Greek and Roman Classics in the British
Struggle for Social Reform
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Bloomsbury Studies in Classical Reception
Bloomsbury Studies in Classical Reception presents scholarly monographs
offering new and innovative research and debate to students and scholars in
the reception of Classical Studies. Each volume will explore the appropriation,
reconceptualization and recontextualization of various aspects of the
Graeco-Roman world and its culture, looking at the impact of the ancient
world on modernity. Research will also cover reception within antiquity,
the theory and practice of translation, and reception theory.
Also available in the Series:
Imagining Xerxes, Emma Bridges
Ovid’s Myth of Pygmalion on Screen, Paula James
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Greek and Roman Classics in the
British Struggle for Social Reform
Edited by Henry Stead and Edith Hall
Bloomsbury Academic
An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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Bloomsbury Academic
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First published 2015
© Henry Stead, Edith Hall and Contributors, 2015
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ISBN: HB: 978-1-47258-426-7
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Series: Bloomsbury Studies in Classical Reception
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For Utopian Dreamers
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Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Notes on Contributors xi
Acknowledgements xv
1 Introduction Edith Hall and Henry Stead 1
2 Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed: Classics from the Grass
Roots in the Cultural Politics of Nineteenth-Century Britain
Lorna Hardwick 20
3 Coleridge’s Classicized Politics: Heraclitus and The Statesman’s
Manual Adam Roberts 37
4 Swinish Classics; or a Conservative Clash with Cockney Culture
Henry Stead 55
5 The Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary: Radical Classics in
1850s London Edmund Richardson 79
6 Making it Really New: Dickens versus the Classics Edith Hall 99
7 Classics and Social Closure Christopher Stray 116
8 Hercules as a Symbol of Labour: a Nineteenth-Century
Class-Conflicted Hero Paula James 138
9 Vulcan – a ‘Working-Class’ God? Annie Ravenhill-Johnson 155
10 Nature versus Nurture: Population Decline and Lessons from the
Ancient World Sarah J. Butler 165
11 The Space of Politics: Classics, Utopia and the Defence of Order
Richard Alston 183
12 Classically Educated Women in the Early Independent
Labour Party Edith Hall 197
13 The Greeks of the WEA: Realities and Rhetorics in the
First Two Decades Barbara Goff 216
14 Christopher Caudwell’s Greek and Latin Classics Edith Hall 235
15 Staging the Haitian Revolution in London: Britain, the West
Indies and C. L. R. James’s Toussaint Louverture
Justine McConnell 256
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viii Contents
16 Yesterday’s Men: Labour’s Modernizing Elite from the 1960s to
Classical Times Michael Simpson 269
Notes 292
Bibliography 332
Index 362
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Illustrations
Cover image ‘Minerva Directing Study to the Attainment of Universal Knowledge’
by William Humphrys.
4.1. ‘Homer casting pearls before swine’ – Bridges 1797: frontispiece. 57
5.1. ‘Where radical classics used to be: Medea, diluted’ – Brough’s
Medea annotated: 16. 95
6.1. ‘David Copperfield and Uriah Heep’ by Fred Barnard (1870). 108
7.1. ‘Toffs and Toughs’ – Jimmy Sime (1937)/Getty images. 118
7.2. ‘Fry’s Chocolate advertisement’ – photo of enamel sign by
Kim Traynor (CC BY-SA 3.0), minor adjustments by Henry Stead. 119
7.3. ‘Five More Boys’ – from top left and clockwise: (a) Boy 1:
Christopher Stray, employed at Deptford to Greenwich tramway
depot; (b) Boy 2: (on horse) Stanley Stray (aka ‘Jack Stanley’),
painter and pianist; (c) Stanley at the piano in Bertini’s Palm Court
Orchestra (2nd right); (d) Stanley and Boy 3, his son, Peter Stray;
(e) Boy 4: Stanley’s grandson, Christopher Stray (author of chapter)
with his sister Elizabeth; and (f) Boy 5, Jack Stanley’s great-
grandson, Peter Stray. 120
8.1. Banner of the Dockers’ Union, Export Branch, early 1890s, People’s
History Museum, Manchester. 139
8.2. Certificate of the Dock, Wharf, Riverside and General Labourers’
Union of Great Britain and Ireland, 1891, Blades, East and Blades,
Trade Union Congress Library. 145
8.3. Certificate of the Amalgamated Society of Engineers, Machinists,
Millwrights, Smiths and Pattern Makers, 1852, James Sharples,
Working Class Movement Library, Salford. 147
8.4. Certificate of the Friendly Society of Iron Founders of England,
Ireland and Wales, 1857, John James Chant, engraved by
John Saddler, Working Class Movement Library, Salford. 148
9.1. Liverpool Mechanics’ Institution medal by John Ottley (1825),
The British Museum – MG.1053. 160
12.1. Front cover of Shafts: A Paper for Women and the Working Classes
(1892–9). 199
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x Illustrations
13.1. Pioneer Tutorial Class, Rochdale (1907), from Oxford University’s
Department for Continuing Education. 226
14.1. Caudwell (on right) in group before leaving to fight in Spain,
The Daily Worker (1936). 236
16.1. Anthony Crosland with Harold Wilson © Selwyn Tait / Corbis. 288
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Notes on Contributors
Richard Alston is professor of Roman history at Royal Holloway, University of
London. He has published extensively on Roman and Byzantine history. His
current research foci are cultures of imperialism (ancient and modern) and
social and economic history. His most recent book-length publications include
Rome’s Revolution: Death of the Republic and Birth of the Empire (Oxford
University Press, 2015), Reflections of Romanity: Discourses of Subjectivity in
Imperial Rome, with Efrossini Spentzou (Ohio State University Press, 2011)
and The City in Roman and Byzantine Egypt (2002, Routledge), and he has
co-edited six volumes, including Ancient Slavery and Abolition (Oxford
University Press, 2011).
Sarah J. Butler is an honorary research fellow at Royal Holloway, University of
London and an associate lecturer at the Open University, UK. She is author of
‘Ancient Rome and the Town and Country Debate’ (New Voices in Classical
Reception, 2011), ‘Heroes or Villains: The Gracchi, Reform, and the Nineteenth-
century Press’ in Hardwick and Harrison, Classics in the Modern World: A
Democratic Turn? (Oxford University Press, 2013) and Britain and Its Empire in
the Shadow of Rome (Bloomsbury, 2012).
Barbara Goff is professor of classics at University of Reading, UK. She has published
extensively on Greek tragedy and its reception, and on classics in post-colonial
contexts. She is author of Citizen Bacchae: Women’s Ritual Practice in Ancient
Greece (University of California Press, 2004), editor of Classics and Colonialism
(Duckworth, 2005), co-author with Michael Simpson of Crossroads in the Black
Aegean: Oedipus, Antigone and Dramas of the African Diaspora (Oxford University
Press, 2007) and author of Your Secret Language: Classics in the British Colonies of
West Africa (Bloomsbury, 2013). Barbara is currently working on a project with
Michael Simpson on classics and the British Labour movement.
Edith Hall is professor of classics at King’s College, London and Consultant
Director of the Archive of Performances of Greek & Roman Drama at Oxford.
She is lead researcher on the major AHRC-funded research project Classics and
Class in Britain 1789–1939. She recently won the Erasmus Medal of the European
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xii Contributors
Academy 2015 for her contribution to international research. Her most recent
book is Introducing the Ancient Greeks (2014).
Lorna Hardwick is emeritus professor of classical studies in the Open University,
UK and director of the Classical Receptions in Late Twentieth Century Drama
and Poetry in English project. She has published extensively on the reception of
Greek drama, classical poetry and historiography, including Translating Words,
Translating Cultures (Bristol University Press, 2000). She has recently co-edited a
number of volumes, including Classics in Post-Colonial Worlds, with Carol
Gillespie (Oxford University Press, 2007), A Companion to Classical Receptions,
with Christopher Stray (Blackwell, 2008) and Classics in the Modern World: A
Democratic Turn? with Stephen Harrison (Oxford University Press, 2013). She
was founding editor of The Oxford Classical Receptions Journal and continues to
be series editor, with Jim Porter, of Oxford Studies in Classical Receptions:
Classical Presences (Oxford University Press).
Paula James is senior lecturer and staff tutor in classical studies at the Open
University, UK. She has written widely on Roman literature and the reception of
the classical world. She is author of Ovid’s Myth of Pygmalion on Screen: In
Pursuit of the Perfect Woman (Continuum, 2011) and editor of Annie Ravenhill-
Johnson’s The Art and Ideology of the Trade Union Emblem, 1850–1925 (Anthem,
2013). She is also joint editor of The Role of the Parrot in Selected Texts from Ovid
to Jean Rhys (Mellen, 2006).
