal relationships the new bourgeois lorm was a failure, in respect of certain property relationships the basis ofearly bom'seois tragedy - it succeeded. The thief, the dishonest apprentice, the murderer or seducer for gain, went straight toa firm and absolutcjudgement. Ne\'Crtheless, even here, the form includes a characteristic pathos; pity is possible, and real, so long as the judgement is executcd. In Lillo's The LOlldoll .\ J(f(halll ('731) the apprclHice Barnwell, led on to theft and murder by his seducer lI"listressl\lillwood, goes with her to the gallows in nn atmospherc that combines the certainties of an old momlity Unless we m:lfk what drcw lheir ruin on, And, by avoiding
that - prevent OLlr own
The Social History of Dramatic Forms
with the new pathos -
287
Wilh bleeding hearts and weeping eyes we show
A human, gen'roLls scnse of othcrs' woc.
The pity, here, is 'in vain' without thc judgement and its lesson, and the feelings arc thus integrated with the action in a way that was not ordinarily possible in sentimental comedy. The rise of bourgeois tragedy is \'ery important. There had been Elizabethan ' domestic tragedies', but it was still felt, in the early cighteenth century, that rcal tragedy was necessarily confined to persons of high social rank. Now insistently, the claim was made that tragic feeling was � general human ]ll'opcny, and that in the ordinary and the everyday a serious tragic drama could be based: S t.l'ipp'd of Regal Pomp, and glaring Show,
I-lIS Muse I'Cports a Tale of Private \Voc,
W'orks up Distress from Common Scencs in Life,
'lei
A TI'eaeh'I'OllS Brolher, and an Injur'd \Yife.
the claim had to be urged ; it could not be assumed: From lower life we draw our Scenc's Distress: - LeI nOI your Equals move your Pity less. This clevelopmt:nt, narrow as at first it was, is an obvious ancl necessary basis for all serious modcrn drama. If the recogni. tion of tragic situations in ordinary lives was at first confmecl to certain socia! categories - the consequences of debt, extravagance, false dealing, greed - still the advance is real. The range of Elizabethan tragedy is one of major human aspirations lived out in terms of a whole natural order and iLS .Iell�ion gre� from the very scale and intensity o'r the aSpIratiOns, whtch the medieval drama had not known. Bul these heights hacl already been lost by the time when heroic drama held the ficld, and the pseudo.c1assical tragedy of Restoration and Augustan writers shows a similar decline. Bourgt.'ois tragedy is an attempt to begin again, and it is a more relevant creative activity than the heroic and pseudo. classical exercises. 1 1 is social tragedy, often narrow and
The fAng RtlJolulion
The Social History of Dramatic Forms
gone, crude in its terms, but universal tragedy had already t began. more than a century before this bourgeois attemp Tht fAndon Nferchalll is one of the few creative works in l superio� English eighteenth-century drama, and its essentia Dougla.s, IS ity to works in the older manner, like Calo and
o�era-house, and at least five theatres in fashionable pro " . VinCial centrcs. By IBoo, the position in London was little improved, but there were now about forty theatres in the . provlllces. By 1 8so, there were twenty-one theatres i.l
ballad The third interesting new form of this period is the challenge to -class middle us conscio a is again this and opera, the ballad aristocratic taste. The extraordinary success of for on re incipal pr one �his was � operas was short-lived, but .' and l satire, pollllca was e impuls thcir of part that a large . a nalive this was cut off by the Licensing Act of 1737. As
theatres
288
evident.
which challenge to the fashionable taste for Italian opera, suc its and (q28) Opera 's Beggar had begun in 1 70S, Tht . the and , feehng and style in e creativ cly genuin cessors are loss ofthis tradition was very damaging. as a The curious fact about eighteenth-century drama and tragedy ois bourge in se, respon e creativ whole is that a period ofmiddle early this in made, fact in was , -opera ballad (There is a class culture, yct then in cffect this was lost. th and the Hogar in relapse and similar casc of challcnge bourge�is of pment develo The on.) traditi subsequcnt ngland dld tragedy passed to France and Gcrmany,. and . III the nme not get it back, at any serious level, untt! late a major form. tecnth century, when Ibsen was raising it to tradition of The ballad-opera disappeared, and the:: weaker our own until d comic opera had again to serve Englan same the of se respon e creativ a century. The realist novel, r, stronge much always \;35 class, same the by period and les, between but it too went back, except for Isolated examp having made 1750 and the I 83OS. It is as if the middle �lass, theatre, the the til least at , lacked ge, its dramatic challen a whole \:3S � t resul The h. throug this carry to zation organi . oflllfcnor vanety a by an expanding thc."ure, butan e flooded theatres in fonns. In 1600 there had been six successful ation, Restor the of ing narrow the after 700, 1 in London; Theatres there were only two. By 1 750, though the:: two Patent s and an were still dominant, there we::re five other theatre
�
289
London, and about seventy-five in the provinces. By Igoo,
after the period of real expansion, there were sixty-three . III London, fony music-halls, and more than three hundred theatres in the provinces. It looks from this as if
there could, from ' 750, have been a genuine dramatic expansion, at many different levels, but in fact the period
�
r�� I 7So to 18so is the most barren i n our dramatic history, Iflt IS w�rk of any lasting value we are looking for. Gnly the . bncfrevlval of high comedy, by Goldsmith and Sheridan ill the 1 77?S, stands out. The explanation of the paradox - an expandIng theatre and a declining drama- lies in one crucial
f�ct: that throughout this period, with the temporary excep tions of Goldsmith and Sheridan, the connexion bctween the theatre and literature was virtually lost. The new class was served, in print, not only by new popular work, but by a . dcvcl0plllg literary tradition and a new tradition of serious journalism. In the theatre, although the creative response had been made, the m<'Uor expansion was served at a very low level throughout: farce, pantomime, bUl'lcsquc, spec tacularshows, and then, from the beginning ofthe nineteenth century, melodrama. It is true that Shakespeare began to be played more often, in this samepel'iod, but not only were most such performances either adapted texts or simply occasions for spectacle and acting display; a further consequence was t e cult ofShakcspearean drama, as a literary modeJ, which
�
dIstracted attention from the possibilityofnew contemporary forms. By the early nineteenth century, the frequency of plays written only 10 be read bears discouraging witness to the separation of the theatre from lilerafUre which was every. where the dominating factor. In such a situation, not only does the theatre lose a vital ciemenr, in the scrious dramatist, but also dramatic literature suffers, as it turns from contem porary possibilities and tends to work in dead forms. The Romantic movement, as a whole, produced one line of great
The Long RevolUlion
The Social History of Dramatic Forms
drama, from Faust to Pur Cjllt and beyond, but also the useless
and the lines were not easily drawn) . The music-halls, at
form of the costume-intrigue which, while theatrically
291
first attached to taverns and then taking over or building new
successful, was in fact a dead end.
premises, sprang up as the old 'illegitimate' theatres went
The complicated nature of the relations between a new class and effective new forms is thus very evident, in the
their traditions. It is common to make a sentimental valua
'legitimate', and much that they did was a continuation of
history of English middle-class drama. ''''e can perhaps look
tion of the music-halls as c.xpressing the spirit of 'Old
again at the time-scale of such a development, discouraging as this s i . The eighteenth-century middle class broke up the old forms, which rested on meanings and interests that had
England' (which is nonsense in that what they expressed was not old), or as signs of great cultural vitality. In fact the
decayed. Alternative forms were created, but were relatively
music-hall was a very mixed institution, and there is a direct line from the chaos oflhe eighteenth-century theatre through
when the class had built its major social institutions, was there
the music-halls to the mass ofmaterial now on television and in Ihe cinemas, which it is stupid to overlook. To complain
an eff<."C . tive turning towal·ds the making of a distinctive cul
of contemporary work of these kinds - from striptease shows
tural tradition at all levcls of seriousness. I n the theatre this
to' pop' singers - and to use the music-hall as an example of
was later than in print, mainly because of the theatre's COIl
contrasting vitality or health, is to ignore the dear evidence
tinued associaLion whh the fringes of the class, rather than its centre. By the 1 830s, the solid expansion, in newspapers,
which established these kinds of entertainment. If you don't
isolated or temporary in their success. Only much later,
that it was the illegitimate theatres and the music-halls
periodicals, books; and theatres, is clear, and it is in this
like it in one century, you can't reasonably like it in another,
generation, in a number of ways - Reform Bill 1832, Stamp
and the attendant features of fashionable booms, fantastic
Duty reduction 1836, Patent Theatre monopoly ended 1843,
salaries, and high-pressure publicity arc all equally evident
Stamp Duty abolished [ 855 - that the restrictions of older
in music-hall history. 'Vhat can be said, however, and what
social forms arc removed. Only from this period is there
remains important in similar work today, is that alongside
cultural advanec over the whole field. In the theatre, cer
the Champagne Charlies and the plush-and-tinsel extrava
tainly, this was to remain slow : though new and more serious
ganzas and the jingo spectacles and songs, there were some
sixties, with Robertson, that the attempt begun by Lillo and
performers \-V. G. Ross (' Sam Hall, Chimney Sweep '), Jenny Hill, Dan Leno, Albert Chevalier, Marie Lloyd and
audiences were now being gathered, it was not until the
-
Gay was seriously rcsumcd, and at a level as crude as if there
others - who brought to perrormanee new kinds and areas or
had becn no precedents. Yet then, in a wave of theatre
experience which
building (27 new theatres in the West End between 1860 and
unreasonably despised. The urban working class created in the Industrial Revolution found in these performers their most authentic \·oiees, and this part of the music-hall tradi
Igao,
together with rapid expansion in Ihe suburbs and
provinces) the revival moved quickly, and by the turn of the century England again had a serious and well-attended
drama. Before we HIm to Ihis latest phase, we must glance also at the growth of the music-hall, from the 184Os. With
the 'legitimate' drama neglected or
tion is certainly to be honoured. But, as in the eighteenth
century, the creative response had to take its place in very mixed institutions, often pursuing quite different ends, so that
the ending oftIle monopoly ofthe Patent Theatres, the minor
it is easy either to overlook or to oven·alue it. The quick ofa
theatres of London moved increasingly into 'legitimate'
new life is unmistakably there, but it could no more establish
drama (they had previously been kept to 'illegitimate' forms
itself, in whole forms and institutions, than earlier responses
because of the monopoly, although this was never absolute
in periods of comparable change.
The Long Revolution
TIle Social History cifDramatic Forms
'93
v
the criticism ofsuch laws, in the Ugh t ofparticular experience.
The flood of farces, melodramas, and spectacles has never
new stage of individualism. Earlier tragedy had shown the
slackened, and indeed a large P
height of individual aspirations, but had ended by vindi·
It has been liberal in the important sense that it represents a
drama, with the expansion of distribution through the
eating the law which opposed them. The modern hero, in
cinema, wircless, and television, is simply a continuation of the cighteenth.eentury story. Further, the majority form of
soeial tragedy, is characteristically a man who rebels against some law, in any of its possible forms: the heroism lies in the
serious drama in Englanu, resting on a steady middle·class
rebellion, and is vindicated even in defeat. In some work,
audience, has been sentimental comedy - refined in many
further, the rebellion is generaliz;ed, in terms of alternative
ways by the influence of the novel, which had taken this
values and laws: the liberal hero becomes the hero as
form of fecling to considerable levels of achievement; yet
liberator.
still, in play after play, the recognizable configuration of
In fact this work has rested on a particular kind of social
good·
support, with audiences drawn f rom groups committed to
hearted error. The serious revival is not here, but mainly in
reform, or at least prepared to give it a hearing. The incrcase in such groups, in the last decades or the nineteenth century, was reRected in theatre audienccs, in Francc, Germany,
fashionable sentiments,
tender melancholy,
and
the m
Russia, and England, and the new drama rested substantially
aims: the admission ofordinary contemporary experience to
on this tendcncy, which in its turn it strengthened. One
tragic status. Indeed, the success is such that ' bourgeois ' can
notable social development is the growth of ' free theatres ' and theatre·elubs, which dates from thc l870s, and which
be dropped, and what we then have is the important modern form of ' social tragedy '. The distinction that matters, by comparison with Greek or Renaissance tragedy, is that the
provided an effective alternative platform for the new work. Weare still in this period, as the history of English drama and
centre of interest, in the modern form, is in experienec of a
theatre in the 1950S (Theatre Workshop, Royal Court)
socia! and sccular kind. The tragic hero is not a man caught
makes clear. It rests, substantially, on an important growth of middle·class dissidence from the majority values of the
in some universal pattern, but at odds with his society and its particular moral laws. The distinguishing feature of the
society, and it has brought social tragedy, and also social
best work in this form, from Ibsen to Miller, is the intense critical seriousness, usually in contact with major intellectual
satire, to their present strength. It has also, since 1 9 18, extended the social scale ofsuch drama to working-class life,
interests, that has been brought to the working·out of such
though this, whil..:: growing, is still a minor element.
experience. It is significant, also, that the form matured at a
Thus, alongside the continuity of the majority middle·class
time when the values of bourgeois society, which carly bour·
theatre, an important new movement has realized many of
geois drama had been created to demonstrate and expound,
the potentialities of the more serious earlier forms. Yet the
were being radically criliciz;ed, in a new period of change.
actual history is not summed up by continuity and this one
Social tragedy, wilh ils offshoot the ' problem play', has been normally 'progressive ' in this sense, til at instead of showing
only being matured when they were already powerfully
(as bourgeois drama, on a narrow base, had shared with Greek and Renai�sanee tragedy in showing) a man judged by an absolute law, it has in large measure been concerned with
new movement. Indeed, the forms ofsocial tragedy were still challenged. The centre of interest, in such forms, was ordin· arily confined to the conflicts of an individual with a particu. lar society. Yet the questioning of values by dis�ident groups
'94
The Long Revolutioll
was often in terms wider than ordinary social criticism. For certain kinds ofexperience, the development and refinement of old forms seemed inadequate, or the development was such that the old [ol"m was broken, and new clements, or new whole forms, were created. Sometimes, as in the Irish theatre, a particular national consciousness united, for a time, in a
single movement, both tht' maturing ofsocial drama and the developmen t and creation of new kinds of play. The lISC of national legends or historical material
romantic drama of FOII.�I and
followed from the
Peer G)'lIt, which had hitherto
been isolated examples of the transformation ofsuch malerial (common enough in ordinary costume-intrigue) by its usc as a dramatic basis for cxperienee ofa religious or philosophical kind, similar in
reach to Greek or Renaissance tragedy. I n development, mainly by
the Irish theatre, for a time, this
Yeats, found audiences, and therefore contact with the work ing theatre, because i t was part ofa general national drama tic movement. I t has also found audiences elsewhere, panicu larly in France where the lISC of classical myth has been of great importance. In England, in its serious examples (for these must be distinguished from Ihe use of histOl'ical or legendary material for sentimental comedy or other older
forms) it has been less successrul in finding a social basis. It has depended, in fael, Oil two kinds or audience: first, one associated with the church, which in some cases has spon
sored such work, and which was the effective basis for the introduction ofEliol's 1\I/lrdu ill lhe Ca/Judra!; second, particu
larly wilh classical material, a limited public with some classical education, usually served by minority broadcasting rather than by theatres. A considerable part or serious modern drama has been in tltis tradition, hut it has been v ir'lll all y halted, hy the tenuity of its links with the working theatre and by the neeessal'ily limited
limited, and at times
character orits natural audiences. At the same time, the rorms of social drama were being extended and somctimes broken, by the pressurc
of HClllal
experience. In early bOUl'gcois tragedy, in spite or the cer tainty of its n;IITOW assumptions, an dement of apparently
The SociaL History of Dramati, Forms
295
non-social experience was eviden t : an clement best defined as f.1.:c. This ordinarily operated, i t is true, to ensure by . eOll1cI d �nce the working-out or certain laws; bUl they were not c h. vme laws, they were fate not providence, and at the stage Ihen reached Ihey supported rather than challenged the form. In thework of Ibsen,cven his in Ihe obviously social plays, this clement or faIe, while sometimes used i n the old
way to enroree an action determined on other grounds, must be seen, finally, in a quite clifferent light. Fate is used to
define kinds of expericnee which the social "ction or the drama will not admit. I t is this pressure, or other kinds of experience, which led to the transformation, by a number of
writers, of the ordinary social forms. By the use or non realistic clements, within a realist framewol'k, thc drama was extended in directions ultimately similar to those or the
developcd romantic drama. \Vhcther the action was formally conte�porary and social, 0" historical and legendary, the �xr:eltence now handled was not confincd to the sphere or : 1I1dLvldual-and-socicty relationships for which the form had been �riginally dcviscd. In J bsen particularly, this develop . ment IS dear and Important, and the new drama of an C$sentially 'symbolic' and uni\·ersal character whatever its _
;
immediate grounds - had important ad\,ant ges in that it started from conventions wifh which audiences were familiar. Yet the rressurc continued, in other directions. The style of bourgeoIs drama, with its essentially conytrsational prose
�)ad been adcquate ror the ends first proposed, but seemed
madequale for these further purposes. Naturalism, as the style ha come to called, rested essentially on the original
�
�
assump tIOIlS : that III thc apparent action of everyday lire tile essentla l va ues cou! be demon�trated. The revolt against . naturalism IS, essel1llally, a growing disbc1ier that this is in
�
�1
f.1.ct possible. The importance of 'unconscious ' and i n any case unc..xpressed experience is one ractor in Ihis. Another faelor, clearly, is the growing conviction that human values
�
cannot be .a equatcly considered in terms of existing social values : thIS mdecd was part of the original revolt which brought social drama to its maturity. Thus the bases of the
The Social History if Dramatic Fomu
TIle Long Revoiutioll
'96
increasingly old form, in language and in action, were rejected. have emerged Two new forms ofconsiderable importance, , which, drama verse modern the is One . rejcctio t from his action, has u�cd t s li natura of work frame a ing accept while of exprcsstng the greater range of dramatic verse as a way could not terms, ry ordina its in , experience which the action the lC� ut a, dra le valuab some \0 led has � express. This , IIlhcrent III deney to dissociate the language from the action problems in the anempt has led to certain very diflicuh form is the new other The orm. f unified creating a g nllindy up the kcn br usly conscio has which ? play, ' ' e."prcssionist ate these naturalist framework of action, and seeks to articul which refcr farther ranges of expericnce by devising sccnes not t ese or r whethe mind, the of y activit primarily to the ble actIOn. observa and t explici in sion expres find lly norma sionist drama As the romantic drama uses myth, so the expres action which an of sense on comm Ihc seeks to create myth in this as imes At ence. experi sal univr � o area c-'tprcsses an ng the actlOll been an extremely individualist drama, expressI s have reality ofa single mind at a level at which olher person the mctl les, cxam �od othel' In terms. p' only in that mind's the ki nd of s tensIOn and s change s expres to uscd has been i analysed, s which emerge when history is studied, ora society details of the in nt, appare rily but which arc not necessa the ecting aff ly radical be may they when cven local action ionism ' and common li! . Thus we have ' personal exprcss of con�io�s 'social expressionism ', at vcry different levels thiS hne made have Brecht of ce influen ness. Thc success and m�nt, expcri. tic drama t curren in ant, import c-'tceptiona!!y or�allOn yet much ofBrcc\ll's success is due \0 his late lfans appllcallon of of this always potentially opaque form by the generally both is which system tual a moral and intellec powerrul and individually distinguished. . Twentieth-century drama, for the fll'St lime slOce the
�
�
�
l�
�
f
�
�
.
Renaissance drama broke up, is a major activity, and one
which has recovered, in certain areas, its vital links with
literature, and, through dcsign, with other major arts. The
297
revival of English opera, and the attempt to write serious contemporary musical plays, add to its growing importance, Drama today is more widely disseminatcd than ever hefore ill history, though the theatres are often in difficulties since
new �cdia or pCI{ormancc, in cincmas, broadcasting, and . teleVISIOn, ha\'e been developed. J\iuc-h of the increased
distribution has simply expanded the older forms, but equally, the great flexibility of the new media has been an important clement in the actual realization of the newer forms; versc dt'ama in broadcasting, expressionism and
serious romantic drama in all the media and particulady in the cinema, social drama of an expanded kind, again in all
the media, have been grcady aidcd, i n terms both ofdramatic method and of audicnces. I t is n!!ver casy, in one's own
generation, to sce whether the situation is that of 1630 or 1735, with plcnty ofactivity but on no lasting basis, or that of 1590 or 1890, at the beginning of a major movement. In terms of social history, the fact5 now are that drama of all kinds is regularly reaching the largest audiences i n its history. Yet the confusion of forms, and in particular the
separati<,>n, very evident at some points, between minority . and maJonty drama, are scriously limiting factol'S. It is obvious that we are living through a revolutionary period in which the creativc response through new forms is clear. At !he same time thcse normally depend on minority social
groups, and the emergence of a relatively unified audience like the medieval or Elizabethan, seems unlikely in th theatre, though in the cincma and television i t may be in
�
process off<,>r�ation. vVe cannot forecast what will happen, but one pnnclple may be suggcsted. It is not merely the appearance of new audiences, but the crcative discovery of new fonns capable of c-xpressing the meanings and values of substantial groups in these audiences, which determines dramatic history. The new audiences can come and not be selved, at any important level, and therc can be actual dccad:nce within apparent cxpansion. The discover)' ofsuch
�
forms IS the work o ercative individuals, but the necessary . conventIOns �nd attitudes to cnsure a form's survival depend
rite Long ReIJollllioli
298
on a degree of correspondence
between the individual dis
covery and the new gcncral consciousness. Of
our curre�t
forms, the strength of social drama, of a generally nat�rahst kind, lies in its rele\'ance to the lives of its expanded audIence, in
an art that has tended to restrict its content to a compara
may be its normal restriction, revolt' to themes of WhiCh, though rising III times
the
0:
slIeh drmna . penod ?f indi\'idual in conflict with IllS society,
tively narrow area of society. The weakness
from the
h�ral
to issues ofgeneral significance,
to
can come resemble the isolation and breakdown of so ne : expressionist drama, serving a minority group but !cavmg
othcr forms, even irifcrior forms, apparently nearer to g�ncl'al
experience . Confl ict of a diffcrent kind, between particular human values and certain established definitions of IHlInan
scope and purpose, can, on the other hand, in tl�e �xpanded and agam III expr�
drama, rcach out to and articulate a more genel'al changc conscio�sncss . 1 believe our crisis to bc a social crisis, but its conditions arc such that neither the simple libcralism, of the
social drama, in some romantic
III
sionism
man who dissents, nor the sct conflict, between an abuse and
ils remedy, an authority and its critics, seems able to express . it. The more dynamic forms, capable of reaching o� t inarticulate experience, and to possible and
to common ullIvcr . sal refcrences, seem to me more rcJeyant, lo ouracluallustol1" Thc weaknesses of such forms, hithcrto, seem to me to havc a . social basis in thnt the values ordinarily appealed to, especI ally i n En lish verse drama and in some rom�ntic dra a, � have been based, not on contemporary expencllce (�vhlch
�
docs
not necess;\rily require explicit contemporary �ct.tlng or
reference) but on the pn:seI'yed v�lues of othe�' SOCietieS and . other drama, the them beU1 esscnua ly � . opposed the general directions of our fh. s, willie
groups supporting
to
soclcty.
u
�
the socially reforming minority has fall?n sh�rt 01 the true scale the changes, minority maklllg wldcr l·cferel�ce . has been limited by consistent reference to a past In whIch
of
alone
it
the
tends to find value and meaning. Yet, from some
directions, adequate forms seem to be coming into existence, with
a common
characteristic that they
arc
capable of
TI,e Social His/Dry of Dramatic Forms
299
handling movcment, and ofl'eaehing certain kinds ofexperi ence which dissolve Ihe fixed categories of the individual and
society as these have been ordinarily expres sed. The dyna mism of which film technique and the expres sionist theatre have bcen masters, with the association of contcm porary music, dance and a more varied dmmatic langua ge, seem to me the clcmcnts which correspond our actual social his tory. may be better able to consider them, and grasp their connexions with movcments and ideas, on which they will undoubtedly depend, ifwc can accept the argument that dramatic forms have 01 real social history, in prospect as well as in l'ctrospec\. Though mLieh is uncerta in, in so wide and complex a field, it seems to me that we can accept the fact of such a history, from the real relations that [ have examined. Complicated as it is by delay, by the unevenness ofchange, and by the natural variety ofresponscs change, only some of which achieve adequate communicatio n, outline surely exists, in which we can see drama , not only a social lI!'t, but as a major and practical index of change and creator consciousness.
to
\Vc
to
actual
to
the as
of
30 I
Realism and the C07ltemporary NQvel
7 REALISM AND
T H E C O N T E M P ORARY NOVEL a n English critical term THE centenary of ' realism' as 1956 . Its history, in this in rated celeb not occurred but was complicated and so bitter hundred years, has been so vast, so , turned mlO a brawl. have that any celebration would in fact identified, pinned down, Yet realism is not an object, to be way of describing certain and appropriated. It is, rather, a iptions, quite naturally, methods and attitudes, and the descr and development of ange have varied, in the ordinary exch sidering these des recon been have 1 experience. Recently, ing and generalizing criptions, as a possible way of defin ods and substance meth certain personal observations on the down: first, the sct to ose prop now of contemporary fiction . r e term; second, iptiv dcscr a as sm' reali ' in existing variations ern novel has mod the my own vicw of Ihe ways in which sm. rcali of ing mean developed ; third, a possible new ical use techn le simp a bcen , ning bcgin Thcre has, from the vividness of a and sion preci the i\)e descr to ', of ' rcalism l. In fact, as we shall rendering in art ofsome observed detai the latcr eomplcxi all ves invol use sec this apparently simple rate to distin accu y ientl suffic lly, iuitia ed, but it seem opposed to as technique from others : realism guish inning, this beg the from idealization or caricature. But, also nt: certain conte to ence refer a by ed technical sense was flank by contrast with again m, realis as seen wcre ct kinds ofsubje definition was in terms of different kinds. The most ordinary reality, as opposed to day every an ordinary, contemporary, dary subjects. In the legcn or ntic, roma c, traditionally heroi cacy and support of period since the Renaissance, the advo reality' have been rary this ' ordinary, everyday, contempo le class, the bourmidd rising the normally associated with
tic;,
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gcoisie, Such material was called ' domestic' and' bourgeois' . was called ' realistic', and the eonnexions are clear. before It In literature the domestic drama and above all the novel both devcloping in early eighteenth- entury E gland witl . . the nse of an mdependent middle class, have been the main vehicles of this new consciousness. Yet, when the 'realist' description arrivcd, a further development was taking place. both m content and in altitudes to it. A common adjective used with 'realism' was 'startling', and, within the main� s�ream of ' ordinary, eon�cmporary. everyday reality' a par ticular current of attentIOn to the unpleasant, the exposed �he sordid could be distinguished. Realism thus appeared In part a revolt against the ordinary bourgeois view of the world ! the ..�alists wcre.m�kinga furtherse1ection ofordinary materml which the maJonty of bourgeois artists preferred to ignore. Thus ' realism ', as a watchword, passed over 10 the pl"Ogressive and revolutionary movements. This history is paralleled in the development of' natural ism', which again had a simple technical sense to describe a particular method of art, but which underwe l the charae �eristic.broadcnin� to 'ordinary, everyday reality ' and then, In particular relation to Zola, became the banner ofa rcvolu tionary school - what the Daily News in t88r called ' that unnecessarily failhful portrayal of oA"ensive incidents '. Th.os. entwined with technical descriptions, there were in the Ilmeteenth-century meanings doctrinal affiliations. The most positive was Strindberg's definition of naturalism as the e.'I(c1usi�:m of Cod : naturalism as opposed to supernaturalism, aceordlllg to the philosophical precedents. Already, how� cve�, efore the end of the century, and with increasing c1arIlYI? OU� own,' realism ' and ' naturalism 'were separated : naturahsm III art was reservcd to the simple technical refer ence, while realism, though retaining elements of this was ' used to describe subjects and attitudes to subjects. he main twentieth-century development has been curIOus. In the ''\o'cst, alongside the received uses a usc of ' realisn � ' in the sense of' fidelity to psychologica.l r ality' has been Widely evident, the point being made that we can be
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The umg Revollliioll
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convinced of the reality of an experience, of its essential realism, by many diffCl cnt kinds of artistic method, and with no necessary restriction ofsubject-mauer to th� ordm�ry, the contemporary, and the everyday. In the Soviet Umon, on
the other hand the earlier definitions of realis m have been maintained an extendcd, and the elements of 'socialist realism ' as defined may enable us to see the tradition more clearly. here are f ur of these clements : narodnosl, lipic!mosl, idtinosl, and parliinosl. Narodnosl is in effcct technical, tho�gh also an expression of spirit : the rcquirement ofp�pular slDl . . plicity and traditional clarny, as opposed to the d cultl�s of ' formalism'. ldei1los1 and parliinosl refer to the Ideological
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content and partisan affiliations of such reali�m, and j�st as narC/dnost is a restatement ofan ordinary techlllcal mealllng of rcalism so idtillost and parliillosl are developments of the ideolog cal and revolutionary attitudes already described.
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There is a perfectly simple sense in which ' socialist re�lism' can be distinguished from 'bourgeois rcalism ', in relauon to these changes in ideology and affiliation. Much Western wi�h its own popular literature is in fact '. urgcois re.alisn', � ad ordmary Its with and versions of ideinosl and parllmost,
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herence to norodnosl. I t is in relation to the fourth element, tipichnosl, that the problem bl'Oadens. . . Engels defined ' realism' as ' typical characters III typical situations' which would pass in a quite ordinary sense, but which in is case has behind it the body of Marxist thinking. Tipiclmost is a development ofthi.s definition, which radically pic �l', y affects the whole question of realism. For �he ' t
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ich Soviet theorists tell us, ' must not bcconfused with that wh is frequently encountered' ; the truly typical is based ?n ' comprehension of the laws and perspectives of future SOClal development' . Without now consideri.ng the applicati�� of . I this, in the panicular case of Soviet literature (th� cnt . MII z touchstone, here, is the excellence of Sholokhov, 11\ T DOll and Virgill Soil Uptumed, as against the exterllal pattcrn of
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Alexei Tolstoy'S Road to Calvary), we can see that �he concept of tipichllost alters ' realism ' from its sense of the dll�cct repro duction of observed reality: ' I'ealism' becomes, mstead, a
Realism and the COl/temporary Novel principled l'Ind organized selection.
303
If' typical' is understood
as the most deeply characteristic human experience, in an
individual or in a society (and clearly 1-larxists think of it as this, in relation to their own deepest beliefs), then it is clearly not far from the developed sense of the 'con\'incingly real' criterion, now commonplace in the "Vest in relation to works ofmany kinds, both realist and non-realist in technique. And it is not our business to pick from this complex story the one use
that we favour, the onc true 'realism' . Rather, we must
receive the actual meanings, distinguish and darify them, and set: which, if any, may be useful in describing our actual responses to literature. The major tradition ofEuropean fiction, in the nineteenth century, is commonly described as a tradition of' realism ', and it is equally assumed that, in the 'Vest at
including thosc novels we continue to regard as literature, the ordinary criteria of realism still hold. It is not only that there is still a eoncelltration on contemporary themes; in
many ways clements of ordinary everyday experience are more evident in the modern novel than in the nineteenth
century novel, through the disappearance of certain taboos. Certainly nobody wiU complain of the modern novel that it
lacks those startling or offensi\'e elcments which it was one of the purposes of the tcrm ' realism ' to describe. Most des
cription is still realistic, in the sense that describing thc object as it actually appears is a pl'incipIe few novelists would dissent from. What we usually say is that the realistic novel has been replaced by the 'psychological novel ', and it is obviously true that the direct study of certain st,lIes ofconsciousness, certain newly apprchended psychological statl'S, has been a primary model'll feature. Yet realism as an intention, in the descrip. tion of these statcs, has not been widely abandoned. Is it merely tbat ' everyday, ordinal'y reality ' is now differently concei\'ed, and that new techniques have been de\'eloped to
, 304
Realism and the Contemporary Novel
The Limg Revolulion
describe this new kind of reality, but still with wholly realistic , but intentions ? The questions are obviously very difficult take to be may them to answer an hing one way of approac cd (deveJo� ncd abando have we that belicr ordinary this beyond) the realistic novcl, and tosct besi?e it my. own feehn� It that there is a formal gap in modern fiction, which makes or kin� a ce, experien of kind onc g expressin incapable of experience which I find particularly important and for WhiCh,
in my mind, the word ' realism' keeps suggesting itself. Now the novel is not so much a literary form as a whole literature in itsclf. Within its wide boundaries, there is room for almost evcry kind of contemporary writing. Great I��rm is done to thc tradition offiction, and to the necessary crllical of discussion of it, if' the novel' is equated with any one kind l prose work. I t was such a wrong cquation which mad� T� stay say of IVar (wd Peace : ' i t is not a nove� '. A for� whle? In
Middlcmarclt and All/a do Fe, Wfliltermg Htlghts i Jdowzlain, is ry and Huckleber Finn, The Rail/bow and The Aiagc
fact includes
indced, as I have said, more like a whole literature. In draw ing attention to what secms to me now a formal gap, I of course do not mean that this whole vast form should be directed to filling it. But because it is like a whole literature,
any formal gap in the novel seems particularly important. When I think of the I'calist tradition in fiction, I think of the kind of novel which creates and judges the quality of a whole way of life in terms or the qualities of persons. The balance involved in this achievement is perhaps the most
important thing about it. It looks at first si�ht so general a thing, the sort of thing most novels do. It IS wh�t .-Yar and Ptace docs' what Middlemarch does; what The Rambow does. Yet the di�tinclion of this kind is that it offers a valuing ofa whole way of life, a society that is larger than any of the
individuals composing it, and at the same time valuing crea tions of human beings who, while belonging to and affected by and helping to define this way oflife, are also, in their.own s absolute ends in themselves. Neither element, neither term the s iety nor the individual, is there as a priority. The
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society is not a background against which the personal
305
relationships arc studied, nor arc the individuals merely illustrations of aspects of the way of
life. Every aspect of
personal life is radically affected by the quality oflhe general
life, yet the gencral life is seen at its most important in com pletely personal terms. We attend with our whole senses to every aspcct of the general life, yet the centre or value is always in the individual human person - not any one isolated person, but the many persons who are the reality of the general life. Tolstoy and George Eliot, in particular, often said, in much these terms, that it was this view they were trying to rcalize.