Justine McConnell is a Leverhulme Early Career Fellow at The Oxford Research
Centre in the Humanities, University of Oxford. Her research focuses on the
reception of classical literature since the nineteenth century, and on contemporary
African, Caribbean and ancient Greek poetics. She is author of Black Odysseys: The
Homeric Odyssey in the African Diaspora since 1939 (Oxford University Press, 2013)
and co-editor of Ancient Slavery and Abolition (Oxford University Press, 2011), The
Oxford Handbook of Greek Drama in the Americas (Oxford University Press, 2015)
and Ancient Greek Myth in World Fiction since 1989 (Bloomsbury, 2015).
Annie Ravenhill-Johnson gained her DPhil in the history of art and design from
the Birmingham Institute of Art and Design (University of Central England in
Birmingham). She is author of The Art and Ideology of the Trade Union Emblem,
1850–1925 (Anthem, 2013).
Edmund Richardson is lecturer in classics at the University of Durham. He has
written widely on receptions of the ancient world, from Afghanistan to Broadway.
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Contributors xiii
He is author of Classical Victorians: Scholars, Scoundrels & Generals in Pursuit of
Antiquity (Cambridge University Press, 2013). His current research project,
Alexandrias: Misdirection and the Making of History, explores the nineteenth- and
twentieth-century pursuit of Alexander the Great, and of the cities he founded.
Adam Roberts is professor of nineteenth-century literature at Royal Holloway,
University of London, and a creative writer. He has published extensively on
diverse subjects ranging from science fiction and horror fiction to Romantic
autobiography and Victorian poetry. Publications in 2014 include the Edinburgh
Critical Edition of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria (Edinburgh,
2014), the monograph Landor’s Cleanness (Oxford University Press, 2014) and
the science fiction novels Bête (Gollancz, 2014) and Twenty Trillion Leagues
under the Sea (Gollancz, 2014).
Michael Simpson is senior lecturer in the Department of English and Comparative
Literature at Goldsmiths, University of London. His research interests span
Romanticism, classical reception and post-colonialism. He is author of Closet
Performances: Political Exhibition and Prohibition in the Dramas of Byron and
Shelley (Stanford University Press, 1998) and of numerous essays on the drama,
theatre, poetry, and novel of the Romantic era. He is co-author, with Barbara
Goff, of Crossroads in the Black Aegean: Oedipus, Antigone, and Dramas of the
African Diaspora (Oxford University Press, 2007). Also with Barbara Goff, he has
co-edited Thinking the Olympics: the Classical Tradition and the Modern Games
(Bloomsbury, 2011), and is currently co-writing a cultural history of classics and
the twentieth-century British Labour movement, titled Working Classics.
Henry Stead is an AHRC postdoctoral research associate at King’s College
London, working on the Classics and Class in Britain 1789–1939 project. His
research interests include the reception of classical culture in the nineteenth and
early twentieth centuries in Britain, and Roman poetry. He is author of A Cockney
Catullus: The Reception of Catullus in Romantic-Era Britain (Oxford University
Press, 2015), ‘Seneca’s Oedipus, by hook or by crook’ in ‘Seneca and the English
Tradition’, a special edition of The Canadian Review of Comparative Literature
40.1 (March 2013), and plays and poems including Attis (2011–14), Prometheus
Chained (2012) and Seneca’s Medea (2011).
Christopher Stray has been honorary research fellow of history and classics at
University of Wales, Swansea since 1989, and is senior research fellow at the
Institute of Classical Studies, University of London. He is currently working on
a collection of his published and unpublished essays (Oxford University Press),
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xiv Contributors
a book on classical commentaries, with C. S. Kraus, a collaborative book on
Liddell and Scott, with M. Clarke, J. Katz and J. Ma, and a collaborative history of
Trinity College, Cambridge. He is author of Classics Transformed: Schools,
Universities, and Society in England 1830–1960 (Oxford University Press, 1998),
The Living Word: W.H.D. Rouse and the Crisis of Classics in Edwardian England
(Bristol Classical Press/Duckworth, 1991) and editor and co-editor of numerous
books, including most recently: Sophocles’ Jebb: A Life in Letters (Cambridge
Philological Society, 2013), Expurgating the Classics: Editing out in Greek and
Latin (Bloomsbury, 2012) with S. J. Harrison, Classical Dictionaries: Past, Present
and Future (Duckworth, 2010) and A. E. Housman, Classical Scholar (Duckworth,
2009) with D. J. Butterfield.
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Acknowledgements
This collection of essays began life at a conference held at and kindly funded by
the British Academy on 1–2 July 2010, and superbly administered there by Penny
Collins. We would like to thank everyone who attended that conference and
made it such a success. We owe a particular debt to the original contributors for
their patience and support of the project. Among speakers and chairpersons, we
are especially grateful to Peter Rose, Jonathan Rose, Paul Cartledge, Fiona
Macintosh, Oliver Taplin and Robert Crawford; the performances of poetry at
the associated public event by Tony Harrison, Stephe Harrop and Live Canon,
directed by Helen Eastman and presented by Peggy Reynolds, were unforgettable.
Additional essays have been commissioned for this volume since the award of an
AHRC grant, for which we are enormously grateful, to fund our research project
Classics and Class in Britain 1789 to 1939 at King’s College London. The project
has benefited hugely from having an excellent group of expert advisors, including
Franco Basso, William Fitzgerald, Barbara Goff, Lorna Hardwick, Isobel Hurst,
Justine McConnell, Sara Monoson, David Movrin, Elbieta Olechowska, Chris
Pelling, Edmund Richardson, Lorna Robinson, Timothy Rood, Michael Simpson,
Christopher Stray, Selina Todd, Phiroze Vasunia, Tom Wrobel and Rosie Wyles.
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1
Introduction
Edith Hall and Henry Stead
‘Bœotia, choose reform or civil war!’ thunders the oracle, as reported to the
people of Thebes of Shelley’s satirical Oedipus Tyrannus; or, Swellfoot the Tyrant
(1820, Act I.113). Shelley’s Bronze-Age Thebes is blighted by famine, a failing
economy, despotic rule and corruption in the government, army and state
religion: it transparently represents Britain in 1820. Yet in the period covered by
our book, from the French Revolution until the 1960s, Britain did always choose
reform rather than civil war. And this was despite terrifying moments when
some feared that the entire nation would indeed descend into violence, not only
in the aftermath of such upsurges of popular radicalism as those provoking the
brutal ‘Peterloo Massacre’, which took place in Manchester the year before
Shelley penned Swellfoot, but also during the Continental revolutions of 1848
and the run-up to the General Strike of 1926.
This book explores the presence of ancient Greece and Rome in some episodes
during the struggle for reform in Britain – the struggle not only for parliamentary
and electoral reform, but for reform in diverse areas of economic, social and
cultural life. Some reforms are manifested in legislation, such as laws which
protect the rights of workers, or make full-time education compulsory for all
children; others are shifts in sensibility or aesthetic taste which reflect and
consolidate the democratization of culture, the spread of literacy, or increasing
sympathy with the poor or the ethnically different. Other reforms take the form
of schemes which promote improvements and modernizing initiatives, in mass
health care, for example, or housing.
The volume began life at a conference entitled ‘Classics and Class’ organized
at the British Academy by Edith Hall in 2010, where earlier drafts of some of the
chapters (those by Roberts, Richardson, Stray, Butler and Alston, and one of
those by Hall) were delivered as papers. The additional papers have been
commissioned since the award in 2013 of a major research grant from the
Arts and Humanities Research Council for Hall’s project ‘Classics and Class in
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2 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Britain 1789–1939’ (classicsandclass.info) at King’s College, London, and the
appointment of Henry Stead as postdoctoral researcher on the project. Most of
the contributors, including the authors of some of the newly commissioned
essays (Hardwick, McConnell, Goff, and Simpson) are members of the project’s
advisory board.
The reader of this book will benefit from a short account of the wider scholarly
context which has produced it. For it makes available just one part of the results
of the research we are undertaking as part of the ‘Classics and Class project’,
which has a wider scope going well beyond the relationship between classical
culture and reform. The aim of the project is fundamentally to challenge the
limited existing model of the relationship between classical culture and social
class in Britain. The conventional model assumes that the social function of
knowledge of the languages and cultures of ancient Greece and Rome, restricted
to a small minority, was primarily to maintain barriers between social classes.
This model has been developed in the (themselves few) studies which address
the role played by classics in social exclusion, notably F. Waquet’s Le latin, ou
L’empire d’un signe (1998), although the major focus of that study was the
European Continent in the Early Modern period. Christopher Stray’s fine
Classics Transformed and two articles by Phiroze Vasunia use elite sources on
educational policy and the British civil service exams to show how youths who
had acquired knowledge of Latin and Greek were privileged in the later
nineteenth century.1 Recent research completed by Hall on classics-informed
responses to the 1857 Indian uprising against British rule, to the campaigns for
the abolition of slavery from 1770 to 1865, and on female classical scholars from
the Renaissance to the twentieth century,2 revealed that the prevalent perception
of the historical relationship between classics and the divisions between citizens
on the criterion of social class is likely to be distorted because the crucial
voices – those of the working class – have yet to be heard.
This hypothesis has also been informed by the provocative approaches to
literary communities developed in J. Boreil’s Les Sauvages dans la cité: auto-
emancipation du people et instruction des prolétaires au XIXe siècle (1985) and
The Intellectual Life of the British Working Classes (2001), by Jonathan Rose,
who was the keynote speaker at the 2010 ‘Classics and Class’ conference.
Although neither of these studies focuses specifically on the classics, they
suggest that Greek and Roman authors may have had a greater presence in the
lives and therefore memoirs and cultural output of working-class writers than is
usually supposed. Although the exclusionist model is almost universally taken
for granted, and conventionally supported by a few passages in canonical
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Introduction 3
nineteenth-century authors such as Dickens (on whom see Hall’s Chapter 6 in
this volume), Thackeray, Eliot and Hardy, this is because scholars have hitherto
almost completely ignored the evidence for contact with classics produced by
working-class people themselves (often unpublished autobiographies, memoirs,
letters, records of recreational activities, political banners, leaflets), which our
project is investigating.
The period we are examining is the time when class identity and conflict in
Britain were at their most acute and self-conscious. The chronological scope is
determined at the earlier end by the emergence of social ‘class’ as a category used
in the modern sense after the French Revolution, as defined by E.P. Thompson in
The Making of the English Working Class (1963).3 The term ‘classics’ has, since the
early eighteenth century, been used in English to designate the ancient Greek
and Roman authors, their languages and civilizations, and the institutional study
of them. In this volume we have found it important to distinguish between
‘Classics’ as an educational discipline and ‘classics’ as the cultural products of
ancient Greece and Rome, because – although the two often overlap and inform
one another – they can, and often do, exist quite apart from one another.
Sometimes the richest encounters with classical culture appear to have had very
little to do with the academic field of ‘Classics’, which understanding has helped
us to push the exclusionist model through its breaking point. For, while being
excluded from Classics (and therefore sometimes from more self-consciously
‘highbrow’ versions of classics), a great many of the working and middle classes
in nineteenth- and twentieth-century Britain were very much included in the
cultural practice of engaging with classical culture. In the earlier decades of our
period the practice of bypassing the exclusive classical education and engaging
with classical culture anyway – or, if you like, the separation of classics from
Classics – occasionally resulted in pitched battles in the ideological sphere
(e.g. Stead’s Chapter 4), which, somewhat counter-intuitively, both refute and
reinforce the exclusionist model, depending on whether or not we look past the
ideology and down to its material roots.
It is also worth noting at this point that within the present volume’s period
of study the picture is complicated by the fact that not only were classics
going on beyond the reach of Classics, but formerly excluded demographics
were also consistently ‘infiltrating’ higher social realms, partially through
obtaining a classical education. There were, for example, the extraordinarily
industrious working-class men, and many more middle-class men (and women),
who were – by pure diligence and/or changes in economic fortune (or both) –
able to gain access to a classical education. Some of them used the type of
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4 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
publication exemplified by the Encyclopedia Perthensis (1816), aimed at the
ambitious Scottish self-educator who could see himself mirrored in the
frontispiece, receiving private instruction from the goddess of wisdom, Minerva
(see the image on this book’s cover). These self-education narratives include the
highly visible but rare ‘rags-to-riches’ stories, telling the rise of illiterate manual
labourers to lofty appointments at universities, many of which can be seen in the
Classics and Class archive (classicsandclass.info). If these formally excluded
groups did not encounter classics via the leading schools and Oxbridge, then
they may have done so by way of the increasingly diverse array of those
educational institutions which are less accustomed to the academic spotlight.
These encompassed not only the ‘minor public schools’, which sprang up
throughout the nineteenth century, reproducing to some extent the syllabus
of their more established forebears, but also institutions such as numerous
dissenting academies (from the later seventeenth century, including the
influential Warrington Academy, established 1756), the University of London
(established in 1836 as an examining body for dissenters), and countless more
affordable (if not free) schools up and down the country. In the classical
education of the dissenting academies a special emphasis was laid on the study
of Greek, which was important for Biblical study.4 A far more colourful and
varied picture of British classics emerges from the canvas when the model of
exclusion is lifted. We must again stress that this does not mean that the model is
not true, but merely shows that much else is also true, including that which may
appear to be contradictory. The dominant classes may have had the master key
to the Classics, but this means neither that others could not gain entrance to the
classics (a room in the same building, holding many of the same objects) nor
that some did not make it their life’s work to cut and distribute new keys,
promoting access to all areas.
The term ‘class’ in the social sense begins in around 1770, the period of the
Industrial Revolution and its decisive reorganization of society, when it began to
replace the feudal terminology of ‘rank’ and ‘order’. Our theoretical model,
derived from the sociological studies by Anthony Giddens,5 uses the term ‘class’
in a way that assumes that class was often the most important determinant
characteristic in shaping people’s lives. What is meant by ‘class’ in this volume
and our wider study is the cluster of factors identified by Max Weber as creating
class divisions – the objective criteria of property, income and occupation,
combined with the subjective criterion of a collective sense of identity defined in
class terms.6 The focus on class also requires engaging with alternative conceptual
and analytical categories such as ‘mass’ or ‘popular’ culture, associated with
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Introduction 5
communication studies, which mask the actual social position, workload and
opportunities of specific historical subjects. The model proposed by M. Schiach
in Discourse on Popular Culture: Class, Gender and History in Cultural Analysis,
1730 to the present (1989), for example, obscures the real class divisions
underlying the exponential growth in cultural output and accessible ‘popular’
publications during this era.
Although the experience of working-class Britons underpins our wider
investigations, the results of which will be published later in a substantial co-
authored companion volume Classics and Class in Britain, in the course of
our researches it has become apparent that, when it comes to campaigns for
reform, the leaders were frequently from the middle class rather than the
working class. Their sympathy with the members of classes lower than theirs has
diverse causes. Some of them were only one or two generations removed from
ancestors who were in service, or agricultural or industrial labourers. Several
came from religious backgrounds, and were attracted to support Chartism, the
labour movement, socialism and communism because of their experience of
Christianity, often of a non-conformist brand. Others, despite ‘good breeding’
and education, which, at least until the First World War and in the case of men,
almost inevitably involved some engagement with Greek and Latin authors, had
experienced acute poverty at some period of their lives (Dickens and Caudwell
are important examples). For the classically educated women of the Independent
Labour Party and for C.L.R. James in the 1930s, discussed in Chapters 12 and 15,
their primary route into commitment to reform was via feminism or anti-racism.
To use the word ‘reform’ in the title of any historical study is to leap recklessly
into a conceptual and political minefield. There exists widespread and often
bitter contestation of the significations of the ‘r’ words – reform, Reformation,
resistance, revolt, rebellion, revolution, radicalism – as well as some within the
same cluster of signification in political history and theory which do not begin
with ‘r’, such as gradualism, progressivism and modernization. This has been the
case since long before Friedrich Engels first controversially proposed that the
religious ‘Reformation’ of the sixteenth century was, in fact, the ideological mask
of the early bourgeois economic and political revolution.7
In the period we are discussing, both the verb and the noun ‘reform’ could be
used of any process by which a practice or system was consciously modernized,
simplified, streamlined or improved, such as calendar reform, spelling reform,
dress reform,8 or reform in the techniques of financial book-keeping.9 Yet in
Britain, since the mid-eighteenth century, the noun ‘reform’, used without
qualification, has historically most often designated parliamentary ‘reform’, as in
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6 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
William Ford Stanley’s Proposition for a new reform bill, to fairly represent the
interests of the people, published in London in 1768.10 But even parliamentary
and electoral reform was originally called ‘reformation’, as is shown by the
meeting in the Thatched House Tavern on 16 May 1782 of ‘Members of
Parliament friendly to a Constitutional Reformation, etc.’11 The title and subtitle
of William Cobbett’s Elements of Reform, or, An Account of the Motives and
Intentions of the Advocates for Parliamentary Reformation (1809) show that,
nearly thirty years later, people still heard the close relationship between the idea
of ‘Reform’ and ‘reformation’, with all the ideological baggage which the latter
word had acquired in its usage, since the sixteenth century, specifically to
designate the Reformation – that is, the Protestant Reformation of Christianity.