Within this realist tradition, there arc ofcourse wide varia_ tions of degrce ofsucccss, but such a viewpoint, a particular apprehension of a relation between individuals and society, may be scen as a mode. It must be remembered that this viewpoint W;LS itself the product of maturity; the history of the novcl from the eighteenth century is essentially an ex ploration towards this posilion, with many preliminary failures. Thc eighteenth-century novel is formally most like our own, undcr comparable pressures and uncertaintics, and it was in the deepening understanding of the relations be tween individuals and societies that tlle form actually mat ured. When it is put to me that the realist tradition has broken down, it is this mature viewpoint that I sec as having been lost, under new pressures of particular experience. I do not mean that it is, or should be, tied to any particular style. The kind of realistic (or as we now say, naturali stic) descrip tion that 'went out with the hansom cab' is in no way essenLial toit; it was even, perhaps, in writers like Bennelt, a substitute for it. Such a vision is not realized by detailed stocktaking descriptions of shops or back-parlours or station waiting rooms. These may be used, as elements ofthe action, but they are not this cssential realism. If they are put in, for the sake of description as such, they may in fact destroy the balance that is the essence of this method; they may, for example. transfer attention from the people to the things. It was actu ally this very feeling, that in this kind offully-furnished novel evctything was present but actual individual life, that lcd, in T-c
306
The UJ/lg Revolution
the 19:2OS, to the disrepute of' tcalism '. The extreme reaction . was in Virginia \'\Ioolr's The WOVlS, where all the fur�Jturc, and even the physical bodies, have gone out of the wmdow, and we are left with voices and feelings, voices in the air - an equally damaging unbalance, as we can now sec. It may indC1:d be possible to write the history of the modern Il?vel
Re(lliJm and tile CO/ltemporary Novel 307 apparmtly nearest to what I am calling the realist novel, but the crucial distinction isquite apparent in reading : the social- . dcscriptive function is in fact the shaping priority. A very lively kind ofsocial novel, quite different from this, is now significantly popular. The tenor, here, isnot descrip tion, but the finding and matcrialization of aformll/a about
in terms ora polarization or styles, object-realist and s�lbJect
society. A particular pattern is abstracted, from the sum of
mainly occurred since ,goo, is the division �fthe rea hst no\'�,
The simplcst examples are in the field of the futurc-story,
in terms of the substance and qualities of persons, into tWO
always i t is obviously contemporary society that
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impressionist, but the morc essential polarization, ' hlch has which had created the substance and quality ora way oChre separate traditions, the 'social' novel and the ' persollal' . novel. In the social novel there may be accurate observation and description of the general life, the aggregation ; in the personal novel there may be accurate observation aJld des . . . cription of persons, the lImts. Bul each lacks a dimensIOn, for the way of life is neither aggrcgation nor unit, but a whole
indivisiblc process.
We now commonly make this distinct'ion between ' s?ci�l ' and ' personal ' novels ; indeed in one way we take thiS diS tinction of interest for granted. By looking at some examples, the substantial issue may be made clear. There are now two
main kinds of ' social' novel. There is, first, the descriptive a social novel, the documentary. This creates, as priority, . mtll llty. general way ortifc, a particular social or working com . . 'VVithin this, of course, arc characters, sometimes qUIte care fully drawll. But what we say about such novels is tl�at if.we want to know about life in a mining town, or in a ullLverslty, or on a merchant ship, or on a patrol in Burma, this is the
book. In fact many novels of this kind are valuable; the good documentary is usually interesting. It is right that novels of this kind should go on being writtcn, and with the greatest possible val'ielY of se1ting. Yct the dimension that we miss is obvious : the charactcrs are miners, dons, soldiers first; illus
trations of the way of life. It is not the emphasis I have been trying to describe, in which thc pcrsons are of absolute inter est in themselves and are yet seen as parts of a whole way of living. Of all cu rent kinds of novel, this kind, at its best, is
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social experience, and a socicty is created from this pattern. where the ' future' device: (usually only a dcvice, for nearly is
being
written about; indccd this is becoming the main way of writing about social experience) removes the ordinary ten sion between the selected pattern and normal observation.
Brave New fVorltl, NinetUII Eighl)'-Follr, Fahrtllheit
151, are
powerful social fiction, in which a pattern taken from con temporary society is materialized, as a whole, in another time
Lord of ti,e Flies and TIle II/heritors, and ncady al! serious ' science fiction' . Most of
or place. Other examples are Golding's
these are written to resemble realistic novels, and operate in the same esscntial terms. Most of them contain, fundamen tally, a conception of the relation between individuals and society; ordinarily a virtuous individual, or small personal group, against a vile socicty. Thc action, normally, is a re lease of tensions in this personal-social complex, but I say release, and not working-out, because ordinarily the dcvice subtly alters thc tcnsions, places them in a preselected light, so that it is not so much that they are explored but indulged. The experience of isolation, of alienation, and of self-exile is an important part of the contemporary structure of feeling, and any contemporary realist novel would have to come to real terms with it. (It is ironic, incidentally, that it was come to terms with, and worked (0 a resolution very different from the contemporary fonnula of' exile versus masses; stalemate', at several points in the realist tradition, notably in Crime alld
PuniJhmtlZt
and, through Bezukhov, in
f¥ar and Place.)
Our
formula novels are lively, because they arc about lively social feelings, but the obvious dimension they lack is that of a
308
The Long Revolution
substantial society and correspondingly substantial persons. * For the common life is an abstraction, and the pcrsonal lives are defmed by thcir function in the formula. The 'realist' novel divided into the 'social' and the 'personal', and the 'social novel ', in our time, has further divided into social documentary and social formula. It is true that examples of these kinds can be found from earlier periods, but they were never, as now, the modes. The same point holds for the ' personal novel ', and its corresponding division into documenu\ry and formula. Some of the best novels of our time are those which describe, carefully and subtly, selected personal relationships, These are often very like parts of the realist novel as described, and there is a certain continuity of method and substance. Forster's A Passage to India is a good e:'1ample, with traces of the older balance still clearly visible, yet belonging, in a high place, in this divided kind, because ofc1emcnts in the Indian society ofthe novel which romanticize the acmal society to the needs of certain of the characters. This is quite common in this form: a society, a gencral way of living, is apparently there, but is in fact oftcn a highly personalized landscape, to clarify or frame an individual portrait, rather than a country within which the individuals arc actually contained. Graham Greene's social settings arc obvious examples: his Brighton, West Africa, Mexico and Indo-China have major elements in common which relate not to their actual ways of life but to the nc..-cds of his characters and of his own emotional pattern. When this is frankly and absolutcly done, as in Kafka, there is at least no confusion; but ordinarily, with a surface of realism, therc is merely the familiar unbalance, There is a lack of dimension similar to that in the social descriptive novel, but in a different direction. There the characters were aspects of the society ; here the society is an aspect of the characters. The balance we remember is that in whieh both the general way oflife and the individual persons are seen as there and absolute. Of course, in many personal novels, oflen very good in their own terms, the general way oflife docs not appear even
Realism and the Contemporary Novel
309
in this partial guise, but as a simple backcloth, of shopping and the outbreak ofwar and buses and odd minor characters fr0'!l another social class. Society is outside the people, though at times, even violcntly, it breaks in on them. Now of course, where there is deliberate selection. deliberate concentration, such personal novels are valuable, since there is a vast field of significant experience, of a directly personal kind, which can be excilingly explored. But i t seems to mc that for evcry case of conscious selection (as in Proust, say, where the con centration is elllirely justified and yet produces, obliquely, a mastcr-portrait of a general way oflife) there are perhaps a thousand cases wherc the restriction is simply a failure of consciousness, a failure to reali7.e thc extent to which the substance of a general way of life actively affects the closest personal experience. Of course if, to these writers, society has become the dull abstract thing of the social novel at its worst, it is not surprising that they do not see why it should concern them. They insist on the people as people first, and not as social units, and they are quite right to do so. What is missing, however, is that clement of common substance which again and again the great realists seemed able to apprehend. Within the small group, personality is valued, ut outside the group it is nothing. We are people, one some. times hears between the lines; to ItS thesc things arc import. ant; but the strange case of the Virginia Woolf'charwoman' or 'village woman', with the sudden icy drop in the normally warm sensibility, symbolizes a common limitation. And this is not only social exclusiveness or snobbery, though it can be diagnosed in such ways, but also a failure to realize the nature of the general social clement in OUT own lives. We are people (such novels say), people,just like that; the rest is the world or society or politics 01' something, dull things that are written about in the newspapers. But in fact we arc people and people wilhin a society : that ....hole . view was at the centre of the realist novcl. In spite of its limitations, the personal-descriptive novel is often a substantial achievement, but Ihe tendencies evident in it seem incl'casingly to be breaking it down into the other
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TIle ung Revolution
Realism alld tile Contemporary Novel
personal kind, the novel of the personal formula Here, as in : the novel of social formula, a particular pattern IS abstracted
it \'Iere inevitably, towards caricature. (This was also the
process of Dickens, at the limits of what he could openly see
individuals are created from [he pattern. This has been the
opposite sides of the same coin, used to avoid the real
from the sum ofexperience, and not now societies, but human
method of it seems
ix>werful and in its own tcrms valid fielion, i;)Ut
to me to be rapidly creating a new mode, the fictIOn ofspeei.al pleadi.ng. Wccan say ofnovcis in t at they . take only one person senously, but thC l rdmanly vc y
this d� �
? ; seriously indeed. Joyce's Portrait iftiu Artist IS not OI l . ly thl�, but contains it as a main emphasis. And to mentIOn tlus �
remarkable work is to acknowledge the actual gain in inten
sity the real development of fictional method, which this em hasis embodied. A world is actualized on one m� n s
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senses : not narrated, or held at arm's length, but taken as It � lived. Joyce showed the magnificent advantages of method when in
Ub'sses he
tillS
actualized a world not thro�gh one person but through three; therc are three ways ofscclllg, three worlds, of Stephen, Bloom, and Molly, yet the three
worlds, as in fact, compose one world, the whole world ofthe . Ulysses docs not maintain this balance throughout; II . is mainly in the first third of the book that the essenhal composition is done, with the last section as a co.da. Yct cre was the realist tradition in a new form, altered III techmque
novei.
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but continuous in experience.
Since Ulysses, this achievement has been diluted, as the . technique has also been diluted. Cary's The Ho se's .Mouth IS
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an interesting example, for in it onc wax �f seelllg l a� been isolated, and the world fitted to that. Iu I s analYSIS IS also the key
Amis's
to the popular new kind of novel represented by
Thai Uncertain Feelillg and \JVain's Livillg ill tile Presellt.
TIle paradox of these novels is that on the on� hand tbey . seem the most real kind of contemporary wrillng - they were welcomed becausc they recorded so many actual
or state, and earicatun: and sentimentality are in this sense
ncgotiation.·) To set these feelings in our aetual world, rather than in this world farcically transformed at crisis, would be
in fact to qucstion the feelings, to go on from them to difficult
a very qucstioning of reality. Instead of this real tension,
what we get is a phantasy release : swearing on the tc\ephone,
giving a mock-lecture, finding a type-figure
011 which
aggression can be concentrated. Because these are our live.
lieSl writers,
they illustrate our contemporary difficulty most
clearly. The gap between our feelings and our social observa
tion is dangerously wide. The fiction of special pleading can be seen in
its c\ca"["�t
form in those many <:;ontemporary novels which, taking one person's feelings and needs as absolute, create other persons
in thesesoJc terms. This flourishes in the significantly popular first-person narrative, which is normaily used simply for this end. H1Ickleberry Filil/, in its middle sections, creates a general
reality within which the personal narrative gains breadth.
Salinger's Catellu ill Ihe Rye has a saving irony, yet lacks this other dimension, a limitation increasingly obvious as the novel proceeds. Braine's
Room at the Tep
breaks down alto
gether, because there is no other reality to refer to; we are
left with the familiar interaction of crudity and self-pity, a negative moral gesture at best. Compare, for example,
Carson McCullers'
"'fember ef the Wedding,
whicll has its
realist dimension, and in which the rcalityof"personal feeling, growing into phantasy, interacts at the necessary tension with lhe wodd in which the feelings must be lived oul.
on thc opposite side, there is Sagan's Bonjour
01" again,
Tristesse, where
the persons arc presented almost objcctivcly, but are then
feelings - and yet on the other ha�ld thcir final version of . reality is parodic and farcical. TIllS Illustrates th<: gcncral dilemma : these writers stan with real personal feehngs, but
character. A comparison of :McCullers and Sagan is the comparison ofrealism and its breakdown. And it is the break
wodd of action in which thcy operate has to be pressed, as
first-person narrative, all which so much technical brilliance
to sustain and substantiate them, in theil" given form, the
made to act in accordance with the phantasy of the ceniral
down, unfortunately, of which we have most examples ; the
The Long RelJolution
Realism and the Contemporary Nouti
has been lavished, is now ordinarily the mechanism of rationalizing this breakdown. The fiction of special pleading
personal, family and working relationships, and draws its
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extends, however, into novels still formally resembling the realist kind. In Bowen's Heal qf the Day, for example, the persons c..'t.lst primarily as elements in the central char� cter's
emotional landscape, and are never seen or valued In any other terms, though there is no first-person narrative, and
tbere is even some careful descriptive realism, to make the special pleading less stark. As it is now developing, the per sonal novel ends by denying the majority of persons. TIle reality ofsociety is excluded. and this lea'cls, inevitably, in the end, to the exclusion of all but a very few individual people. It is not surprising, in these circumstal�ces, that so mu�h of the perwnal fccling described should be In fact the expenence ofbreakdown. J offer this fourfold classification -social description, social formula, personal description, personal formula - as a way of bcginning a gcneral analysis of th� conte�l?orary nov�l, . and of defining, by contrast, the realist tradItIon whleb, In . various ways, thesc kinds have replaced. The queslIon now . is whethcr these kinds correspond to some altered reahty,
whole strength from their interaction in an indivisible process, the links between persons in most contemporary
novels arc relatively single, temporary, discontinuous. And this was a change in society, at Il':ast in that part of society most nearly available to most novelists, before it was a
change in literary form. Again, related to this, bUl affectl':d by other powerful factors, the characteristic experience ofour cl':ntury is that of asserting and preserving an individuality, (again like much eighteenth-century experience) as com pared with the characteristic nineteenth-century experience of finding a placc and making a settlement. The ordinary Victorian novel ends, as every parodist knows, with a series ofseulements, of new engagements and formal relationships, whereas the ordinary twentieth-century novel ends with a man going away on his own, having extricated himself from adominatingsituation, and found himselfin so doing. Again, this actually happened, before it became a common literary pattern. In a time of great change, this kind of extrication and discovery was a necessary and valuable movement; the recorded individual histories amount to a common history.
leaving the older tradition as really irrelevant as the hansom
And while old establishments linger, and new establishments
cab, or whether they
of a dominating kind arc continually instituted, the break away has continually to bl': made, the personal assertion
deep crisis in experience, which throws up these .talenl�d works yet persists, unexplored, and leaves us essentially diS satisfied. I would certainly not say that the abandonment of the realist balance is in some way wilful; that these writers are deliberately turning away from a great Iradition, with the pervcrsity that many puzzled readers �ign to th�m. The crisis, as I sec it, is too deep for any simple, blamlllg explanation. But wh;!l thcn is this crisis, in its gencral nature ?
given form and substance, even to the point where it threatens to bccome the whole content of our literature.
SineI': I know the pressures, 1 admit the responses, but my case is that we are reaching deadlock, and that to explore a new definition ofrealism may be the way to break out of the
deadlock and find a creative direction. The contemporary novel has hoth refil':cted and illumin ated the crisis ofour society, and ofeourse we could fall baek
There arc certain immediate clarifying factors. The realist
on the arguml':nt that only a different society could resolve
of persons linked not merely by one kind of relationship -
detail of known experience, and any valuable social change
no\'cl needs, obviously, a genuine community: a community work or friendship or family - but many, interlocking kinds. It is obviously difficult, in the twentieth century, to find a community of this sort Where Midd{emarch is a complex of
our literary problems. Yet literature is committed to the would be the same kind of practical and responsible discip line. We begin by identifying our actual situation, and the critical point, as I see it, is precisely that separation of the
The Long Revolution individual and society into absolutes, which we have seen reflected in form. The truly creative effort of our time is the struggle for relationships, of a whole kind, and it is possible to see this as both personal and social: the practieal learning of ex/ending relationships. Realism, as embodied in its great tradition, is a touchstone in this, for it shows, in detail, that vital interpenetration, idea into feeling, person into com munity, change into settlement, which we need, as growing points, in our own divided time. I n the highest realism, society is seen in fundamentally personal tcrms, and persons, through relationships, in fundamentally social terms. The integration is controlling, yct ofcourse i t is not to be achieved by an act of will. Ifit comes at all, it is a creative discovery, and can perhaps only be recorded within the structure and substance ofthe realist novel. Yet, since it is discovery, and not recovery, since nostalgia and imitation are not only irrelevant but hindering, any new realism will be diffetent from the tradition, and will com prehend the discoveries in personal realism which arc the main twentieth-ccntury achievement. The point ean be put theoretically, in relation to modern discoveries in perception and communication. The old, na'ive realism is in any case dead, for it depended on a theory of natural seeing which is now impossible. 'When we thought wc had only to open our eyes to see a common world, wc could suppose that realism was a simple recording process, from which any deviation was voluntary. We know now that we literally create the world we sec, and that this human crcation - a discovery of how we can live in the material world we inhabit - is neces- sarily dynamic and active; the old static realism of the passive obscrver is merely a hardened convention. When it was first discovered that man lives through his perccptual
world, which is a human interpretation of the material world outside him, this was thought to be a basis for the rejection of realism; only a personal vision was possible. But art is more than perception; it is a particular kind of active response, and a part of all human communication. Reality, in our terms, is that which human beings make common, by work
Realism and the CQntemporary Novel
3 15 or language. Thus, in the very acts or perception and com muni�ation, this practical interaction of what is personally
seen, I\h::rpreted and organized and what can be socially � reeoglllzc , known and formed is richly and subtly mani . fcsted, It IS \'ery difficult to grasp Ihis fundamental inter . i the clue we seek, nOt only �ctlon, ut lere, undoubtedly, s I? our tluLlklllg about pcrsonal vision and social communiea tIO�, but also in our thinking about the individual and �Iety: TI�e individual inherits an evolved brain, which gl�� 111m IS common human basis. He Icarns to sec, through tillS IIlhcntance, and through the forms which his culture teaches. But, since the learning is active and since the world he is w�tchi�g is changing and being hallgcd, new acts of perceptlOIl, lIlterprctation and organization arc not only . po slble, but deeply Ilecessary, This is human growth, in . pel.sonal terms, but the esseLlual growth is in the interaction
�
� � �
�
�
winch then can occur, in the individual's effort to conuuuni_ cate what he has learned, to match it with known reality and
�y work nnd l�nguage to make a new reality. Reality is con
tLnuaUy established, by common effort, and art is one of the process, Yet the tcnsion can be great, In the ecessard difficult struggle to establish reality, and � � many klLlds of f.-l.Llure and breakdown are possible. Il seems
?.Ighest forms �r thi�
to me that in a period ofexceptional growth, as ours has been , a�d Will continue to be, the tension will be exceptionally lugh, and ccrtai! � ind� of failllfe and brcakdown may . become characteris tic. 1 he record!!lg of creative effort, to explore su�h breakdowns, is not always easy to distinguish from the Simple, oftcn rawly cxciting exploitation of break do\ �n. Or ,else there is � turning away, into known fDlms, w LI:h rellund WI ofprcvlOusly learned realities and seck, by . tlus remlOdel·, 10 establish probability of a kind. Thus the
�
�
tension can either be lowered, as in the ordinary social no\'cI ?r played on, as in the ordinary personal novel. Either resul IS a departure from realism, in the sense that I am offering. For realism is precisely this living tension achieved in a com�u�li�able OI·m, \"'hethcl' this is secn s a problem of
:
:
�
the mdlvtdual 1Il society, or as a problem of the offered
The Long Reooiution description and the known description, the creative chal· leDge is similar. The achievement of realism is a continual achievement ofbalance, and the ordinary absence ofbalance,
in the forms oftile contemporary novel, can be seen as both a warning and a challenge. Jt is certain that any effort to achieve a contemporary balance will be comple.... and diffi· cult, but thc effort is necessary, a new realism
ifwe are to remain crcativc.