The ‘re-’ prefix in English words with Latin roots, such as ‘reform’ and
‘reformation’, can imply other shades of meaning. There is often a sense that the
alteration in the system in question corrects abuses of some kind. Take the ‘great’
Reform Act of 1832, to which several essays in this volume refer. Although it was
generally called the Reform Act for short in its own time, its true title was the
‘Representation of the People Act 1832’, and its purpose was to ‘take effectual
Measures for correcting divers Abuses that have long prevailed in the Choice
of Members to serve in the Commons House of Parliament’. If measures are
‘correcting divers abuses’, then a moral undertow to the terms reform and
reformation becomes inevitable, and most of the people studied in this volume
did indeed have a moral commitment, usually informed by Christianity, to
altering society for the better. The notion of moral betterment is also central to
the use of the word ‘reform’ in relation to ‘curing’ individuals or classes of bad
habits or behaviours – criminals can be reformed into honest men, prostitutes
into chaste matrons, alcoholics into abstemious teetotallers. It is in this sense that
William Cowper asked in his 1785 poem ‘The Task’ whether literary satire could
actually improve people’s morals (2.320–1): ‘What vice has it subdued? whose
heart reclaimed/By rigour, or whom laughed into reform?’
A third implication of the ‘re-’ prefix in reform and reformation can be that the
improvement, amendment and alteration are somehow returning the institution
or practice in question to its authentic roots – it is less a modernization than a
flight from decadence, a restoration, re-establishment or revival of a former, now
neglected set of practices. This sense is most usually apparent in the description
of religious orders founded or amended on the principle that their members
need to return to original, stricter observances, such as the Benedictine Reform
of the tenth century, or the Augustinian reform. Occasionally this is apparent in
the discussion of parliamentary and constitutional reform, because many British
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Introduction 7
democrats – at least in the eighteenth century – genuinely believed that before
the Norman invasions the Anglo-Saxons had enjoyed the equivalent of full male
suffrage, since executive power had been held by the parliament known as the
myclegemot, a convention or legislative body consisting of representatives chosen
by all the people. When Joseph Gerrald, a republican campaigner for universal
suffrage, was tried for (and convicted of) sedition in 1794, he said in his defence
speech that he and his fellow radicals were trying to restore the ancestral right
of the British to one-man-one-vote. But Gerrald was one of the earliest Britons
also to idealize the classical Athenian democracy, which he saw (despite the
Athenians’ tolerance of slavery) as equivalent to the Anglo-Saxon myclegemot.12
Parliamentary reform, for Gerrald and his colleagues, really did mean reviving
an ancient system as well as radically amending the current one.
After the 1832 Reform Act, the dominance of parliament in the popular
conception of ‘reform’ began to lessen as economic theory developed rapidly,
under the influence of political and social reform,13 and as the impact was felt
of the pioneering work of Robert Owen and others who resisted the social
and economic evils to which the Industrial Revolution had given rise. This
philanthropic industrialist had been disappointed in most of his attempts in
1819 to persuade the government to introduce radical reforms of employment
laws, and so devoted himself to nurturing voluntary associations and cooperatives
which could create humane housing and working conditions, as well as
encouraging worker education.14 In the 1830s he started to use the word
‘socialism’ to describe the ideal model of society, in which profits were shared,
and producers and consumers cooperated on friendly principles of mutual
assistance. His ideas were later taken up by the Fabians, who wanted to achieve
socialism, but, unlike Owen, believed that it could be achieved incrementally by
gradual reforms of the economy and social conditions, as well as the extension
of the franchise, introduced by state legislation.15 The Fabian gradualist model
was then officially espoused by the Labour Party in 1918; ‘incrementally and by
degrees, the party would gain support and pass legislation in an inexorable
progress towards the socialist millennium’.16
The precise connotations of the term ‘reform’, whether as a noun or a verb, are
often best understood within a particular context by looking at the terms to
which it is opposed. In the context of abolitionism in the late eighteenth and
nineteenth centuries, commitment to reform – the abolition of slavery by a series
of legislative measures – was often opposed to ‘immediatism’, the demand that all
slaves be emancipated completely without further delay, which was explicitly
formulated by American Methodist followers of John Wesley.17 It is conventional
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8 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
to question whether the most effective route to a fairer society is radicalism or
reform, and the issue is often discussed, as it was already in Karl Marx’s day,18 as
though radicalism and commitment to reform were abstract conceptions which
can guide political behaviour in urgent circumstances and near-emergency
contexts. But in practice, in Britain during the period covered in this book, the
choice was usually a practical response to the immediate situation. Some of
the individuals in this book had joined the Fabians at some point in their lives,
but – at others – found themselves engaged in violent confrontations between
the police and the unemployed. Where reform is possible through statutory
means, there is little need for extra-legal measures; where individuals have no
vote or power, they become far more quickly radicalized and will use force, at
least in self-defence, as a matter of course.19
Again, reform is often understood as a process of political change which
deliberately and as a matter of principle avoids violence, unlike revolution. In his
Philosophical View of Reform, written in 1819–20, despite the violence which had
been inflicted on the peaceful demonstrators at Peterloo, Shelley explicitly said
he was opposed to violent revolution; he advocated achieving the five reforms he
recommended, in the spheres of finance, the army, the church and the judiciary,
through simultaneous moral reform within the individual and institutional
reform implemented through the law.20 The mental opposition of ‘reform’ and
‘revolution’ also underlies the conventional scholarly view of the 1832 Reform
Act, for example, as a legislative concession designed to avoid a violent
confrontation between classes, with reform functioning ‘as an elite response to a
revolutionary threat.’21 But this dichotomy is often unhelpful when trying to
understand changes in any society. Specialists in the anti-slavery movement in
America of the 1850s point out that there were groups who advocated non-
violent revolution, and others who advocated using reform through legislation
but allowed the use of violence in the pursuit of getting reformist legislation
passed: Frederick Douglass himself moved from espousing the former position
to the latter.22
In Britain, many advocates of reform, like Joseph Gerrald, were accused by
their enemies of having used physical violence, or being prepared to use it, in
order to wrest power from those who held it. But the accusation that they were
advocates of violent revolution does not constitute proof that they were. When
terrified by the popularity of Chartism, the British middle classes made much of
what they tried to portray as a strategic split among the advocates of universal
male suffrage, dividing those who advocated physical force from those who did
not. They lionized Samuel Bamford, who began life as an ardent radical, because
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Introduction 9
they could use his stated objections to Chartism, and especially his autobiography
(1844), to discredit the campaign for the Charter and imply that it jeopardized
peace and social stability. After his death, Bamford was used to define the
acceptable limits of political action in a working man, which allowed him to
argue for reform but to partake in no political action beyond restrained verbal
argument, and above all to put patriotism before any desire for change.23 James
Fraser, the bishop of Manchester, wrote in 1872 that Bamford was to be praised
for believing that ‘instead of wishing to create sudden changes and to overthrow
institutions, it were better that ignorance alone were pulled down’ and for
maintaining that self-control and self-amendment of the individual was the only
solid ‘basis of all public reform’.24 Yet the propaganda used against the Chartists,
which alleged that they were almost universally prepared to use physical force,
was certainly exaggerated: the Chartist poet Thomas Cooper, discussed in
Hardwick’s chapter, who was imprisoned after riots in the Staffordshire potteries
in 1842, always insisted that he had never either advocated or utilized physical
violence. On the other hand, Enid Stacy, a passionate campaigner in the early
years of the Independent Labour Party, who was adamantly anti-war, was
involved in regular scuffles with the police, and made no attempt to avoid them.
The Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB), unlike many communist parties
in other countries, never explicitly advocated violent revolution, and often asked
its members to vote Labour and to work to promote its socialist agenda through
legislation. Christopher Caudwell, the communist writer studied in Chapter 14,
who volunteered to fight fascism in Spain, was driven to join the CPGB partly
out of his horror at Oswald Mosley’s encouragement of his fascist Blackshirts to
use violence against the Jewish population of East London in the mid-1930s.
The primary aim of the team of researchers who have collaborated with us on
the present volume is to explore several overlapping cultural arenas in which
people struggling to promote reform within British society engaged with the
cultural property broadly defined as ‘classical culture’, that is, the texts, artefacts
and history of the people of the ancient Mediterranean who spoke and left
records written in the ancient Greek and Latin languages. The fifteen exploratory
studies are arranged chronologically, spanning nearly two centuries from the
French Revolution until the 1960s. Hardwick opens up the debate by stressing
the complexity of the relationship between classical culture and British reform.
She asks whether it is possible to write a history of the way that any cultural
property was experienced by campaigners and activists at the ‘grass roots’ of
movements for reform (interestingly, the figurative, political sense of the term
‘grass roots’ seems not to have been used until the early twentieth century, which
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10 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
itself may say something about how the political and cultural experiences of the
lowest classes of society were ignored or even denied altogether). She stresses
that classical ideas, texts and images can, of course, be appropriated by advocates
of both violent revolution and non-violent, gradualist reform. The very
susceptibility of ancient Greek and Roman materials to reinterpretation from
diverse political vantage points has been one of the most important guarantees
of their cultural stamina and repeated rediscovery. But, as Habermas argued, the
ways in which people learn affects their political agency. Hardwick draws on
Habermas to ask whether social and cultural experiences that come within the
framework of ‘informal’ education involved the raising of consciousness.
She concludes that the relationship between Greek and Roman culture and the
nature and directions of political consciousness, at least at the ‘grass roots’ of
the body politic, is often messy. Not only were there often as many differences
between different radical perspectives as between radicals and gradualists, but
‘proletarian conservatism was never far from the surface, whether in aspiration
for access to a literary canon or in acceptance of the norms of gender
discrimination or of empire’.
The next four chapters analyse some of the classical presences – and absences
– in literary media which played a role in promoting reform in the first six
decades of the nineteenth century. Roberts tackles the problem of Coleridge’s
political views head-on. Like Wordsworth and Southey, Coleridge exchanged the
revolutionary ardour of his youth for a church-and-state Toryism in his later
years. Yet he always denied that there had been any fundamental change in
his underlying views. By examining classical presences in two of Coleridge’s
neglected texts from the pivotal years of 1816–17, especially the Lay Sermons
and The Statesman’s Manual, Roberts argues that he sensed the potential both of
classics to stimulate the imagination and thus animate tradition, and of ‘Classics’
to deaden culture and stifle progress. Coleridge is writing in a context where the
need for reform – but also the danger of violent rebellion – were both sensed to
be pressing: a disastrous famine had afflicted the north and west of England and
Ireland in the wake of the 1813 Corn Laws and the end of the Napoleonic Wars.25
The success of the landmark industrial action of the colliers of Bilston in 1816
suggested to many members of the ruling classes that proletarian revolution
might be imminent, and the long shadow cast by the Terror which followed the
French Revolution was never far from their thoughts. Adams shows how
Coleridge realized that, while things must change, and injustice provokes the
drive for reform, war and revolution create their own injustices and tragedies
and ‘provoke the urge to restore order’. The tension between these drives is
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Introduction 11
expressed, in Coleridge’s polemical literary prose, in a tension between classical
Greece and Rome, and more specifically between the ‘radical’ early Greek thinker
Heraclitus and the ‘conservative’ Augustan poet Horace.
Stead’s chapter addresses the same period of political and ideological conflict
as Roberts, but opens out the argument to include several different writers,
asking what part the Greek and Roman classics played in the cultural war
between British reformists and conservatives in the periodical press of the late
1810s and early 1820s. His particular focus is the conservative critical assaults
upon those predominantly professional writers, artists and thinkers associated
with the ‘Cockney School’, most of whom, although not working class, had
attended neither university nor elite schools, and who clustered around the
reformist poet and journalist Leigh Hunt. The Greek and Latin classics are
powerfully present in these culture wars, both as a feature of the provocative
style of the Cockneys at the time, and as a vehicle for Tory critics to display
the superiority of their own classical learning. But the reactionary critics of the
output of the reformist ‘Cockney School’ could not prevent the growing public
perception that Hunt’s careful and conscious exhibitions of classical erudition –
but in accessible, lively translations – proved that people who were not ‘scholars’
could indeed navigate, as Keats put it in his famous poem ‘On first looking into
Chapman’s Homer’, the ‘realms of gold’. Cockney classicism was instrumental in
dispelling the post-revolutionary gloom felt in progressive and reformist circles
in the 1810s, sending out a message that ancient Greeks and Romans, and their
exquisite myths and poetry, belonged to everybody with a love of beauty and
nature and the ability to appreciate literature in their mother tongue.
Richardson’s chapter addresses one of the most striking of the nineteenth-
century arenas in which the public accessed Greek and Latin classics, the type of
musical and comic theatre known as burlesque. Burlesques of classical plays and
episodes in Ovid were extremely popular from the 1830s to the 1870s, and
assessing the extent to which their insouciant appropriation of antiquity had a
political undertow is of crucial importance. As a subversion of the classical
education, the cheeky Greeks and Romans of burlesque may have appealed
strongly to cross-class audiences, including many people who had no access to the
privileges such an education conferred. But such a‘familiar’ treatment paradoxically
implies a form of cultural ownership. An important factor in the ideological
workings of classical burlesque is the social and educational background of the
genre’s authors. The majority were somewhat rebellious or disaffected members of
the middle class. But, in a detailed study of perhaps the most brilliant as well as the
most politically radical of all of them, Robert Brough, Richardson argues that
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12 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
there was a moment of opportunity when burlesque very nearly rewrote antiquity
to turn members of the working classes into heroic figures, and thus reshape
contemporary politics. The moment on which he focuses is 1855–56, when the
pain of the Crimean War was most acute – ‘a bad time to be an aristocrat in
Britain’. In his transparently republican Songs of the Governing Classes and his
burlesque Medea, or The Best of Mothers, with a Brute of Husband, Brough created
an imaginary world of theatre in which to foster cynicism about the class system
and champion greater egalitarianism. Yet, as Richardson poignantly documents,
Brough’s own chaotic lifestyle, poverty and debts compromised his ability to make
any real difference to Victorian society whatsoever.
Brough’s Medea burlesque, at least as realized by the incomparable transvestite
actor Frederick Robson, was admired by Charles Dickens, the subject of the next
chapter by Edith Hall. Dickens is central to any discussion of reform in
nineteenth-century Britain, because his exposure of the hardships endured by
the poor during the Industrial Revolution, as Karl Marx himself noticed, was
instrumental in pricking the conscience of the well-to-do and even in the passing
of specific and major pieces of legislation. But Dickens’ relationship with the
Greek and Latin classics, which has usually been dismissed as wholly negative,
needs careful analysis. The essay distinguishes between, on the one hand, Dickens’
systematic and bitter critique of the classical education on offer in mediocre
private schools and its role in social exclusion, and, on the other hand, the diverse
manifestations of classical material in his journalism, short stories and fiction.
While an uncritical adulation of ancient authors is in his fictional characters
often associated with hypocrisy and snobbery, there are interesting exceptions,
especially in Dombey and Son, and the influence of the myth of Euripides’ Ion
may inform, at least in a subterranean way, Dickens’ famous Bildungsroman
novels Oliver Twist and David Copperfield. But the essay concludes that it was in
his desire to listen to and reproduce in language the brand new rhythms and
sounds of the mechanized, industrial world around him that Dickens’ rejection
of classicism is actually most palpable – the relationship between aesthetic and
social reform is fundamental to understanding the presences and absences of
the classics in Dickens.
At the heart of our volume, in Chapter 7, Chris Stray uses the concept of
social closure developed by the classically educated sociologist Max Weber in
order to stress how classical education was instrumental in maintaining the
pernicious class structure of nineteenth-century British society. But he also
shows how the role of school and university classics in social exclusion was
challenged by educational reforms and an expanding new market in inexpensive
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Introduction 13
books for lay readers and autodidacts. Central to his argument is that the
Greek and Latin classics have long constituted particularly valuable cultural
and intellectual capital, to use the helpful concept of French Marxist Pierre
Bourdieu. Fleshing out his broad argument with the recorded experiences
of colourful individuals, including some of his own working-class ancestors,
Stray locates the struggle between, on the one hand, the social uses of the
exclusive classical curriculum and, on the other hand, the classics of the self-
helpers and autodidacts of Britain, within the context of the new nineteenth-
century world of mechanization – of railways, steam presses, stereotyping and
lithography. The struggle for girls and women to access education in the classics
is part of this account, as is the distinction, long treasured by the privileged,
between elite training in the original ancient languages and the increasing
familiarity of ancient texts among the less privileged public through inexpensive
English-language translations.
The next pair of chapters shifts the emphasis from texts to visual art, with
explorations of how a classical hero and a classical god made their presences felt
in the visual environment inhabited by the working classes as they struggled
to improve their situation in the long nineteenth century. Paula James shows
how Hercules, the half-divine hero of superhuman strength, was irresistible
to organized labour, having ‘changed sides’ from symbolically representing
European imperialism and aristocratic superiority before the French Revolution.