s i
necessary,
PART THREE
B R I T A I N I N THE 1 9605 WE have been trying to develop methods of analysis which, over a range from literature to social institutions, can articu late actual structures of feeling - the meanings and values which are lived in works and relationships
_
and clarify the
processes of historical development through which these structures form and change. I shall attempt, in this part, a desc"iption ofcontemporary Britain in this sense; necessarily only in outline, needing expansion by OIher kinds ofanalysis arid mcasurement, but offering an account of the essential language - the created and creative meanings
_
which our
inherited reality tcaches and through which new reality forms and is negotiated. The context I give to this particular description is the historical process which j have called the long revolution.
As we enter the 1 9605, the effective historical patterns of British society seem reasonably clear. The industrial revolu tion, in an important technical phase,
is continuing. The
cultural expansion, again with new technical developments,
also continues. In the democratic revolution, Britain has recently been mainly in a defensive position, as the colonial peoples move to emancipation. At home it is generally assumed that the democratic process has been essentially completed, with parliamelltary and local government solidly established on universal suffrage, and with the class system apparcntly breaking up. Britain scems, from these pattcrns, a country with a fairly obvious futurc; industrially advanccd, securely democratic, and with a steadily rising gcneral level ofeducation and culture. Therc is substantial truth in this reading. It
s i
not only the
3 20
The lAng Reuolutioll
Britain in the 1960$
general consensus, but most attempts to challenge it seem
unreasonable ; even powerful local criticisms do not funda·
3"
seem ominous signs for a country so dependent on trade and in fact given its prosperity by its early industrial start (now
mentally disturb the sense of steady and general advance.
being rapidly overtaken) and by its Empire (now eithcr dis�
lated, this idea of a good society naturally unfolding i �lf may be exceptionally misleading. It is perhaps an intuitive
or this kind is in fact beginning, but the gap between thinking
Yet in deeper ways, that have perhaps not yet been articu
sense of this that has given such emotional force to the total
denunciations, the sweeping rejections, so characteristic of
appearing or changing its character). Long-term thinking
and vigorous action to implement it seems no ordinary
inertia, but the consequence of habits which, in other parts
of our life, seem satisfactory and even admirable. The deep
recent years, for even when these can be shown to be based
revulsion �gainst general planning, which makes sense again
experience they attest s i still not easily sct aside.
really dis..1.bling in this long run. And this revulsion
on selective evidence and particular minority tensions, the
It seems to me that the first difficulty lies in the common
habit of supposing our society to be governed by single pat
terns, arrived at by averaging the overall trends in familiar
categories of economic activity, political behaviour and
cultural development. As I see the situation, we need quite different forms of analysis, which would enablc us to rccog
nize the important contradictions within each of the patterns described, and, even more crucially, the contradictions between different paris of the general process of change. It
and again in many details of our economic activity, may be is
itself
in part a consequence ofone aspect of the dcmocratic revolu tion - the determination not to be rcgimcnted. Here is a
substantial contradiction that I think now runs very deep.
The very strong case for general planning, not simply to avoid waste but to promote essential development, research
and reorganization, is practically nullified by a wholly
creditable emotion: that we rcject the idea of this kind of cconomic system controlling our lives. True, we arc con
trolled now and will continue to be controlled by a quite
is not only that the analysis should be more flexible, but that
different system, with its own denials and rigidities, but in
are to be recognized. In particular fields we have made some
secondly, by its vcry structure and ideology, it appears to
new categories and descriptions arc needed,
if all the facts
the first place this is vcry much harder to identify, and
progress with these, but in our most general descriptions we
offer, and i n just enough places does offer, the feeling of
exploited by the blandest versions of a natural and healthy
will ever be widely accepted until not only do its forms seem
are all still visibly fumbling, leaving an uncertainty easily evolution, and certainly not redeemed by such general nostrums as the fight for socialism, which remains, after all,
freedom. It seems unlikely that the case for general planning
sensible, but also its methods seem compatible with just this feding of freedom. Democratic planning is an easy phrase,
in terms of this country, almost wholly undefined.
but nobody really knows how it would work, and the spec
ism about Britain's economic future can bc reasonably seen
all not co-existed with any general democracy. This is the
We have to observe, for example, that the ordinary optim
tacular successes of economic planning elsewhere have after
as simple complaccncy. · It is very far from certain that on
severe damage of the contradiction, because it is thcn easy
tions and rate ofgrowth of the economy guarantee us, over
when in fact the need remains urgenl and the problems will not disappear because on balance we find them too difficult to solve.
present evidence and given likely developments the direc
say fifty years, a steadily rising standard of living in this economically exposed and crowded s i land. Both the rapid
rate of economic growth elscwhere, and the certainty of steady industrialization or many areas now undeveloped,
tosupposc that we have found good reasons for not planning,
It remains very difficult, in fact, to think about our
gencral cconomic activity at all. Both its successes and its
3 22
The Long Revolutioll
failures remain obstinately local, and to this kind of descrip tion (particular succes�es announced by their makers, par ticular failures not announced until they erupt in crisis) the only ordinary alternative is an almost useless measurement of total production, as if some single thing were being produced. Economists have done a good deal to make these questions significant, but in ordinary thinking it is either this
Britain in lhe 1960s production, it is necessary to plan ahead and to know the market demand. What we now call market research was intended as a reasonable provision for this : demand is dis covered so that production can be organized. But in fact, since production is not gcnerally planned, but the result of the decisions of many competing firms, market research has inevitably become involved with advertising, which has
success and that failure, or this misleadingly simple general graph. We can only think in real terms if we know what real
itself changed from the process of notifying a given supply to
things are being produced, and ask relevant questions about
this stimulation is towards this version of a product rather
a system of stimulating and directing demand. Sometimes
need and quality. Some part of the production may be truly unnecessary, but the more likely situation is that the balance
than that (Molllliain Brand is Best), but frequently it is stimu
between various kinds of production will be wrong or even absurd. The usual answer to this kind of question is a particu lar description, the market, which supposedly regulates
flagging demand (Drinka Pinta Milka Day). In these chang ing circumstances, the simple idca ofa market has gone: the
questions of need and quality. ' I t is needed because it is
huckster stands level with the supplier. It is then clear why
bought; if it wcre not bought, i t would not be made'. Of
part of our economic activity is obviously devoted to supply
course this leaves out onc major consideration: whether need
lation ofa new demand (Tou Need Pocket Radio) or revival ofa
'consumer', as a description, is so popular, for while a large ing known needs, a considcrable and incrcasing part of i t
and ability to buy arc matched. But in any case the descrip tion is crude, because it leaves out too much. To match the
goes to ensuring that w e consume what industry finds i t
block figure of production, we are offered another block
becomes increasingly obvious that society i s not controlling
figure, the consumer. The popularity of ' consumer ' as a contemporary term deserves some attention. It is significant because, first, i t unconsciously exprcsses a really very odd and partial version of the purpose of economic activity (the image is drawn from the furnace or the stomach, yct how many things there arc we ncither eat nor burn), and, second, it materializes as an individual figure (perhaps monstrous in
convenient to produce. As this tendency strengthens, i t its economic life, but is in part being controlled by it. The weakening of purposive social thinking is a direct conse quence of this powerful expericnce, which seeks to reduce human activity to predictable pattcrns of demand. If we were not consumers, but users, we might look at society very differently, for the concept of use involves general human judgemcnts - we need to know how to usc things and what
size but individual in behaviour) - the person with needs which hcgocs to the market to supply.
we are using them for, and also the effects of particular uses
Why ' consumer ', to take the first point? \'\Ie have to go
hand-to-mouth patterns, tends to cancel these questions,
back to the idea ofa market, to get this clear. A market is an obviously sensible place where certain necessary goods are made available, but the image of the placc lingers when the process of supply and demand has in fact been transformed. We used to go to markets and shops as customers ; why are we regarded now as consumers ? The radical change is that increasingly, in the development of large-scale industrial
on our general life - whereas consumption, with its crude replacing them by the stimulated and controlled absorption of the products of an external and autonomous system. We have not gone all the way with this new tendency, and are still in a position to rcverse it, but its persuasive patterns have much ofthe power of our society behind thcm. An equally important effect of the 'consumer' description
is that, in materializing an individual figure, it prevents
us
324
Britain in lhe 1960s
The Long ReIJolution
325
for granted. I remember a miner saying to me, of someone
thinking adequately about the true range of uses of our economic activity. There are many things, of major import
we were discussing: 'He's the sort ofman who gelS up in the
ance, which we do not use or eonsume individually, in the
morning and presses a switch and expects the light to come
ordinary sense, but socially. It is a poor way oftife in which
on' . We are all, to some extent, in this position, in that our
we cannot think ofsocial use as one criterion of our economic activity, yet it is towards this that we arc being pushed by the
modes of thinking habitually suppress large arcas of our real relationships, including our real dependences on others.
'consumer ' emphasis, by the supposed laws of the market,
We think of my money, my light, in these naive terms, be
and by the system of production and distribution from which these derive. It is beginning to be widely recognized, in
cause parts of our very idea of society arc withered at root.
Britain in the 60S, that a serious state of unbalance between
We can hardly have any conception, in our present system, of the financing of social purposes from the social product, a
provision for social and individual needs now exists and
method which would continually show us, in real terms, what
seems likely to increase. It is easy to get a sense of plenty from the shop windows of contemporary Britain, but if we look at
our society is and does. In a society whose products depend
the schools, the hospitals, the roads, the libraries, we find chronic shortages far too often. Even when things arc factu ally connected, in direct daily experience, as in the spectacu
almost entirely on intricate and continuous co-operalion and social organization, we expect to consume as if we were isolated individuals, making our own way. We arc then forced into the stupid comparison of individual con
lar example of the flood of new cars and the ludicrous
sumption and social taxation - one desirable and to be
inadequacy of our road system, the spell of this divided
extended, the other regrettably necessary and to be limited.
thinking seems too powerful to break. Crises of this kind
From this kind of thinking the physical unbalance follows
seem certain to dominate our economy in the years ahead,
n i evitably.
for even when late, very late, we begin thinking about the
Unless we achieve some realistic sense of community, our
social consequences of our individual patterns of use, to say
true standard ofliving will continue to be distorted. As it is,
nothing about social purposes in their own right, we seem to find i t very difficult to think about social provision in a genu
to think about economic activity in the limited terms of the consumer and the market actually disguises what many ofus
inely social way. Thus we think of our individual patterns of
are doing, and how the pattern ofeconomic life is in any case
use in the favourable tenns of spending and satisfaction, but
changing. Even now, one person in four of the working
of our social patterns of use in the unfavourable terms of
population is engaged neither in production nor in disu'ibu
deprivation and taxation. I t seems a fundamental defect of our society that social purposes are largely financed out of
tion, but in public administration and various fmms of
individual incomes, by a method of rates and tuxes which makes i t very easy for us to feel that society is a thing that continually deprives and limits us - without this system we could all be profitably spending. Who has not heard that impassioned cry of the modern barricade: but il's my mon9 you're spending on all this; lwt'e my money alone ? And it doesn't
general service. For a long time this proportion has been steadily rising, and it seems certain that it will continue to rise. Yet it is a kind of economic activity which cannot be explained, though it may be distorted, by such descriptions as the consumer and the market. A further one in thirteen work in transport, and it is significant that the ordinary argument about our transport systems, especially the rail
money, or even live for more than a few days, except in terms
ways, is'Unusual!y difficult and confused, as the problem of finding any criterion more adequate than consumption, any
of a highly organized social system which we too easily
method of accounting more realistic than direct profit and
help much to point out that hardly any of us could get any
take
TI,e Long Revolution
Britain
loss in the market, inevitably shows through. As for adminis· tration and gencral services, from medicine and (:ducation to art, sport, and cntertainment, the argument is almost
accounting is adequate here, for who can measure thc value ofa life and an experiencc ? Some parts of the process can be reduced to more familiar terms: medicine saves working
�
doctors work just as hard to save the life ofa man past work ing agc; every school teaches more than direct working skills, and so on. To impose an accounting in market terms is not only silly but in the end impossible: many of the results of such effort are not only long·tcrm and indirect, but in any case have no discoverable cxchange value. The most enlight ened ordinary reaction is to put these activities into a margin
any picture ofa mainly contcnted a�d ul�itcd country .- IS III m rtant st�lke, or this field ofwagcs. Whenever there IS an I ro, threat of a strike we tend to react by defimng a different conception ofwol' -servicc to the community, responsibility to others, pulling together. The r�a�tion is q� te right: work
k
called ' life ' or 'leisure', which wil! be determincd as to size by the shape of ' ordinary ' economic activity. On the other hand, ifwc started not from the market but from the needs of
but also of the effccts of certain kinds of work both on users and producers, might then be adequately negotiated. The danger now, as has been widely if obscurely recognized, is of
fitting human beings to a system, rather than a system to human beings. The obscurity shows itsclfin wrong identifica_ tion ofthc causes of this error: criticism ofindustrial produc
tion, for example, when in fact we should starvc without it; criticism of large-scale org,mization, wilen in fact this
extension of communication is the substance of much of our growth ; criticism, finally, of the pressures of society, when in fact it is precisely the lack of an adequate sense of soeiety that is crippling us.
l�
k of ownership in sections of the community ma , � most lI mtted or market, the of those bcyond common decisions, . impossible. Many industrial jobs, as now orgam�cd, are boring or frustrating, but the system ofwage. abour, mhercnt in capitalism, necessarily tends to,tl�e rcdu�tlOn of the mea?� ing of work to its wages alone, It IS mterestl�g that the m�m unrcst ofour society - the running battle which compl'o�IS�
days, education produccs working skills, sport creates fitness, entcrtainmcnt keeps up morale. But we all know that cvcry one ofthese services is directed, in the end, to larger purposes :
ofjudging the 'Q1'dinary ' economic activity itself. Questions not only ofbalance in the distribution ofeffort and resources,
327
�
hopelessly confused. The product of this kind ofwork, which one in four ofus give our time to, is almost wholly in terms of life and cxperiencc, as opposed to things . What kind of
persons, not only could we understand this part of our work· ing activity more c1carly, but also we should have a means
in the 1960$
For my own part I am certain, as I review the evidence, that it is capitalism - a particular and temporary syste� of organizing the industrial proccss - which is in fact confusmg e the market, us. Capitalism's version of soci�ty can o�l� for its purpose is profit in parucular acuv.iIIes rather t an any general conception of social usc, and I�S concentratIOn
�
ought to mean these things. But It IS hyp�ntlcal .to pl'etend that it now does all the way through. Whlle the hght comes the switch, we take for granted just these on when we pr qualitics, but ordinarily f:'lil to acknowledge, with any depth, the needs of the man who made the light possible. Ifwe want
�
I
I \
to stop strikes, we have to carry the reaction rig;ht �hrougb, for this system of bargaining for labour nccessanly IIlcludes, as a last resort as in all othcr bargaining, the sellcr's refusal of his labour a the price offered. Strikes arc an integral part of the market society, and if you want the advantages you must take the disad\'antagcs, even to the point of dislocati�m
�
and chaos, '-Vhile wc still talk ofa labollr market, as despite long protest many of us continue to do, we must e�pect the behaviour appropriate to it, and not try to smuggle Ill, .when it becomes inconvcnient, the quite different conception of common interest and responsibility. The moral disapproval of strikers is shallow and stupid while thc system of work is based on the very grounds of particular profit which we there condemn. What is happcning
to
capitalism
in contcmporary
Brilaill in Ik 1960J
The LOlIg Rel/ollltioll Britain ? We are told that it is changing, but while this
s i
obviously true it can be argued that the patterns of thinking and behaviour it promotes have never been more strong. To the reduction of use to consumption, already discussed, we must add the widespread (!.-.:tcnsion of the 'selling' ethic what sells goes, and to sell a thing is to validate it - and also, I think, the visible moral decline of the labour movement. Both politically and industrially, some sections of the labour movement have gone over, almost completely, to ways of thinking which they still formally oppose. The main chaUenge to capitalism was socialism, but this has almost wholly lost any contemporary meaning, and it is not surprising that many people now sec in the Labour Pany merely an alterna tive power-group, ancl in the trade-union movement merely a set ofmen playing the market in very much the terms of the employers they oppose. Any such development is generally
329
The co-operatives should be simply trading organizations, the trade unions simply industrial organizations with no othcr interests, ench union keeping to its own sphere, and the Labour Party simply an alternative government in the pr�ent systcm - the country needs an effective opposition.
11l1S pressurc could not have been as successful as it has if just these aims had not been part of the original impetus of the institutions: certain clements in their patterns have been encouraged, certain clements steadily opposed and weak. ened. And in every case, of course, to accept the proposcd limitation of aims may lead to important short-run gains in practical efficiency; the men within these institutions who accept the limitation oflen make more immediate sensc. But it is quite clear, living in the 19605, that the point has been
rcached when each of these institutions is discovering that the place in existing society proposed for it, if it agrees to
significantly ifit has no real alternative patterns as the ground
limit ilS aims, is essentially subordin
of choice. I remember that I surprised many people, in and SocidY, by claiming that the institutions of the
of the institutions, but also, fortunately, led to crisis and
damaging, for the society is unlikely to be able to grow
Cultufe
labour movement - the tr
existing tcrms. For many reasons this has sapped the morale argument within them. The choice as it presents itselris be. tween qualified acceptance in a subordinate capacity or the
renewal of an apparently hopeless challenge. The practical benefits of the former have to bc balanced against the pro found loss of inspiration in the absence of the latter. IfI secm
1 see it, that my claim rested on the new social patterns these institutions offered. 1 recognize that the motives for their
eccentric in continuing to look to these institutions for
as mixed.
either way, and that their crisis is not yet permanently . resolved.
foundation, and consequcntly their practice, must be scen Sectional
defence
and sectional self-interest
undoubtedly played their part. But also thcre was this steady offering and discovery of ways of living that could be ex
effective alternative patterns, while seeing all too dearly their present limitations, J can only repeat that they can go
The situation is complicated by the fact that real changes
tended to the wholc society, which could quite rcasonably be
have occurred in the society, through the pressure of these
organized on a basis of collective democratic institutions and the substitution of co-operative equality for competition as
patterns. The extension of social services, including cduca.
the principle of social and economic policy. In the actual history, there has been a steady pressure, from the e.xisting organization of society, to convert these institutions to aims and patterns which would not offer this kind of challenge.
institutions aided by reforming elements within the existing tion, is an undoubted gain of lhis kind, which must not be underestimated by those who have simply inherited it. But it remains true not only that the social sen·ices are limited to operation in the interstices of a private-ownership society,
The Long RevollitiOIl
Britaill ill the 1960s
but also that in their actual operation they remain limited by assumptions and regulations belonging not to the new
its OWJl terms, creates one kind of prosperity. \-Vith only the consumer in mind, as a point of economic reference, this is
330
society bUl lhe old (a situation brilliantly described by Brian Abel-Smith in Conviction) . The other substantial change, the nationalization of ccnain industries and services, has been even more deeply compromised. The old and valuable principle, of production for usc and not for profit, has been
fought to a standstill injust this field. The systems taken into public owncrship were in fact those old systems no longer . . auractlve III profit terms (coal, railways) , new systems requiring heavy initial investment (airways) and systems formerly municipally or publicly developed (gas, electricity). Some of these systems have been much more successful than is generally allowed, but it remains true, first, that they have not only failed to alter the 'profit before usc' emphasis in the general economy but have also been steadily themselves
33'
not easily challenged. Again, taking the point about restric tion ofowncrship, capitalism hns sought to extend ownership by promoting a wider holding ofsharcs. This reply is charac tcristic, in that it misses the point of Ihe criticism, and pro poses reform in terms of the system criticized. The objcction was only in part to rt:stricted individual ownership (which in any case still holds) ; i t was mainly to no social ownership. The extension of share holding to about onc in fiftccn adults enables more of us to make moncy as a by-product of the system of satisfying our general necds (money made, in fact, out of the work of the other fourteen) but it docs nothing to ensure that the needs arc general or that the distribution of energy and resources is right in common tel"ms. The latest device, of some limited control of this distribution by chan
reproduce , somctimes with appalling accuracy, the human
nelling public money into privately-owned systems, is only a further example of the way in which the very aspirations of
patterns, III managemcnt and working relationships, of mdustries based on quite different social principles. The
strengthening it. Finally, capitalism (and its cx·socialist
reduced to this old criterion; and, second, that thcy have
�
multiplication of such effects is indeed uninviting, and the easy identifica�ion of these institutions, as typcs of the sup· posed new society, has added to lhe general confusion. In being dragged back to the processes of the old system, yet at the same time offered as witnesses of the new, they have so deeply damaged any alternative principle in the economy as to have emptied British socialism of any effective menning. The proposal to admit this formal vacuity, by detaching the Labour Party from any fult commitment to socialism, then makes sense of a kind, the practical acknowledgement of an
the original challenge to capitalism arc used as a means of apologists) emphasizes the decline in control by shareholders (an ironic comment, of course, on the extension of shares, which is then not a ncw kind of ownership but simply an extension of playing the market), and thc rise in importance of the managers and technicians. I n fact the economy, while not COiltrolled by ordinary shareholdcrs, is not controlled by managers and technicians either, but by powerful interlock ing private institUtions that in fact command what some Labour politicians still wistfully call ' the commanding heights of the economy '. Even if thc managerial revolution
existing situation, until perhaps one remembers that the
had occurred (and the real revolution is the passing of power
containment and eventual cancellation of any real chal lenge to capitalist society has been, for more than a century, thc work of capitalist society itself.
original challenge would stit! be lost, for the direction of our common economic life would have been reduced a series
Thcse arc major gains in capitalist ways of thinking, nnd . . It IS easy to be: overwhelmed by them. Meanwhile capitalism
reference to the kind of society the cconomy should sustain.
can point to its successes in
c ...panding .'
consumption, and to
its extension of a huge system of consumer credit which, on
to financial institutions and self-financing corporations) the
10
oftechnical decisions, without anything morc than a markct The central point, in this contentious fidd, is that the concepts of the organized market and the consumer now
33'
The umg Revolution
Brilain in lite 1960s
determine OUf economic life, Bud with i t much of the Tcst of our society, and that challenges to them have been
so
333
interpretation which not only ·fixes leaders, for all sorts of circumstances, but encourages them to believe that it is not
remains, only the perpetual haggling and biuerness of the
only their right but their duty to make independent decisions and to be resolute in eanying them out. After all, a dog
wage claim and the strike. It is difficult to believe that we
doesn't keep a man and then take the lead himself.
shall remain satisfied by this situation, which is continually
There are stili many natural autocrats in our society, and the trouble they causc is beyond reckoning. More dangerous,
effectively confused that hardly any principled opposition
setting us against each other and very rapidly promoting patterns of crude economic cynicism, yet to which no clear
perhaps, because less easily identified, are those skilled in
and practical alternative exists. The challenge to create new meanings, and to substantiate them, will have to be mcl if
what was called in the army ' man management'. The point
that apparently obvious future is in fact to be realized.
hut since a leader has to be followed he must be diligently
here, as 1 remember, is that ofcourse you have to command,
H
attentive to the state of mind of those he is leading : must try
The progress of democracy in Britain is deeply affected by
about his own, by the way), get a picture of their state of
what is happening in the economy. but also by other factors.
mind. Then, having taken these soundings, having really got the feel of his people, he will point the way forward.
The aspiration to control the general directions of our
to understand them, talk to them about their problems (not
economic life is an essential element of democratic growth,
I know few greater social pleasures, in contemporary
but is still very far from being realized. Beyond this general
Britain, than that ofwatching man-management, for indeed
control lies a further aspiration, now equally distant and
its practitioners arc almost everywhere. It is true-that they
confused. It is difficult to feel that we are really governing
are usually very bad at it, although they invariably think
ounelves ifin so central a part ofour living as our work most of us have no share in decisions that immediately affect us.
about an eighth oran inch; more would look suspicious), the
The difficulties of a procedural kind in ensuring this share
gentle siJcnccs, the engaging process ofdrawing the man out:
are indeed severe, and because of the variety of institutions
although
in which we work there s i no single answer. Yet if the impulse is there, some ways can be found, and steadily improved
than most plays. And these arc the herocs of our public life,
with a solid weight of mutual admiration behind them. An
from experience. I know from my own experience, in helping
exceptionally large part of what passes for political commen
to work out such ways in my own job, some of the difficulties
tary is now a public discussion of a party leader's command ofthis skill: how will the Prime Minister or the Leader ofthe
yet also some of the real gains. From practical experience alone, I agree with Burke that I have never yet seen any plan whieh has not been mended by the observations or those who were much inrerior in undeTlltanding to the peTllon who took the lead in the business. Even the smallest human group produces leaders, though not always the same leaders for all projects. The difficulty lies in interpreting just what this leadership means. The majorily patterns of our society, especially in work, offer an
themselves very good. The calmly appraising eyes (narrowed
1 have watched these so often, I find them better
Opposition 'handle' this or that 'awkward elemen t ' ; how will he time his own intervention; if he says this, how can he avoid saying that? The really funny thing about this kind of commentary is that i t is public; printed and distributed in millions ofsheetsj read by almost everybody, including the 'awkward elements'. The delicate art has become public myth, and it is rare to see it challenged. This, evidently, is what democratic leadership is supposed to be. In fact, of COUTSe, it
s i
the tactic of a defensive autocracy
Tht LOllg RtllOlutioll
Britaill ill tht 1960s
(and people do not have to be born into an autocracy to
discussion which pass into the public process. The most
334
acquire its habits). The true process of democratic decision is that, with all the facts made available, the question
is
openly discussed and its resollilion openly arrived at either by simple majority vote or by a series of voluntary
�hanges
to arrive at a consensus. The skills of the good listener and the clarifier are indeed exceptionally necessary in such a process, but these arc crucially different from the Slance of the leader who is merely listcning to the discussion to dis-. cover the terms in which he can get his own way. The intri cate devices worked out by democratic organizations, to ensure the full record of facts, the freedom of general con tributi�n, the true openness of decision, and the opportunity to review the ways in which decisions are e. xecuted are
:
indeed invaluable (some people thought r was joking vhen I mentioned committee procedure as part of our cultural
heritage, but the joke is on them, if they arc serious about
?emocracy,
for these arc the means of its working) . Yet
Just because they arc intricate, they are easily abused by the man-managers : one even hears boasts about the ways in
which this 01' that committee has been 'handled '. I would
only :ay that r have never scen such handling, reputedly practISed as a way of'avoiding trouble ', lead to anything but trouble. For once men arc reasonably free, they will in the end assert their interests, and if these have not been truly involved in the decision (as opposed to collected and ' borne in mind ') the real situation will eventually assert itsel f often with a bitterness that shows how bad the man-ma agers really arc. Our main trouble now is that we have many of
�
the fonns of democracy, but find these continually confused by the tactics of those who do not really believe in it, who arc . genUinely afraid of common decisions openly arrived at, and who have unfortunately partly succeeded in weakening the patterns of feeling of democracy which alone could sub stantiate the institutions. We must add a note on the tones of contemporary dis cussion, jfthis situation is to be fully understood. Most people who pass through universities Jearn certain conventions of
335
important of these is a habit of tentative statement, charac teristically introduced by such phrases as ' I should have thought that' or ' I don't know but i t seems to me'. This manner is sometimes merely superficial, like the gambit of the Oxford lecturer who begins by saying that he knows practically nothing about the subject of the lecture, and in any case has forgotten his notes (I once saw this practised, by three lecturers running, on an audience offoreign graduates; ' they were not ch.u·mcd, and indeed concluded that the lecturers were not quite as good as they supposed themselves to be - a ' not wholly inaccurate' diagnosis of a stance of modesty which in fact came through as insulting). These defects arc evident, but elsewhere, for certain kinds of dis cussion, the conventions have theil' advantages. These can most easily be seen by contrast with the conventions of argu ment of many wage-earners (particularly manual workers, but not always trade-union officers, who have sometimes learned tortuousness to a really amazing proficiency) . At first, the bluntness of statement and assertion is refreshing after too long a course of' 1 should have thought'. But one notices how easily,
in such discussions, points of view become in
volved with the personal prestige of the speaker; the opinion
cannot be attacked without attacking him as a man, and he cannot modify it without what looks like climbing down. r have listened in despair to many arguments of this kind,
where in Ihe end it would really be easier 10 adjourn and
fight it out in the yard, all the signs of physical aggression and challenge being already more evident than the issues- except, of course, that tomorrow the discussion would only have to begin again. The value of the convention of tentative state ment is that opinion can be reasonably detached from the personal prestige of the speaker, in a way that is ultimately necC$SaI"Y if a common opinion is to be arrived at. The frank speaking of the Labour movement has been, on balance, a great gain: the issues are forced into the open, away from the man-managers and the cupboarded autocrats. But at the same time the workings of democracy have been severely
The Long Revolution damaged by habits 'of aggressive assertion (personified in many a roaring old man at the rostrum) which must be seen quite clearly as pre-democratic : the langua ge of unequals, shoutin�for their place in the world, and someti mes ensuring, by turmng a common process n i to a series of personal demonstrations, that common improvement will not be got. It s i clear, on balance, that we do not get enough practice in the working of democracy, even where its forms e.xist. ofus are not expected to be leaders, and arc princip ally . Instructed, at school and elsewhere, in the values ofdiscipline and loyalty, which arc real values only if we sharc in the decisions to which they refer. Those who arc expected to be leaders are mainly trained to the patternsofle adcrship I have been discussing, centred on the general develo pment of confidcnce - but in fact that a leader should be self-confident enough to be capable of radical doubt is rarely mentioned and rarely taught. The necessary practic e of the difficult processes of common decision and execution is left, on the whole, to hit or miss, and the result, not unexp ectedly, is often both..A ,,:eakening of belief in the possib ility of democracy is then mevltable, and we prefer to lamen t the 'general indis ciplin e' (trade-union leaders cannot contro l their members, party leaders arc not firm enough ; it is all sloppy discussion, endless talk, and then people behaving unrea sonably) rather than �ourishing and deepening the proces s to which in any case, m any probable future, we are comm itted. The counterpart of this feeling, reinfo rced by the actual . h IstOry of democratic institutions in this country. is an approach to govcrnment which in itsclfs evercly limits active democracy. A tightly organized party system and parliament seem to have convcrted the national franc hise into the elec tion of a court. As individuals we cast one national vote at intervals ofseveral ycars, on a range of policies and particu . . lar dC<;lSl ons towards which it is virtually impo ssible to have one single attitude. From this neces sarily erude process a ' court of ministers emerges (in part drawn from people who have not been elected at all),· and it is then very difficult for any of us to feel even the smallest direct share in the govern-
!'AOSI
Britain in the 1960s
337
ment ofour affairs. Approaches through the party organiza tions taking advantage of the fact that at least there arc
�
i it alter ative courts, are more practicable, but not only s generally true that inner-party democracy s i e..xeeptionally difficult in both large parties ; it is also the case that the right not to be lied, not to be precisely committed, is increasingly claimed by both sets of leaders. Thc general influence of public opinion counts for something, since in the long run the court has to be rc-clccted. But the period is exceptionally long, given the rate and range of development in contem porary politics. In the four and a half years between the elections of 1955 and 1 959 several wholly unforeseen major crises developed, and public opinion in fact violently
fluctuated, to be met in general only by the bland confidence of the court in its own premisses : that the duty ofthe govern ment is to govern, for the Queen's government must be carricd on. It is fail' to say that this docs not even sound like democracy, and we must be fair to our leaders, co�ceding
them at least consistency, in their obvious assumptIOn that
direct popular government is not what democracy s i about. It is true that any administration should have reasonable time to develop its policies, but this is not the same thing as the current uncritical belief in the importance of 'strong government ' : certainly one hopes that a good government will be strong, but a government that is both strong and b �d (most people arc agreed that we had such governments III
the ' 930s; 1 think we have had one or two since) is almost the worst possible public evil. I see no reason why two-year . intervals of re-election of al least a substantial part of the House of Commons should not be our immediate objective,
since it seems vital for the heallh ofour democracy that more of us should feci directly involved in it. Such a change,
� in Par �emocrauc process
coupled with working reforms now being canvasse liament, and with an improvement of the
within the parties, would be a substantial yet reasonable gain. The alternative is not only tlle rapid extension ofman management, monstrously magnified by the use of modern communications as its general device, but also the unpleasant T-M
Britain ill
the 1960s
339
The LOllg Revolution
tional thinking by politicians is against tbis tendency, but
seems to be a fixed date for the periodic elections for to
such conventional thinking, when it is traced to its sources, is again the tactical wisdom ofa defensive autocracy, carried
3 38
development of organized pressure·groups, pushing into the anterooms of the eOllrt. One further necessary amendment
�
concede. choice of this date to the court itsclf is psy hologi. cally qune wrong: we should not ha\'e to wair within broad
on, through inenia and lack of challenge, into what is
. not theirs but out's. * These changes in themselves would make only a limited . dlffe�'ence, but they would at least go some way towards
ordinary proposition virtually complete.