Hercules came into his own in British reformist politics with the same wave of
political unrest in 1815–19 discussed in the chapters by Roberts and Stead. The
bulk of her chapter is an analysis of a famous banner featuring Hercules used by
the export branch of the Dockers’ Union during and after their pivotal 1889
strike. This Hercules is a hero ‘of and for the working people in their struggle for
a regular and minimum wage, and for a dignity of labour. The single snake is
not the many-headed hydra of Lerna but still embodies the multiple evils
of exploitation, destitution and prostitution prolonged by the profit-making
capitalists.’ James shows how the design of the poster draws on numerous
iconographic traditions, including photographs of contemporary body-builders,
the elite art of Frederic Leighton, and possibly the designs of the socialist
designer Walter Crane. In doing so, the image is not unproblematic, since the
Hercules who is strangling the enemies of the working class is not altogether free
from the triumphalism about the British imperial project which was shared by
many of the poorest people in Britain.
Vulcan, the Roman version of the Greek craftsman-god Hephaestus, also
enjoyed a high profile in the industrial art of the later nineteenth century, as
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14 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Annie Ravenhill-Johnson’s chapter demonstrates. The lame divine foundry
worker, sweating over his tongs and bellows, was a favoured figure in art from
the Renaissance onwards, but it was with the Industrial Revolution and his
importance as a symbol of the power of human labour to transform the material
environment, by practising metallurgy on an epic scale, that Vulcan became
omnipresent. Like Hercules, he can be a hero of and for the working class, and
inspire and support them in their campaigns for reform. Reformist novels were
written about working-class industrial heroes called ‘sons of Vulcan’.26 When the
ingenious Lemuel Wellman Wright patented his amazing machines for sweeping
chimneys in 1840, they were marketed as instruments in the campaign to prevent
children being forced into the dangerous, terrifying work of cleaning chimneys:
‘Wright’s Patent Vulcan Chimney Sweeping Machines: the only efficient
supporters of the law against climbing boys’.27 Despite the Chimney Sweeps Act
1834 and 1840, which had outlawed the engagement of any child under sixteen
as apprentice to a chimney sweep, forcing children up chimneys by lighting coals
at their feet was still a nearly universal practice on account of the impossibility
of enforcing such legislation and the lack of alternative methods. But Vulcan, too,
is an ambivalent figure, as much a representative of the factory owners and
industrialists in whose financial interests the iron and steel workers laboured.
Classical gods and heroes – the inherited mythical forms of societies based on
slave labour – will always sit in a slightly uneasy relationship with modernization,
progress and reform.
A few years before the dock workers’ strike of 1889, there had been signs of a
profound awakening of concern among the British middle classes in response to
publicity about the shocking conditions still prevalent among the working
classes, especially in relation to health and housing. From about 1883 until the
First World War there was a ‘massive outpouring of best-selling literature on
the subject in the thirty years before the First World War’.28 The earlier wave of
this included the Reverend Andrew Mearns’ The Bitter Cry of Outcast London:
An Inquiry into the Condition of the Abject Poor (1883), the Royal Commission
on the Housing of the Working Class (1885), Charles Booth’s Life and Labour of
the People in London (1889), Benjamin Seebohm Rowntree’s Poverty, A Study of
Town Life (1901) and novels depicting the horrors of urban slum life, especially
Arthur Morrison’s Child of the Jago (1896). The two chapters by Sarah Butler and
Richard Alston ask how classical antiquity featured in the ideas and writings of
middle-class reformers of this period in relation to health and urban planning,
respectively. Butler shows how prevalent was the comparison between the urban
poor of Britain and the proletariat of ancient Rome. She illustrates how the
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Introduction 15
different views and theories of the scientific community were infused, supported
and given public resonance by reference to classical sources during the period
when the perceived need to reverse degeneration became ever more urgent
towards the end of the nineteenth century. Greek and Roman historical and
philosophical sources, especially ancient images of Sparta and Plato’s socially
prescriptive Republic and Laws, surface in the discussion of insanity, eugenics,
hygiene, fitness programmes, and pauperism, morality and marriage.
Reform of the human body was felt to require reform of the human habitat,
and Alston’s chapter traces the relationship between the understanding of the
classical city and British discourses about reformed city building. He traces the
evolution of the idea of the ‘new city’ from the neoclassicism of the nineteenth
century through the anarchist and neo-medievalist roots of the Garden City
movement, to the role of classicism in both communitarian thought and
architectural representations. He suggests that the ‘new towns’ of the early and
mid-twentieth century define themselves by their opposition to the industrial
city. Moreover, the more radical manifestations of the Garden City movement
offered a conceptual non-city, a Nowhere, which turned away from urbanism,
both Victorian and classical. It was in 1898 that Ebenezer Howard published To-
morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform, reissued in 1902 as Garden Cities of
To-Morrow. But Alston also argues that the contribution of classical urbanism to
the utopian dreams of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was made easier
by a long history of the idealization of Greek culture, rationality, architecture and
urbanism. But, in the focus on the polis utopia, there was a requirement to look
away, to avoid confronting the stasis-riven history of classical Athens, the
perennial problem of inter-class violence and the hierarchical structure of
ancient society. Only by disregarding these dimensions of the ancient city did it
become possible to imagine modern cities in which class did not matter and
people would live side by side in unified and ordered communities. As a Swiss-
French architect and city planner succinctly put it in a single terse sentence,
‘Revolution can be avoided.’29 The engagement with the classical model worked
as a distraction from the task of understanding cities with all their virtues and
sins, from seeing those cities in their socio-economic context, and imagining
wholly new utopias through which we might make our cities better.
As pressure to reform health and the urban environment grew from the
1880s, so did the need for a new, national working-class political party.
The concept was supported across a range of progressive organizations, from the
gradual-reformists of the Fabian Society to the most revolutionary trade
unionists. Led by Keir Hardie, the new Independent Labour Party (ILP) was
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16 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
inaugurated in Bradford in January 1893. In Chapter 12, Hall explores the
background and education of several of the women who were influential in the
early days of the ILP, and discovers that the opening up to women of university
education and the teaching profession produced a new generation of articulate
young feminists who saw the emancipation of all women as just one part of the
humanist, egalitarian goals of socialism. The discussion centres on Katharine
Conway, later Katharine Bruce Glasier, a Newnham-educated Classics mistress
who became radicalized in Bristol during a wave of strikes and was the only
woman among the fifteen members of the ILP’s initial National Administrative
Council. Other classically trained socialist women discussed in the chapter
include Enid Stacy, Mary Jane Bridges Adams and Mary Agnes Hamilton
(formerly Adamson, 1882–1966). The first three made their mark on the politics
of reform through education, oratory and journalism; Hamilton wrote several
respected books on ancient myth and history before being elected member of
parliament for the Labour Party in Blackburn at the 1929 general election.
Education is also the central theme of Barbara Goff ’s study of the Workers’
Educational Association (WEA), which from 1903 onwards campaigned for the
rights of working-class people to higher education. While some of the more
radical trade unionists and members of the ILP, including Mary Jane Bridges
Adams, regarded the WEA as far too conciliatory towards the ruling class
and as teaching a syllabus which made workers docile and uncritical of
the establishment, its achievements were considerable. It consolidated and
augmented the achievement of earlier bodies such as the Working Men’s College,
the Mechanics’ Institutes and the University Settlements, as well as the initiatives
put in place at the universities of Oxford, London and Cambridge to provide
University Extension lectures. Goff shows that classics was a persistent, if minor,
part of the WEA’s activities in its first two decades, and that reference to classical
authors and ideas was felt to carry considerable persuasive force in discussions
within and about the WEA, especially in its magazine The Highway. Students
encountered the ancient Greeks and Romans primarily through one-off lectures
on the Greek ‘heritage’ or through courses on the history of world civilization,
of drama, of Europe or of political thought, although some dedicated courses on
antiquity do appear on the programmes of some branches. Exposure to the
ancient world frequently came via philosophy classes and the works of Plato. The
WEA’s importance in the rise of the working class in the first half of the twentieth
century is demonstrated emphatically by the number of members of parliament
after the Labour victory of 1945 who were or had been active in the organization:
no fewer than fifty-six of them.