�imits, for the court to ask our approval ; the ri�ht of election IS
alt:nng the �resent atmosphere of Bt'itish democracy, . willcit seem IIlcreaslOgly formal and impersonal, and powered by ILltie more than the belief that a choice ofleaders should be periodically a\'ailable. The ne,xt field of reform is obviously the electoral system, which seems designed to perpetuate the existing interpretations. Its most obvious chara.cteristie is that it exaggerates, sometimes grossly, com. paraltvely slight tendencies in opinion. Post.war electoral history suggests a violent fluctuation of opinion, from a very strong Labour to a very strong Conservative government. But actual opinion, rec koncdin terms ofpeoplc, has changed . much le�. What notice mo�t about Clll'rent political com. . mentary 1S that 11 IS preoccupIed by results at the level oflhe court, rathe: than by the rcgistercd opinion of actual per �I:S; a�td tlus, however natural it may be to peoplc who like l �vl.ng m anterooms, is quite undemocratic in spirit. It is ndlculous to talk of an o\'crwhdming cndorsement of Con.
�
�
servatism in the election of 1959, whcn less than half the pe�plc voting in fact voted Conservative, and when ofadults entitled to vote only just O\'er a third in fact approved the nevertheless very strong government to which all of us were committed for as long as five years. Thc same is true of Course, of previous 'overwhelming ' Labour \'ictories, nd the mode of dt.'SCl'iption suggests that wc are not in these terms, thinking about real people at all. I belie\' that the
�
�
�roccss of c?mmol1 decision, C\'cn as crudely registered by single occaSIOnal Votes, must be carried through without such distortion into the formal process of gm'ernmellt, if we are to havc
claimed to be a vcry different society. I t
s i
difficult, as we
look over this whole ficJd, to asscnt c\'cn in passing to the that the democradc revolution is
At this critical point, the relative absence ofdemocracy in other large areas of our li\'es is especially relevant. The situation can be held as it is, not only because democracy has been limited at the national le\rel to the process of electing a court, but also because our social organization elsewhere is continually offering non·dcmocratic patterns of decision. This is the real power ofinstitulions, that they activcly teach pal'ticular ways of feeling, and it is at once evident that we have not nearly enough institutions which practically teach democracy. The crucial area is in work, where in spite of limitcd experiments in 'joint consultation', the ordinary decision process is rooted in an exceptionally rigid and finely· scaled hierarchy, to which the only possible ordinary responses, of the great majority of us who are in no position to share in decisions, arc apathy, the making of respectful petitions, or revolt. Ifwe sec a considerable number ofstrikes, the evidcnce suggests, as rcvolts in this sense, we can sec more clearly the stagc ofdevelopment we have reached. The
as
defensivc tactic, once again, is man.management, now more grandly renamed personnel managcment. This s i an advance on simple autocracy, but as an answer to thc problems of human relations at work only shows again how weakly the democratic impulsestill runs. I t secmsobvious that industrial democracy is deeply relatcd to questions of ownership; the argument against the political vote was always that the new people voting, ' the masses', had no stake in the country. The devclopment of ncw forms of ownership then seemed an
essential part of any democratic advance, althoug h in fact the political suffmge eventually broke ahead ofthis. The idca of public ownership seemed to be a solution, but thel'e is
1M umg Revolution
some truth in the argument tlmt little is gained by substituting a series of still largely authoritarian slate monopolies for a series of private monopolies (something is gained, however, to the extent that the state is iLsdfdemocratieally directed) . It is obvious that in a complex large-scale economy, many central decisions will have to be taken, and that theil' machin cry easily becomes bureaucratic and pl'Olected from general control. At this level there can be no doubt that the separate democratic management ofindustry is Wlworkable. The true line ofadvanee is making this machinery directly responsible to the elected government, probably through intermediate boards which combine representation of the industry 01'
service with elected political representatives. Widl this
framework sct, as for example it is to some extent set in educational administration, the development of direct par ticipation in the local decisions ofparticular enterprises could be attempted. The difTiculties arc severe, and there is no single solution. It seems to me that a government which was serious about this would initiate a scries of varied experi ments, in different kinds of concern, ranging from conven tional mtlhodssuch as thc reform of company law, promoting actual and contractual membership, with definite invest· ments and rights in the concern, to mcthod� that would be
possible in concel'l1S already publicly owned, in which elected councils, either from a common roll 01' at fil'St reprcsenting
interests in an agreed proportion, would havc powers of decision within the accepted national framcwork. It is com monly objected that modern work is too technical to be subjected to the democratic process, but it is significant that in certain fields, notably cducatioil and medicine, the neces sarily complicated processes of involving members in self government arc already much further advanced than in work whcre the' service' criterion is not accepted, though in fact it s i claimed. Education and medicine arc not less tech nical or specialized, but they have a less obvious class struc_ ture, which is undoubtedly important. The necessary principle is lhat workers of
all kinds, including managers, should
be guaranteed the necessary conditions, including both
Britaill in the 19601
34'
security and freedom, of their a�tual work, in �recise ways . about that are perfectly compatible With �cneral declSIO rectors i the overall direction of the enterpnse. Boards of d elected by sharcholders now give such irections, ol'din�rily
�
�
with less secw'ity and freedom for all kmds of workers, since these arc not represented. In publicly owned industries and services, and in reformcd companies, the principle oflwards elected by thc members of the industry or service, to operate
�
within the agreed national framC'ovork, is surely not di cult. There would be a long and continuous process ofscttmg-up and improving such machinery, and many serious and largely unforeseen problems would undoubtedly arise. But the basis of thc whole argument for democracy is that the substa?�e
of these problems would in any case exist, and th�t particI pation in thc processes of decision Icads. to more rational and responsible solutions than the old sWlIlg between apathy,
concession and revolt. One other field in which the growth of democracy seems urgently necessary is the ordinary process of decision about the development of our communities. ' h has been ap proached, but is still vcry mu dle , an It IS unfortunat:ly true that there is even more dISsatisfaction, and consequent
� ?
�
��
apathy, about local government than about the nat�onal court. Authoritarian patterns at the centre seem to bc Widely reproduced in our local coUl�cils, where �uch more ?� the . process is in the open and wlllun our or mary experience, . unfortunately in its ordinary course glvmg far too. much he evidence of how easily democracy is distorted. Sull, � actlve the and ood, unden; � problems hcre arc quit� wi ely . . struggle a�ainst dlstoruon IS. �nc?lII'a�lIlg. More �crlously, behind this struggle is a famlhar lllcrua of old SOCial forms. ()oo Housing is an excellent example, be�ause the c�mm�n p � ,Prm. 111 , senSible ly obVIOus so is vision of homes and estates hef of ciple, and is already extending beyond the mere r� or exceptional need. Why then docs s�ch an extensIOn, answer, One cold? qUIte further extension, leave many of us ly certainly is the way such houses and estates arc common seen have 1 ities. author atic democr dly suppose by , manage
�
?
d
The Lollg Revol1ltioll
Britain ill the 1960s
letters to tcnants from council housing officials that almost made my hair stand on end, and tht: arbitrary and illiberal
define democracy as ' the right to vote', 'the right to free speech', and so on, in a pattern offeeling which is really that
34'
343
regulation ofmany such estates isjustly notorious. While this can still be fairly said even ofLabour atlthorities, it is difficult
of the 'Jibcrty ofthe subject' within an established iluthority. The pressure now, in a wide area of our sociai Hfc, should be
to feel that the spirit of democracy has been vcry deeply or widcJy learned. Why should a public official, often a perfectly pleasant man to meet, transform himself so often into Ihe
means ofinvolving people much more closely in the process of self-govemment can be learned and extended.
jack-in-office who has done cxtraOl'dinary harm to the whole development of social provision ? Panly, I suppose, because
towards a participating democracy, in which the ways and
III
he sees so many jacks-in-office above him. Morc generally, I think, because the patterns and tones of leadership and
Behind any description of the patterns of OUl" ecollomy and of ottr political and social life lie ways of thinking about
administration arc still pre-democratic. The businessman, dealing with customers, has learned 10 be pleasant; so,
uncertain and confused. Here, as a matter of urgency, we
usually, has the public official, at Ihat leveL But there arc public officials who regard such people as council-house tenants as natural inferiors, and they speak and write
must go back from our ordinary meanings to our experience. I showcd in Culture and Society that ' class', as a social term, came into ordinary English usage in the period of the effec
accordingly. The rcmedy, of course, is not to teach them man-management, but to try to develop democratic forms
tive beginning of the Industrial Revolution.· Shaped by this particular history, it had from the first a confused reference,
wilhin these areas of public provision. Why should the
pointing to both social and cconomic facts in ways charac
management of a housing estate not be vested in a joint committee of representatives of the elected aUlhority and
teristic of a period of important transition. This confusion, unfortunately, has remaincd, and we are still not sure whethel" the determining factor, in our mcmbership of a
elected represclltali\'es of the people who live on it? '""hile gellcral financial policy obviously rests wilh the whole community, there is a wide area of decision, on the way Ihe houses are used and maintained, on estate facilities, and on any necessary regulations, which could be negoliated through such channels more amicably and I think more efficiently. If this experiment has been tried, we should know more about it and considcr extending it. If i t has nOl been tried, here is an immediate field in which the working ofdcmoeralic participation could be tested. L'lbour councils, in particular, ought continually to be thinking in these ways, for thcre is great danger to the popular movement if its organizations are persistently defensi\'e and !legallYe (as in the ordinary Tenants' Association), ;l1lcl it is Labom which has most to lose if it allows democrac" to dwindle to a series of defensive associations and Ihe mi;limal machinery of a
single elected administration. The pressure has been to
'class', which in Britain in the 19605 seem exceptionally
social class, is our birth or OUI" adult work. ' \Vorking-class' has traditionally describcd the great body of wage-carner.; who came together in relation to the new methods ofproduc tion. In much economic theory, this elass is naturally con trasted with the propertied classes : people who own land, or other means of production, and employ wage-labour. Thus, on the one hand the working class could be contrasted with the land-owning aristocracy ; on the othcr hand, and more usually, with the class of capitalists. But then who, socially, wcre the capitalists, since thcy were usually not aristocrats? And to what social class did small independent • Since wriling
Culiurt IlIIiI SIJCirly, [ jj�n'c disco"ered a usc of 'class',
in its modern 5<:nse, from 1743. I hale also discovered an isolaled modern
U$C o f ' cuhurc' from t 72!. These amendments should be nOI<."
the Cltamples $CO:ffi exception;>.l, and the crfecti\'" $OCial history of a m"an
ing musl always be in t"nns of il$ passing into normal usage.
The Long Revolution
344
Britain in tlu
employers, shopkeepers, small farmers, and professional men belong ? From these two questions came one answer : the ' middling classes ', later settled as the 'middle classes '. But there were obviously very wide variations here, from the large employer to the small shopkeeper, and from the successful
professional
man
to
the
local
independent
1960s
345
sistcnt suggestion of ' middle' is that the working class is ' lower', and it is hardly surprising that many wage-earners want to think of themselves as 'middle class' if 'lower' is explicitly or implicitly the alternative description. Again, many 'middle-class ' people arc indignant at the suggcslion
craftsman. Eventually, then, the middle class went into
01' implication that they do not work because they do not
' upper' and 'lower' divisions, but the upper division,
indignant, but they have only themsclves to blame if they
a� it
became richer, was increasingly involved and mingled WIth the old aristocracy or 'upper' class. And movement between
the working class and the lower-middle class was also fairly common, apart from the difficulty, as the character of work chan<>'cd and many wage-earning jobs that were not in the
;
old s nse 'manual' were created, of drawing any clear line between the ' workers ' and these 'lower-middle-class ' wage carnen. These difficulties and complexities arc all still with us today, and anyone who is used to either professi
if we looked rigorously at what i t is there
Most people in Britain 1I0W think ofthemsclves as 'middle class' or 'working class '. But Ihe first point to make is that these are not true alternatives. The alternatives to 'middle'
are ' lower' and ' upper ' ; the alternative \0 ' working' is 'independent' or 'propertied '. The wonderful muddle we are now in springs mainly from this confusion, that one term has a primarily social, the other a primarily economic reference. When people are asked if they belong to the working class many of them agree; when they arc asked if they belong to the lower class many less agree. Yet the per-
belong to the 'working classes '. They arc quite right to be
have cOlltrihuted in any way to the confusion between the economic description - the wage-earning 'working classes', and the social implication that these people are the ' lower' class. It seems that we have to ask not only what purposes are served by the classification, but also what purposes are served by so persistent a confusion. The facl is that we arc still in a stage of transition from a social stratification based on birth to one based on money and actual position. The dri\'c towards the latter kind ofsociety is very strong; it is both built into our economic system and continually stimulated by it. But we do not have to look far, in Britain, to find older ways of thinking. The principal function of the otherwise insignificant ' upper' class is to keep distinction by birth and family alive. A simple description of power in Britain might show the irrelevance of this, but there arc still, after all, the monarchy, the House of Lords, and a system of honours involving change of family name and status. So far from these systems being regarded as merely the vestiges of an older society, they are now so intensively propagated that their practical effect is still considerable. By their very removal from the harsh and controversial open exercise of power, their social prestige is e\'en enhanced. But why is this so, in a ehangingsociety ?Thc intense propaganda of monarchy (by a shrewd mixture of magnificence and ordinariness which in its central incompatibility bears all the signs of functional magic) seems a conscious procedure against radical change. The emphasis on the unity, loyalty and family atmosphere of the Queen's subjects is not easy to reconcile with the facts ofBritish life, but as an ideal, though silly, it catches just enough real desires, and just sufficiently
Britaitl ill the 1.9605
TIlt Lollg Reoo/ll/ion confuses consciousness of real obstacles, to be a powerful reserve of fecJing in favour of things as they are. This mellow dusk then spreads over the ancillary power system, still important in many areas of actual decision, in which people chosen by family stalUs and not by the democratic process
carry on in a special position, whcther in the House of Lords or as chairmcn of many official and lmofficiaI but influential
committees (a process still curiously known as voluntary public work, in which if the practitioners are discovered to have the common touch the magic is even more potent). This could hardly have happened if the rising middle class had remained independcnt, or retained any real confidence in itself. Somewhere in the nineteenth century (though there are earlier signs) the English middle class lost its nerve,
socially, and thoroughly compromised with the class it had virtually defcated. Dircctcd persona!ly towards the old system of family status, it adoptcd as its social ideal a definite class system, blurred at the top but clear below itself. The distinction of public schools from grammar schools led to a series of compromises: in the curriculum, whcrejust enough new subjects were introduced to serve middle-class training,
but just enough old subj ects kept to preserve the older culti vation of gentlemen; and in social character, where just enough emphasis on the supcriority of the whole class was shrewdly mixed with a rigorous training in concepts of authority and selvice, so that a formal system could be manned and yet not disturbed. The principal difficulty, in preserving this system, was that ncw middle-class groups kept rising behind those who had madc their peace. However
closely the grammar schools imitated thosc few of their number that had been renamed public schools, it was
necessary for distances to be kept, and 'grammar school' in some cars, soon sounded like 'soup kitchen'. - The principal tension, in recent English social life, has been between the fixed character of the arrived middle class, with its carefully conditioned ways of speaking and behaving, and the later arrivals or those still struggling to arrive. The worst snob· beries still come, with an extraordinary self-revealing brash-
347
ness, from people who, if h1.mily were really the social criterion, would be ncgligible. The compromise takes car,e of that, for it had included (what the aristocracy was not unwilling to learn) the accolade of respcctability on work and especially the making of money by work. This cnabled the pattcrn to be kept mobile, without altering its character. It
s i true now, as Mr Ralph Samuel has argued, that the captain of industry has bccome the social hero, but distinc
tively, in Britain, the captain of industry provides himself with a family title and status expressing prestige in oleler terms. And sincc honours are easy, in thc sense that they can be continually created and extcnded, it has been possible to work out a system whereby the results ofindi\·idual effort and merit can be confirmed in terms of hcreditary values. There is even a very nice grading, quite formalized in the public service, in which the particular point reached in climbing the bourgcois-dcmocratic laddcr is magically transformed into a particular feudal grade: a Prime Minister equals an
Ead, a Permancnt Secretary a Knight and so 011. This funda
mental class systcm, with the forcc of thc rising middle class right behind it, rcquires a ' lower' class if it is to retain any social meaning. The pcople cast for this lower role kc ep (urn ing round, il is true, and pointing the same Gnger at those below them. This is the basic unreality of the ' middle class' in Britain, and also theexplanation ofits vagueness. I remem ber sitting with a group of small shopkeepers who wcrc trying to explain to me how you could never trust ' that class of people
I
(shop assistants) : it seemed, in the mOSl colourful
phrase, that they always had their fingers in the toffces. The particular climax of this discussion, for me, was a description of thc group, by one of its members, as 'tip-top business men ' ; this went down very well. Here, ill fact, was a solid assumption of middle-class membership and distinction by a group of pcople who if they mo\Td only a little way up this same middle class would at once be placed and despised, much as the shop assistants ,vcrc placed and despiscd (they wOllle! probably call the wai\lTSS ' :\liss ', which as the normal mode of addrcss to a young unmarricd woman by the
The Long Revolution
eighteenth-century gentry is of course now obviously 'low'). But so long as a group can find another group to turn round and point at, the contradictions seem hardly to be noticed.
All class distinction in Britain is downward, under the
mellow dusk from the very top. And it secms very doubtful ifit will simply wither away, for lhe confusion noted earlier, between social and economic description, has, as explained,
been built into the system. The drive for money, power and position, which might have created the separate ideal of self-made prestige, has been neatly directed into the older
system, at a cost in confusion which we are all still paying.