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Introduction 17
After the Russian Revolution of 1917, British socialists became divided. Some
members of the ILP left to join the new Communist Party of Great Britain in
1920. The CPGB became an important force on the British political scene in the
1930s, when it became attractive to a whole generation of progressive young
thinkers and intellectuals. In Chapter 14, Hall discusses the remarkable although
tragically short life of Christopher Caudwell, a CPGB activist and intellectual,
who lived and worked among the dock workers of Poplar, East London. His
poetry and novels, as well as his famous work of literary criticism, Illusion and
Reality, are the products of deep engagement with ancient poetry and thought,
especially Aristotle’s Poetics. Caudwell is in some ways typical of the individual
activists represented in this volume: he was middle-class in culture and education,
but did not attend university, and was radicalized by early experiences of poverty.
He wrote prolifically in several genres, and, although he was killed fighting for
the International Brigade in Spain, has left a large oeuvre in which his engagement
with a large variety of classical authors is apparent. Above all, he attempted to
forge a new Marxist aesthetic theory which welded a materialist understanding
of culture as the product of economic and social relations of production to an
Aristotelian theory of the mimetic – and therapeutic – nature of art.
While Christopher Caudwell was working for the CPGB in London, another
committed communist, of a more Trotskyite and revolutionary tendency,
C.L.R. James, arrived from Trinidad and became closely involved with the
campaign against European imperialism in both the Caribbean and Africa. In
the penultimate chapter, McConnell explores an important play written by
James entitled Toussaint Louverture, the text of which has only recently been
rediscovered. It centres on the hero of the Saint-Domingue (Haiti) slave revolt,
‘the Black Spartacus’, of whom James was later to publish a famous biography
under the title The Black Jacobins. But the play, which is heavily influenced by
the form and serious, didactic purpose of ancient Greek tragedy, was produced
in London in 1936 with the world-famous American actor Paul Robeson in
the starring role. It urges both economic reform and racial equality. James
had been classically educated, and his play’s relationship with classics is
multilayered. Toussaint reads Caesar’s Commentaries, is configured as a tragic
hero like Prometheus and is supported by a chorus. James thus uses classics to
help him give dramatic shape to the inspirational revolt, thus offering his own
intervention into global politics, the struggle for social reform, and the need to
combat imperialism, racism and social injustice.
Among the many other committed communists in Britain in the 1930s was
Denis Healey, later to become a prominent member of Harold Wilson’s Labour
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18 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
cabinet. Like most members of the CPGB, Healey was never in favour of violent
revolution, but wanted to achieve socialism through legislation and moral
pressure. The final chapter in the volume brings the story of the relationship
between classics and reform in Britain right up to the second half of the twentieth
century. Michael Simpson asks how the classical academic background of five
members of Harold Wilson’s modernizing Labour cabinet in the 1960s affected
that government’s policies, if at all. The very existence of these progressive
politicians, of course, undermines any simplistic assumption that classical
education tends to be associated with right-of-centre political views. These men
were also all senior members of the government that commissioned the Fulton
Report (1968), which recommended that the top level of the civil service should
increasingly recruit professionals who were specialists in, for example, economics,
rather than graduates in the humanities, and especially the Classics graduates,
indeed specifically Oxford Literae Humaniores graduates, who had traditionally
dominated Whitehall. Simpson suggests that his subjects’ shared experience of
an elite classical education may have levelled them with one another, even
though their social backgrounds were different, and that their undergraduate
engagement in politics in the political ferment of the 1930s would inevitably
have placed them in dialogue with communists; they would have known, for
example, Robert Browning, who went on to become a prominent academic,
and had joined the CPGB while studying Classics at Oxford in the 1930s.30 By
examining some of the ex-classicist politicians’ writings, Simpson concludes that
their education did indeed condition their ideas and their commitment to
modernization, even if this conditioning was subterranean and psychologically
unconscious.
In Britain in the early twenty-first century, the modernizing zeal of the 1960s
and the foundation of the Open University (1968) seem like distant memories.
So do the Equal Pay Act (1970) and the Race Relations Acts (1965 and 1976).
Free university education has been phased out, sentiment against immigrants
has rarely been so hostile, and the rights of landlords and employers – rather
than tenants and employees – have recently been strengthened. Food banks have
recently become a familiar sight in British cities. Young people are frequently
expected to work for nothing on internships, and many low-paid workers have
little economic security due to the prevalence of ‘zero-hour’ contracts. Under the
much-debated finalized provisions of the Terrorism Act 2006, suspects can be
held for 28 days without charge, and there is pressure for a much longer period
to be introduced: this has jeopardized an essential and hard-won civil liberty,
originating in article 39 of Magna Carta back in the thirteenth century. Even the
29821.indb 18 02/03/2015 14:40
Introduction 19
National Health Service is under persistent threat of privatization. Yet do we
hear ‘reform’ in the mouths of politicians? No. And, ironically, the very language
and terminology of social progress which has inspired generations is actively
avoided for fear of appearing politically atavistic, and harking back to some
rusted Age of Iron, coloured by best-forgotten class conflict and toxic propaganda
battles and vilification of socialism during the Cold War. Could we really have
misplaced our power to dream, to generate the utopias and Golden Ages so
prevalent in human thought since antiquity? It would be giving in to the cynicism
of the age, perhaps, to believe this. So we will not, any more than those WEA
students who (as Goff ’s chapter shows) took a course on ancient and modern
utopias back at the beginning of the twentieth century.
The present volume is just the first chapter in our struggle with the relationship
between classics and social class, which aims to provoke a shift in the perception
of the history of British classics, away from a conservative tradition of
institutionalized elitism towards a brighter history of broadly inclusive cultural
practice and inspired creativity. In it, the contributors have beamed some
light into the deep shadow which the predominant exclusionist model has
inadvertently cast over working- and middle-class experience of classical
culture. Through their focus on social reform and its middle- and upper-class
campaigners, a vibrant but overlooked diversity of engagements with the classical
world is revealed. In times when the need for Shelley’s ‘unacknowledged
legislators of the world’ (the poets) is greatest, when they have encouraged people
to see what is hidden, to dream of what they do not yet have, and to struggle to
get it, historically – as this volume shows – the British (and not only the poets)
have tended to look back and seek out ancient Greek and Roman precedent. It is
not always pretty, and it seldom appears to have any direct impact at all on actual
events. Be that as it may: ‘The person who is ignorant of the past can never grow
up fully to realise the potential of the future, since it is impossible to understand
one’s place in the historical sequence without understanding what has gone
before.’ Cicero said that (Orator 120). ‘A people or a class which is cut off from its
own past is far less free to choose and to act as a people or class than one that has
been able to situate itself in history.’ John Berger said that.31 ‘ “I’ll let you be in my
dream if I can be in yours”/ I said that’.32
29821.indb 19 02/03/2015 14:40
2
Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed:
Classics from the Grass Roots in the Cultural Politics of
Nineteenth-Century Britain
Lorna Hardwick
Here’s Trojan, Athenian, Greek, Frenchman and I,
Heaven knows what I was long ago;
No matter, thus shielded, this age I defy,
And the next cannot wound me, I know.
Ann Yearsley, ‘Addresses to Ignorance, Occasioned by a
Gentleman’s desiring the Author never to assume
a Knowledge of the Ancients’1
The creation of the modern nation, as a coincidence and convergence of
geographical specificity and human solidarity . . . the nation as a unit of
collective loyalty overwhelmed and subsumed all other shared forms of human
identity as regional, linguistic, ethnic, class and religious solidarities were
subordinated to what has been called the ‘nationalisation of the masses’
(Cannadine, 2013, 68–9)
This chapter investigates some of the ways in which Greek and Roman texts and
myths were experienced by ‘grass roots’ people in movements for political and
social reform in nineteenth-century Britain. The main focus will be on the
period from the middle to the late part of the century, with some attention to
relationships with what went before and after. Representations of and responses
to classical texts, images and ideas provide a significant strand of evidence in this
period of conflict, change and containment. They provide insights into the
internal and external ‘management’ of political movements and can be analysed
not just as aids to mapping the extent and nature of political awareness in general
29821.indb 20 02/03/2015 14:40
Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 21
but also for their effects in the development – and repression – of individual and
group consciousness.
Although classical texts and images in general have the potential to be used in
conservative, gradualist and radical ways, some tend more in one direction than
another. This may be because of material in the ancient text or image, or
associations with how it was used in antiquity and/or in how it came to be
accessed, interpreted and modified in the modern context. So far as the
nineteenth-century evidence is concerned, I have used two criteria for inclusion
in the material I explore: a source that is either produced by those not actively
holding power (political and/or intellectual) OR accessed by such people. By
‘grass roots’ I mean those who are not in positions of the kind of power that gives
them control over policy, resources or intellectual hegemony. However, this
absence of direct control cannot simply be equated with class status, nor is it
necessarily associated with radicalism and subaltern counter-discourse or with
‘popular’ culture. There are considerable overlaps in the class status of those who
accessed popular media (from newspapers and subscription libraries to music
hall and ballads), just as there are significant differences within the socio-
economic classes themselves. Popular entertainment was in the nineteenth
century (as now) enjoyed by a cross section of the population; popular can
include ‘middlebrow’. And there is plenty of evidence that working-class people
aspired to access ‘high’ culture.