In this respect, I belong to the awkward squad who have been discussed a good deal since the war. Many people have told us that the reason for our interest in class is that we are frustrated to find that educational mobility is not quite social mobility; that however far we have gone we still find an older system above us. This is a very revealing account of the class-feeling ofsomeone bornjust too far down in the middle class but still accepting its ethos. That sense of differential
Britain in the 19605
349
series that I should have to be vcry odd indeed to be bittcr:
�
the p edominant feeling is of pathos. The more widely this isexperienced the belter; we might even get back our nerve. But then we cannot stop al this siage ofthe analysis; we have still to look at what the system is for, in the actual running of our kind ofsociety. In part, as noted, it is for re�pect, though in making this respect differential i t is oflcn self-defeatin� Still, a� we mo�'c : around in our own country, the operation of dlffcrcnltal respect is evident enough to tempt some people into accept g . . the scale so long as they can improve their own position on It. Anyone who wants to experience the reality ofthe differential
il?
has only to put himself, physically, at a point on the scale other than that he is used to, changing some of the signals by which the ordinary c.xchange is operated, and he will feel the difference quickly enough. Let any middle-class man who thinks class distinction has died out put aside, if only for a day, his usual clothes, his car,
bis accent, and go to places
where he is not known but where he knows how he would be
mobility is just the confusion that many middle-class groups
normally received : he will learn the reality quickly enough.
encounter, i f they are thinking i n their own class tenus. I can only say for myself that I have never fclt my own mobility in
with his 'standard ' accent, to a shop, an office, a pub, and
terms ofa 'rise in the social scale', and certainly I have never
felt that I wanted to go on climbing, resentful of old barriers in my way: where else i! there to go, but into my own life ? At the same time, the particular history ofgoing from a wage earning family to one of the old univel'sitii..'S takes one on a very rapid traverse of this same social scale, which seems largely to survive with the confusions i t now has because really, when it comes to it, movement along it is normally quite limited, and the divisions are quite carefully kept. It is then less the injustice of the British class system than its
stupidity that really strikes onc. People like to be respected, but this natural desire is now principal!y achieved by a system which defines respcct in terms of despising someone else, and then in turn being inevitably despised. In my own traverse, I have seen so much of this, aware of the standards of one group while watching another, in a truly endless
Let him go in the working clothes of a manual worker, but watch the confusion as the contradictory signals are sorted out. In daily experience this complicated differential goes on, but we have to cross the borders to appreciate it fully, for we normally get used to the rate of respC{;( our evident market value commands. Is this differential anything to worry about, though, in its patent hypocrisy? Not personally, o course, . . but it would be a change to ha\'c a comrnumty m which men
�
and women were valued either as real individuals or, where that closeness is impo�siblc, by a common general respect. There are many signs that money, in the form of con spicuous possession of a range of obj:c':S ofprestige, i� l'�pidly driving out other forms of class dlstmcuon, an il J� th�s change which is behind the argument that class
�. �Istlllctlo n .
�s
diminishing. This is a simple confusion ofmc31l1ngs, for It IS . the reality of differential trcatmcnt, rather than the partlcu lar forrru through which itopcratcs, that makes a class system.
350
The ung Revollltion
Britaill ;11 tile 1960s
The point is particularly impo1'lam in that the money we earn, 10 set system going, is itself subject to
service conferring important rights in such things as payment in sickness and protection against dismissal, :ewd differential
the differential
built-in differentials of an especially complicated kind. The differential for extra skill and extra responsibility is part of this system, but only part, and all arguments about pay be come hopelessly confused if this basis of differential is assumed to be the only one generally operative. There is the first obvious fact
that a radical differential is imposed by the
35 t
facilities in many things fl'om cups 10 carpets. The system is
almost infinitely graded wi thin itself, but the class-line, below which thesc bcnefits are nOt
such
Once again, however, it is mislc:ading to confine analysis to comparison between salaried and wage-earning
g n ral financial position orthe industry or service in which a man is working. The teacher and the engine-driver start on
unjustly treated, in such matters as tax-rclicffor expenses, by
the cop}"vriter or the car-assembly worker, where money is
parts of the economy. Between all these groups there is
e e
different total scales, in selViccs where money is short, from
easier. And if standing in the community is increasingly assessed in
straight
money tcrms, this situation is a vcry
serious distortion from the outset.
The next radical
differ
ential is more closcly tied to class. Most of us li\'e by selling our labour, but
in some cases the pay is called salary, in other
cases a wage. ] n practice this is much more than a verbal difference: we hear ofwagc dcmands from onc kind of man, but of requests for a review of remuneration from another. Public indignation, 01' what passcs as such in the ncwspapers,
is quite regularly reserved for
the ' wage
demands', while
much larger ' adjustments' in the pay of salaried men pass with little comment.
\Vhen workcrs in one industry agitate
employment. Many salaried people consider
themselves
comparison with salary-earners or employers in different enough resentment to
ensure
a cynical community for
generations. I support those economists who believe that in spite ofthe immense difficulties the attempt to establish some general principle of cquity, to which particular arguments about pay can be re[err(:d, must be The present resent
made.
menlS, and the crude ways in whieh they arc fOllght out, are mor than a healthy community can afrOI'd.
e
Meanwhile, to finance the system of conspicuous expendi ture, an extraordinary credit net".,'Ork has been set up, which, when considered, rcveals much ofour real class situation, and the ways in which it is changing. The earners of wages and
afe
for more pay, there is too little comparison with the whole range of pay, and too much with other workers no beller off.
salaries alike in this, that most of them become quickly involvcd in a system ofusury which spreads until it is virtually
Or one reads the public discussions, in some minority news
really own their houses, or their furniture, or their carS ?
papers, of the level of percentage increase which
wages can
be confined to in a givcn year. ]n the same ycat' quite differ cnt and much larger percentage increases arc discussed in
relation to salaries, but hardly the of reference. It is difficult to know what else to call this but a
ever within
same terms
practical class system. Many of the lower-salaried workel's arc in practice treated as wage-earners : is great confusion at that point in the scale. But at a certain level a whole world of di(fcrence
there
begins, not only in straight money, but in such critical factors as an automatic incremental scale, a contract of
inescapable. How many supposedly middle-class people Most of them arc as radically unpropertied
as the traditional
working class, who arc now incrcasingly involved in thcsame process ofusur}'. ] n
part it is the old exaction, by the proper the ordinary
tied, from the needs of the unpropertied, and
middle-class talk of the property and independcnce which makc them substantial citizens is an increasingly pathetic illusion. Onc factor in maintaining the illusion is that much of the capital needed to finance the ordinary buyer comes from his·own
pockel, through in�11ranec and the like, and
this can be made to look like the sensible process of accumu lating social capital. ,Vhal
is not lIsually noticed is that
The Long Revolution
established along the line of this process are a group ofpeople using its complications to make substantial profit out oftheir neighbours' social needs. The ordinary salary-carner, think ing of himself as middle class because of the differences between himself and the wage-earners already noted, fails to notice this real class beyond him, by whom he is factually and continually exploited. Seeing class-distinction only in the limited terms of the open differential, he is acquiescing in the loss ofhis own freedom and even, by the usual upward
identification with which the struggling middle class has always been trapped, underwriting his real exposure, as one
of the unpropertied, as if it were his system and his pride.
As we move into this characteristic contemporary world,
we can see the supposed new phenomenon of classlcssness as simply a failure of consciousnCS!i. The public discussion is all at the levcl of the open differential and its complicated games, but if this were eventually resolved, into a more apparent equity, there would still be no real classlessness; indeed there can be noneuntil social capital is socially owned. I t is in this context that the distinction between middle elass and working class must always be con�idered. The line between them, always difficult to draw, is now blurred at many more points by a common involvement which the remaining distinctions not only disguise but in part are meant to disguise. Is the working class becoming middle
class, as its conditions improve? J t could as reasonably be said that most ofthe middle class have become working class, in the sense that they depend on selling their labour and are characteristically unpropel'ticd in any important sense. The true description is one that recognizes that the traditional definitions have broken down, and that the resulting con
1
I
Britain in the 1960s
353
grades or resentful of them, but, likcmost servants, taking the general establishment for granted and keeping our bickering . within its terms. This situation is clearly reflected in contemporary politics. The Conservative Party is still basically the party of the propertied and the controllers, with an old and natural genuAexion to the mellow dusk in which these processes are blurred. But it is fclt to be the party ofmost ofthosc who still anxiomly call themselves ' middle class', preoccupied as always with the \lpward identification and the downward keeping-in-place, the latter now fortunately expressible in precise wage percentages. The Labour Party, with vestigial ideas of a different system, offers little alternative to teis
structure of feeling, and upward identification, it is now learning, can spread a long way down. This is no sudden and
dramatic change, though particular voting results may appeal' dramatically to reveal it. It is part of the logic of a particular system of society, which will operate so long as there is no adequate l'ise and extension of consciousness of what the system is and docs.
Such consciousness is nol helped by the ordinary kind of discussion which followed Labour's third electoral defeat in 1 959. The most popular formula was that the defeat was inevitable because Labour is identified with the prole tariat and the proletariat is breaking up. This is extremely doubtful. I t is true, of course, that modern houses, modem furniture, television sets and washing-machines and, in some cases, cars, arc increasingly available to many wage-earners. But what is meant by calling this proeess ' deproletarianiza tion', as the Economi st, following E. M. Durbin and others, has done? If Ihe electoral decline of Labour in the '95°S is
fusion is a serious diminution of consciousncss. New kinds of
evidence of this, what arc we to make of the fact that when
work, new forms ofcapital, new systems ofownership require new descriptions of men in their relations to th�m. Our true
working-class standards were low,
condition is that in relation to a complicated economic and social organization which we have not learned to control, most ofus are factually servants, allowed the ordinary grades of upper, middle, and lower, insistent on the marks of lhese
as in the inter-war
deprcssion, and so when more 'proletarian ' conditions might have been supposed to exist, many !css people than now in fact voted Labour.
1111lS the Labour vote in 1959, in its third
defeat, was nearly half as much again as i t was in the worst periods ofpovel'ty and depression. In 1924 the Labour vote
355
TIlt lAng Rfwlufiol,
Britain in tlte 1960s
was sf million, in 1929 St million, in 193' 6! million, in
labour movement, both industrially and politically, has been a continuous struggle to crcate a particular political and
354
1935 8! million. In the famous vielOI), of 19.�5, the Labour
vote rose to 12 million, and a slump in the Conservative votc brought Lahom a large parliamentary majority. After this peak, according to the popular formula, Labour lost electoral SUppOl'l because its first measures towards socialism were disliked. How curiolls, then, that in '950 the Labolll' vote was ' 3,235,610, and in '951 the highest figure ever polled
by a British party. '3,949, 105. The ' proletarian' situation of the depression had produced a maximum orS! million votes. the full-employment siluutionof 1951 nearly '4 million. And
what of the elections since then, with more consumer goods and consumer credit, breaking up this ' proletariat' of the past? In 1955, on a lower total poll, 12,405,246 Labour votes. I n '959, on a pol! still much lower than '95J, 12,216,166. The loss in voters in 'hose two elections was �arked. * In 1 �55 it was blamed on bad polling 'weather, , ntcrnal dissenSIOns (these were also serious in 1951), and : apathy , , In 1959, theweathcr was pcrfect, the dissension was l ��, and thc election rcccived more publicity, through telc
VISion, lh�n ever bcfore. Yct the vote wcnt down again, and, . most slgmficantly, t he total poll was still some 5 per eent
lower than in 1951. I t is a difficult simation to analyse, but we need not be hindered by myths of a 'proletariat ' and ' dcprolctarianizalion '. In the whole ' proletarian' period up to 1939, Labour never got morc than 38% of the total votes cast. In the 'deprolctarian' period since '945 it bas never got less than 43%. These facts reduce the usual analysis to nonsense. The British working class, in the traditional sense of the gr.eat body of wage-eamers and their families, has in fact never voted sohdly Labour, as anyone who grew up in a .
social consciousness. To the ordinary difficulties ofeducation and propaganda has been added a continuous campaign, by other social groups, to check and confuse and sidetrack this movement. At times hardly any headway has been made; at times there have been real defeats; at times, again, import ant advances. Consider only, on the negative side, these statements : Propose to a working man any great measure affecting the whole body, and he immediately asks himself the question, What am I to get by it? meaning, what at this instant am I to have in my hand or in my pocket ? There hc sticks.
L:mCOlShire working men were in rags by thousands, and manyof them lacked food. But thcirimclligence was demonstrated wherever you went. You would 5Ce them in groups discussing the grcat doc trines ofpolitical justice . . . or they were in earnest dispute respect ing Ihc teachings of socialism. Now you wilt see no such groups n i Lancashire. But you will hear well-dressed working men talking, as they walk with their hands in their pockets, of Coops • , . and their shares in them or in building societies. TIle difficulty ofpcrsuading workmen to listen to anything which docs not concern pleasure 01' profit has long been acknowledged, and is, I think, cven stronger tllan it used to be. The peoplc have all been busy getting on, some too busy to think of anything except their work, some too set on the pleasures now opened to them to care for knowledge. *
Any of these statcments might be made now, in the fashion
able c);position of the 'I'm all right Jack' ideology of the
workers. But their dates, respectively, are 1835, 1870, ,882, and ,goo: spanning the years in which the labour move ment's foundations were built. The ragged groups of our
wage-earning family would know without being told. If
own century, discussing socialism, may have been similarly
Lab?ur had ev�r got a regular jO pCI' cent of these wage �arrllng voters, It would have been permanently in power. It
shares', but tlus is no new phenomenon: the fluctuations are
an e);traordinary misunderstanding of politics to suppose that a man n�ccssarily votes for a proletarian party because h e was born In a proletarian position. The building of the IS
replaccd by 'well-dressed working men talking of their the real historical process, and in fact,
as
we have seen, there
are more Labour voters in our own well-dressed times than in the days oCthe ragged groups of the 1930s. The fact is that
356
357
The Loug Revolution
Britain itl tm J960$
there is no simple rising graph, for the process docs not take
buy. lfthe Conservatives did as littlc as they could to redress
place in a vacuum. It is profoundly affected by changing
poverty and basic inequality, still a given minimum - what
political conditions and by phases of change in the society as a whole. This is the real historical context from which any
one Conselvative MP has called ' Butler Socialism' - was the
serious contemporary analysis must begin.
evident price of power, and they were able and willing to pay it. In such conditions, with each new election preceded by a
My own vicw of the political Auctuatiom since the war can be brieOy stated. The Labour viclory of 1945 was out standingly an expression of determination not to return to pre-war conditions, with which the Conservatives were
boom in spending power, the Labour Party's permanent task of creating a new kind of social consciousness was just too difficult.·
widely identified. The very low Conservative vote in that
Drawing back from this detail of immediate politics, what can we learn, from such evidence, about the general develop
year
million) is as significant as the Labour increase.
ment of the society ? We have already rejected the ordinary
1945 and '95',
explanation, of' deprolctarianization ' : a proletariat may be factually created by an industrial system, but i t is only
(8t
Between a
the evidence of opinion polls shows
loss by Labour of much or the support from salary-earners
which had helped i t in
1 945.
Yet in
1950 and 1951
Labour's
vote increased, which can only mean that more and more wage-earning voters had turned to its positive support. The huge vote of '951, still in conditions of post-war austerity and planning, was the most conscious working-class determina_ tion ever recorded in Britain, to reject the conditions of pre
politically created by political action, and in Britain this has never been fully achieved . Millions of wage�earners and . tllcir wives still vote Conservative, as n i previous elections.
The significant questions are what kinds of people these are, and whether there are any new and permanent social
1951, the
patterns shaping them. It is diflicult to answer thesequestiom with any certainty, but one fact stands out. The division of
Conservative Party had been significantly reorganized, not
votes by sex cuts right across the usual analysis by class,
war society and go on with the new system. But by
only technically but in terms ofpolicy. 1 t was identified now not with a return to the 1 93 05, but with basic acceptance o
f
the Welfare State and with the relaxation of austerity and
controls. The Conservative Party could not beat Labour in 1951, in real votes, but by the vagaries of the electoral system
�huge �abour m�joritie� piling up and wasting in the heavy
introducing questions which cannot
be negotiated within
our ordinary political categories. Thus, in the
1959 election,
when the British people is supposed to have decisively endorsed conservatism, the votes of all men (according to poll analysis) resulted in a narrow majority for Labour.
5 1 % Labour against 49% Conservative 55% Conservative against 45% Labour
The figures were
mdustnal areas) It regalOed parliamentary power. MiUions
among men;
of salary-earning voters had come back to it, and its tradi tional wage-earning vote had at least survived. And then, in government, it remained reasonably faithful to its new
among women. This male Labour majority has been normal
identity. There were incidental cuts in the social services and redistributions of ta�ation favouring the better-off, bu
women has also been narrowing. Tht: reasons, in each case, are still speculative, but at least i t is impossible to analyse the
all ill the context of a more visibly prosperous economy and
distribution of the wage-earning vote without serious allow
�
a general reduction in taxation. The dread of the return to the
193 0S
lifted; the Welfare State was not dismantled;
since the war, though it is also significant that it narrowed during the fifties, and that the Conservative majority among
1955, for example, the 55!% to Labour, 40�% to Conser men split 50% Labour to 45!% Conserva 54% Conservative to 42% Labour. It is
ance for this difference by sex. In wage-earning vote split
earnings - with ful l employment, overtime, and an increas
vatives, while all
ing numbcr of wives working - rose, and there was plenty to
tive, all women
358
77lt Long Revolulioll
Bri/aill ill lhe Ig60s
359
then highly probable that in addition to wage-earning
We think of the new housing-estates, the new suburbs and
Conservative families, therc were many Conservative wives of Labour husbands. Givcn actual trends, it is \'ery difficult to see any radically new pat\t"rn in this complex, especially
whole it is in these areas that Labour hopes are now most regulady disappointed .• Thisis the living-space oftlmt other
if we arc rid of the ' proletarian' myth that before '939
almost all wage-earners and their wi\'es voted Labour as a matter of course. Labour gels a higher percentage of the total vote in the period of washing-machines and television than in the period of high unemployment, and the adjust mems within this arc obviously too complicated for any single explanation. II< Another possible line of approach is in terms of new kinds of community. Ifwe look at a political map ofBritain, over
the new lowns as characteristic ofthe new Britain, and on the
popular figure of eon temporary analysis, the 'semi-detached proletariat'. But in fact people of many different kinds live in these places, which also between themselves ha\'e import ant differences, Attention has been concentrated on the break-up of old community patterns, by such physical removal, but this needs discriminating description. There is social variation, all the way from the estate still mainly serving a single works to the new town wholly mixed in origins and centres ofwork. There is also historical variation,
the century, we see an important relation between kinds
from the first-generation estate in which social relations
of community and political representation, and this seems a
are still at the level of casuaL neighbourly contact, to the
real clue to understanding contemporary change. A map of Labour representation is virtually a map ofthe coalfields and
second-generation estate on which people have been born, grown up and married. The disruption of extended families
the great towns, with lhe significant exception ofsomc of the
noted in some removals is in itselfa temporary phenomenon :
' Celtic' areas, where English social patterns arc less marked
all first-generation estates will become seeond- and third
and where Labour Can win even in scattered rural COll
generation, though not necessarily with exactly the same
stituencies. Conservatism is strong in almost all the English
family patterns. We cannot be sure what will happen, but it
coullties, some Scottish counties, Nonhem Ireland (where
would be rash to assume that all former patterns are perma
English politics are confused by questions of religion and
nently gone. The old working-class communities grew, over a century, from a situation of removal and exposure fully comparable in effect to the present phase. vVhen the tempor
exaggerations of the present electoral system. In 'Conserva tive Britain', in 1960, Wales was strongly Labour, Scotland
ary and anifieial nature of the newest communities has been
had a Labour majority for the first lime, and, to take only lhe outstanding cases, there was a Labour London a Labour
minism ofsupposing that things (wherhcr houses or washing
partition) and the smaller English towns. This diversity s i the reality, which is masked by overall counts and the
�
Dirm.i lgham.a Lahour �[anehestcr, and a Labo I' Glasgow. � Thus III Ihe heavy industrial areas and in the great towns Ihe wage-e�rning identification with Labour remains high,
though III n� sense total or even nearly so. Similarly, in other . . easllY ldcntlfied communiti('s, such as the English rural . eountu:s, and the traditional ' residential' resorts, popular support of the Conscrvati\'cs is high, as it has traditionally been. It is i n other kinds of community. between these extremes, that the difficult social analysis begins.
allowed for, and when we have overcome the simple deter machines) shape mcn, we shall perhaps be more eautiOlls in assuming that there are wholly new permanent paltems, and
in particular that we know what these are. All that can reasonably be noted at the present stage is that these com munities were not planned by the people who live in them, but by others with their own versiollS of what these people
needed and what a society or a community is. Again there s i variation, but in many places certain patterns of thinking arc now on the ground - as they were in the terrace-barracks of the first industrial towns - and these, characteristically,
Britain in the 1960s
The Long Rtvolution arc a cheap version of recent middle-dass provision for itself. Thus the houses or Aats have more spuct: around them which
l
is a gain, and have hardly any social buildings anci lary to
�
t em which I think is a loss. A social pattern of a parLicular : . kmd IS thus b�llt into the provision of better housing; you
l�
take � e one with the other, and the housing, given previous conditIOns, you must take. At the same time new com
b
munication syst�ms, built on old social patlerns ut on a very . . Wide scale, arc Immediately accessible : the cheap national newspaper, the woman's magazine, tdevision. I t is not that these ex crnal syst�ms arc n ew in kind, though certainly in . scale. It IS that their growth IOteriocks with the uncertainties
�
ofthe general tran�ition, among which there is less to counter vail. A new and uncerta.in factor, in those ncw communities whcre work s i very mixed, is the degree ofinteraction between social consciousness gained at work - a dassic centre of the growth of Labour consciousness - and social consciousness gain�d in the c � m � unity. It is too early to say anything llS, SlOce both elements in the interaction are defimte about ti themselves changing, but I am interested in some evidene� of a split between trade-union consciousness (the simplest . tI ung learned at work) and Labour consciousness in the wider sense, which has to be in terms of a mixed community and a whole society. Since i t is in some groups' interests to encourage this split we must not take such signs of it as there are as an act ofGod (thc 'American futurc' which this is also somet e:s called, would be very much an a'ct ofmco) . At the
�
same tune, the conditions for this kind ofchange exist, indeed have been created. Caught in these many currcnts, the men and women of the newel' communities are livinfY ' out, ex. . l'ICll1�, a patter? of learning and rcsponse which is also
P
mvolvmg the society as a whole. I am not greatly surprised that contemporary Conservatism, in part directing just tIlis
complex, makes sense as an intcrpretation of it to very many �eople. For at just this point, Labour secms to have very . httle to off�r. A clifferent vcrsion of community, a pattern of . new conSCIOusness, It has not been able to give. Its com promise policies combine the two irrelevant elemcnts of
appeal to old and fading habits and mcmories, and ofcultural adjustment to the pre:scntsocial confusion. Old Left and New Right i n the Labour Party are unconscious allies in delaying any relevant analysis and challenge. The invocation of old
habits, which to some extent people arc bound to change and reject. combines with the rejcction ofsocialism as a radically different human order, to leave the ruling interpretations and directions cssentially unchallcngcd. Thus the complex and the new uneven growth of consciousness, most marked in is communities but present almost everywhere in the socicty, ly political be can which it left with too fcw channels through
and expressed. This cannot be a permanent situation. Men women do not ,vait for ever on establishcd systCIll5. New learning, new rcsponsc, will work through, perhaps in forms local we cannot yet envisage (the Aldermaston marches, the s) . example early are services, and n cducatio on groups of tbe For the one absolute fact about the men and women new communities, as of the new kinds ofsociety cvcrywhere
in the world. is that they arc created in a human image, and ' telly not in the image of anybody's version of them. The our of fiction bad the glued masses' do not exis t; they are new, or old masses, the \Vhat . second-rate social analysts women, might do is anybody's gU!�ss. But the actual men and under permanent kinds of difIiculty, will observe and learn, ys and I do not think that in the long run they will be anybod ' windfall. at The reccived dcscriptions of social classes have been any· is How n. situatio their most confusing, in just this new he one to know. in a new town or on a new housing estate, if The class? e' 'middl the or g' 'workin the to belongs or she cconomic traditional meanings that come through arc not in dle dass-mid working the terms (whcrc, as wc have secn, of tcrlJl.S in but draw) to t difficul VC1'y is class description style of life and behaviour. 'vVorking class ', for very many and people. is simply a memory of poverty, bad housing, spend, to money for name a is ' class exposure, while ' middle lable life. better housing, and a more furnished and control styles ofliving of the whole society are in any case t Since he
The umg Revolutioll
362
Britain ill the J960s
changing, this contrast very easily becomes one between
basis for this is a real feeling of community - the true know
past and present : 'working class' is the old style, that people
ledge Ihnt we are working for ourselves and for each other which, though present now as an ideal, is continually con
arc steadily moving away from ; ' middle class ' is the new 'contemporary' style. It is easy (0 point out that by lhis lime these terms have lost any relevant meaning, as dcscrip
fused and in some cases cancelled by the plnin fact that most of us do 110t own or control the means and the product of our
tionsofactualsocial organization, b\lt their emotional charge
work. In an industrial economy, social production will
is no less powerful for that. 'Working class and proud ofil' may last in the older communities, and in some politically
either be owned or controlk-d by the whole society, or by a part ofil which then employs the rest. The dccision between
active individuals, but in most cases it is now deeply con
these alternatives is the critical decision about class, and ifwe
fused : on the onc hand, ' I work for my living' (which almost
are serious about cnding the class system we must clear away
everyone docs) ; on the other hand, the strong social sense of 'working' 'lower' class, with inferiorities and deprivations
kinds of distinction, until we see the hard economic centre
to which nobody in his senses wants to return. I have the impression that when socialists speak now of the working
which finally sustains them. \Vith that basic inequality isolated we could stop the irrelcvant discussion of class, of
=
the sllrd\·als, the irrelevancies, and thc confusion of other
class, they attract to themselves natural resentments against
which most ofus are tl'uly sick and tired, and Jet through the
the whole idea ofclass and inreriority. In its social sense, most
more interesting discussion of human diffcrences, between
people only talk about class when they are anxious, and orten
real people and real communities living in thcir valuably various ways.
want to get rid of the fecling that therc are these kinds
of
distinctions betwcen people. I think this desire should be
respected, for it is an exceptionally valuable piece of social growth and maturity. But the point has been reached where thc growing feeling that class is out of dale and doesn't matter is being uscd to ratify a �':)cial systcm which in other terms than those now visibly breaking down is still essentially bascd on economic classes. To perpetuate the present confusion is to guarantee a minimal social consciousncss. "rVe have instead to concentrate on two general facts: the open differential, and the owner
lV
The extension of culture has to be considered within the real social context of our economic and political life. 1-.Iy studies of the growth of particular cultural institutions showed a real expansion, which of course is continuing, but
showed also the extent to which this was affected 01' deter mined by other [.1.cts in the society. In the 'gGos, the rate of growth seems promising, ::md we are busy with plans to maintain and increa�c it. Yet here, very clearly, is a major
ship and control of socinl cnpitnl. If the open differential,
contradiction easily overlooked by following a simple rising
which still gives some renlity, though confused nnd confusing,
graph, for whilt: rt:al nrt and argument are hein� mOl'e widely enjoyed, the distribution of a bewildering \·aril,ty of bad an i increasing c\'cn more rapidly. \rc arc and bad argument s
to the working class-middle class distinction, is discussed on il5 own, the society cannot be understood. The differential is merely an operative function ofa particular kind ofsociety, and to promote an cvcn more tense competition within it, setting one kind of worker against another, has Ihe effect of
reaching t h e point where the contradiction bctween these different I ines and ra les of growth is serious alld inescapable,
petuate the overall system. I t is certainly my view that the
yet even those who sec this situation feel panictllarly lIncer tain about what can be done. \Vc must look first at a panicular and local contradiction
diffcrential will have to be revised, but the only possible
which can quickly confuse any such discussion. Jr someone
directing social consciousness into forms that simply per�
Britain in
1M 1960s
365
TM Long Rtvolutioll
to create new forms or do significant work in traditional
diminishing their worst counterparts, someone else usually
forms; on the other hand, the steady offering and discussion
364
proposes ways of extending good art and argument, and of answers that we mustn't be snobs : that football, after all, is as good as chess; thatjazz is a real musical form; that garden. ing and homemaking are also important. Who exactly is someone like this arguing with, since it is usually obvious that he is not really arguing with the man to whom hc replies ? Unfortunately he is arguing with actual people and a familiar way offecling. It s i truc that certain cultural forms have been used as a way of asscrting social distinction, and that much wholesale condemnation of new fonns has been a way of demonstrating the inferiority of those two groups who have regularly to be put in their (lowcr) place: the masses and the yOWlg. This habit has to be resisted, but there is equal danger in a popular form of demagogy which, by the
usc
of
selective examples, suececds in avoiding the problem of bad cuhure altogether. Can we agree, perhaps, before passing to the more difficult questions, that football is indeed a wonder. ful game, that jazz is a real musical form and that gardening and homemaking are indeed impOJ'tant? Can we also agree, though, that the horror-film, the rape-novel, the Sunday strip·papcr and the latest Tin-Pan drool are not
..actly e ;
in
the same world, and that the nice magazine romance, the manly adventure story (straight to the point of the jaw) and the pretty, clever television advertisement are not in it either ? The argument againsl lhese things, and the immense profits gained by their calculated dissemination, cannot afford to be confused by the collatcral point that a good living culture is various and changing, that the need
fJI' sport and cntcrtain
ment is as rcal as the need for art, and that the public display of' taste', as aform ofsocial distinction, is merely vulgar. In a rapidly changing and thererorc confused society, in . cultural forms will in any case change but in which
'�lllc�
little
IS
done by way of education to deepcn and refine the
capacity for significant response, we have to learn forms of action as well as methods of criticism. Two parallcl efforts are necessal'Y : on the one hand the maximum encoumgcment ofartists who are seriously trying
of this work, including real criticism and therefore
its dis. '
tinction at least from calculated and indiOcrent manipula. tion. I t would be wrong to say that these efforts arc not being made: some help, though still inadequate, is being given to the arts ; some responsible offering and discussion are publicly underwritten. These policies fall within the evolutionary conception; a steady encouragement ofelements of,'aluable
growth. But while supporting thcm, and certainly wishing to sec them extended, J find difficult to feel thal they go to
it
the root oCthe problem. for it is usual!y not recognized that inferior and destructive clcments arc bcing much more
actively propagated: that man: is spent, for example, on advertising a new soap, and imprinting ajingle attached to it, than on supporling an orchestra or a picture gallery ; and that in launching two new magazines, one trying to do a serious new job, the other simply competing to capture a share of a known popular market, the ratio of comparative investment is ludicrous, for hardly anything is behind the former, while huge sums of money are poured out on the latter. The condition of cultural growth must be that varying elements are at least equally availaule, and that new and unfamiliar things must be offcred steadily over a long period, f i they are to havc it rcasonable chance of acceptance. Policies of [his degree of responsibility seem impOS£ible in ollr present cul tural organization. Thc encouragement ofvaIIIable clements
is restricted to what is little more than a defensive holding
operation, which of course is better than nothing but which is hardly likely to maJ..e any general change. The rest of the
field is left to thc market, and not cwn to the free play of the
market, for the amounts of capital involved in financing our major cultural institutions restrict entry to a comparatively few powerful groups, so that both production and distribu. tion arc rITcetively in very fcw hands. The serious new maga. zinc refefl'cd to, usually the result of a major voluntary effort by a group of dcdicatcd people, is unlikely to be even avail able for buying, in the sense of lying ready
011 thc average
366
The Long Reuoiulioll
bookstall where somebody might try it, while the new commercial magazine will be so widely displayed that it can hardly be avoided. ft is then stupid and even vicious, when it s i clear that no rea! competition exists, to use the evidence of immediate rcsults as proof of the unalterable vulgarity of the public. Instead of the ritual indignation and despair at the cultural condition of ' the masses ' (now inercasingly uttered even by their supposed friends) it is nccessary to break through to the central fact that most of our cultural institu· tions are in the hands of speculators, interested not in the health and growth of the society, but in the quick profits that can be made by exploiting inc.xperienee. True, under attack, these speculators, or some of them, will concede limited policies of a different kind, which they significantly Call 'prestige ' ; that is to say, cnough to prcserve a limited public respectability so that they wil! be allowed to continue to operate. But the real question is whether a society can afford to leave its cultural apparatus in such irrcsponsible hands. Now I think many people feci the strength ofthis question, but feel even more strongly the difficulties of any possible alternative. Steady and panicular cncomagemcnt, in the obvious limited fields, is quite widely approved, but any attempt to tackle the whole situation runs into majol· diffi· culties. For i t is obvious that the amount ofcapital and effort required, to make any substantial change, can come only
from public sources, and to this there arc two objections. The
Britain in lite 1960s
the existing cultural system, by one kind of organization of the economy, we need not be frightened by the scale of resources required, since that organization is in fact subject to change. v\le should be much clearer about these cultural questions
if we saw them as a consequence of a basically
capitalist organization, and I at least know no better reason
for capitalism to be ended. It is significant that the liveliest revolt against the existing system, particularly among the new young generation, is in precisely these cultural terms. But then the second objection is deeply im'olved with this point. What is the alternativ� to capitalism? Socialism. What is a socialist culture ? Slate control. There are many good liberals, and many anxious socialists, who draw back if this is the prospect. Better even the speculators, they say, than the inevitable horde of bureaucrats, official bodies, and quite probably censorship. This difficulty has a representative significance. It is not only in cultural questions, but in the whole area of thinking about change in our society, that this knot is tied. Here is the deepest difficulty in the whole development of our democracy : that we secm reduced to a choice between speculator and bureaucrat, and while we do not like the speculator, the bureaucrat is not exactly inviting either. I n such a situation, energy i s sapped, hope weakens, and of course the present compromise between the speculators and the bureaucrats remains uneha!!enged.
first is the question whether such resources are really avail· able, on the scale required. This goes back to the difficulty discussed earlier : that we find it almost impossible to con ceive the financing of social policy out of the social product,
voting. In relatively small bodies, contact between membe�s and policies can be dose, though even here some rcsponSI'
and have never lcarned a system ofaccotillting which would
ralher than to membersas a whole, and where much adminis·
make this possible or evcn visible. For it
is true, of course,
that the present investment comes from the society and
economy as a whole. The supply of advertising money (the contemporary equivalent of manna) can only come in the
Democratic policies arc made by open discussion and open bility for decisions will be passed 10 elected representatives
trative work is necessary will also he passed to officials. The principle of the official in a democratic organization is quite dear: he administers within an elected policy, and is respon· sible to the membership for his actions. The practice, we all
end from us, as workers and buyers, though it is now routed through channels that give control of this social capital to
know, can be otherwise, but given .:In adequate constitution and genuine equality of membership it is still the best ancl
very limited groups. If we can realize that we arc paying for
most responsible system known.