Lived experience crosses class and status and sometimes dissolves perceived
boundaries, even if only temporarily. Important examples of this include the
deprivations of war and the bodily co-presence that is a defining characteristic
of performing and spectating in the theatre. Furthermore, the lived experience
of ad hoc communities can also increase awareness of divisions within them,
even transferring the apparently powerful to the status of the marginalized. For
example, in 1840 the abolitionist Lucretia Mott (1793–1880), who had travelled
from Massachusetts to attend the World Anti-Slavery convention in London,
was, with other women, refused permission to participate. Women were
eventually allowed to sit in the gallery and listen; they were not permitted to
offend against ‘good taste’ by speaking in public. Some male delegates showed
their solidarity by choosing to sit with the women ‘behind the bar’ and recruitment
to the suffrage movement increased.2
It is sometimes difficult to define individuals and groups who might be
regarded as being part of the ‘grass roots’. For example, among those whom I
have excluded from the discussion is George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans, 1819–80),
whose deployment of classical motifs has been addressed by scholars.3 Although
29821.indb 21 02/03/2015 14:40
22 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
as a woman she was denied the franchise, and as a co-habitee with George Henry
Lewes (1817–78) she was perceived as a threat to established social values and so
was the object of moral disapproval, she nevertheless had the leisure and
resources to develop her education (including her study of Greek), to travel, and
to achieve contemporary and subsequent literary acclaim as a great novelist
(albeit via a pseudonym).4 More important, her use of classical material is not
the hub of the political consciousness that her work communicates. Perhaps a
rather more contentious exclusion is Gandhi, who paraphrased Plato’s Apology
into Gujarati in 1908, both to disseminate ideas about Greek political philosophy
and its role in a democratic state and to draw an implicit parallel between his
own ‘gadfly’ status and that of Socrates.5 Gandhi was a privileged professional
lawyer who used classical material to awaken the political consciousness of the
people at the grass roots, who would then be part of mass action. But, sadly, the
provenance of most of his work rules him out of this discussion.
The example of Gandhi’s sphere of operation, however, does signal the extent
to which narratives of class, nationalism and empire are interwoven in the
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Much work has been done on the
concepts and practices associated with working-class education and politics in
Britain in the nineteenth century and also on the diverse manifestations of
nationalism and imperialism. One thread in this chapter reveals how these two
areas of political consciousness sometimes intertwined, and that exposure to
Greek and Roman antiquity was infused with how national and imperial
identities were perceived and communicated. So, the views formed by people at
the grass roots responded to and expressed a variety of experiences and
aspirations, both political and aesthetic. The overarching questions that will be
asked of all the sources and examples discussed will be: what Greek and/or
Roman texts and images were involved; who experienced them; who originated
them and for what purpose; what reactions did they provoke (in so far as we
can make judgements about that); how were they assimilated into the public
imagination; and what light is shed on broader judgements that can be made
about radicalism and gradualism in nineteenth-century cultural politics?
I have chosen examples that use classical material in situations ranging from
mimicry, though gradualism, to radical dissent, and will comment on four main
areas: education; drama on the page and on the stage; trade union emblems
(with special attention to the use of Greek and Roman images in conservative
constructs of gender and national identity); poetry (ranging from Chartist
poetry to Kipling’s use of the ballad form). Radicalism, gradualism and
conservatism are not mutually exclusive narratives. It is possible for something
29821.indb 22 02/03/2015 14:40
Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 23
or someone to be radical in one aspect and not in others, and so on mutatis
mutandis. The multiple agencies involved in the generation, transmission, reuse
and reworking of Greek and Roman texts and images can also help to reveal
aspects of the relationships between classics and class that may be concealed
when the focus is solely on the political and cultural leaders who have dominated
the historical and aesthetic analysis that is often conducted under ‘umbrella’
concepts such as ‘Romanticism’ or ‘The Victorians’. The shift is not just a question
of content but also of conceptual approach. I will be placing ‘lived experience’
alongside, and as a check on, ‘top-down’ approaches that assume that it is always
what Simon Goldhill has described as ‘high-level intellectual, theological,
university-led argument’ that is being mediated instrumentally into popular
culture through ‘lower’ art forms.6 Analysis of particular art forms informs
debates about the extent to which these imported into popular political
consciousness cultural beacons from antiquity that might foster a desire for
emulation.7 Because of its traditional associations with high cultural value and
its temporal relationship with successive ‘pasts’, the deployment of Greek and
Roman material also assists in examining questions of double consciousness
and false consciousness; did the ‘grass roots’ (men and women), as David
Cannadine suggests, ‘buy’ the patriotic aspects of empire at the same time as they
aspired to and imagined a different kind of national and civic identity that would
empower them at home? Were the masses ‘nationalized’? Were local and class
and even national identities lost in the sea of empire? Analysis of how classical
referents were used in the long nineteenth century can help to answer such
questions, and I shall return briefly to this at the end of my discussion. To provide
a ‘window’ into the main part of the investigation, I start by probing some of the
tensions to be found in the relationship between education and Greek and
Roman antiquity in the nineteenth century.
Education, classical texts and working-class culture
There has been some distinguished scholarly investigation of specific aspects of
the relationship between classics and nineteenth-century education, for example
in Stray’s study of the changes in how classical subjects were perceived and
constituted in (mainly) elite and middle-class education8 and in Fiske’s
investigation of the ways in which female classicists used their knowledge to
subvert conventional wisdoms, ‘pushing the boundaries of knowledge beyond
. . . an alienating and exclusive classical authority’.9 Altruistic and ‘proxy’ education
29821.indb 23 02/03/2015 14:40
24 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
was a significant driver for women to develop their classical knowledge in the
nineteenth century and provided a convenient excuse for what might otherwise
have been seen as unhealthy cerebral activity or even self-indulgence.10 It would,
however, be a mistake to conflate the constraints of gender and class. Although
debates about the ‘proper’ role of women tended to link the education of women
to their familial relationships and perceived duties, once access to education was
achieved, it might be further restricted by class. This is particularly evident in
teacher training. For example, teaching in elementary schools was seen as an
occupation for working-class women, and it was only when teaching became
more professionalized in the second half of the nineteenth century that it was
presented as a suitable career for middle-class women.11
For non-elite groups, the hedge schools in Ireland brought together the
classical heritage of Irish history and the Irish language and provided an escape
from the denial of education to Catholics at the time of the penal laws.12 Statistics
recorded by the Second Commission for Irish Education (1824) indicate that of
11,823 schools over 9,000 were listed as ‘pay schools’, which received no public
support of any kind, and of these the hedge schools were the majority. This
indicates that out of 408,065 Catholics who were receiving education in Ireland
at that time, 377,007 were educated in pay or hedge schools before the Irish
National Education System was established in 1831.13 The sources indicate that
the fees charged in the hedge schools varied considerably and increased from
those levied for instruction in reading (the cheapest), through spelling and
writing to Latin.14 They did, however, remain fairly constant through the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries even though incomes rose. Nevertheless,
since agricultural wages (the lowest in Irish society) averaged only one to two
shillings per day, not all would have been able to afford Latin. Teachers were
frequently just as poor as the labourers and were often peripatetic. Teachers and
what they taught were therefore difficult to monitor or control. Nor was Latin
thought desirable by the Ascendancy authorities, partly because of its association
with the Catholic Church and partly because the texts that were circulated –
perhaps as chapbooks carried by travelling pedlars – might include such works
as Ovid’s Ars Amatoria.15
Study of Greek culture could be considered equally undesirable; the novelist
Maria Edgeworth’s father R. L. Edgeworth, who was a commissioner for Irish
education, thought that the study of ancient history could be subversive and in
1820 wrote that that the abridgements he had seen ‘are certainly improper; to
inculcate democracy and a foolish hankering after undefined liberty is
particularly dangerous in Ireland’.16 The notion that a limited curriculum was
29821.indb 24 02/03/2015 14:40
Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 25
necessary in order to ensure that the lower classes learned skills that would
be useful for the work that they would have to do but should not include
anything that might cause them to reflect on their ‘place’ in society is not, of
course, confined to Ireland and Britain in the nineteenth century. The main
points to take from the Irish context as indicators of issues to look for in other
situations include the ‘popular’ and inexpensive methods of disseminating texts
(including oral culture as well as chapbooks and the like); the perceived
relationship between subversion and lack of established control of teachers and
the curriculum; and the coexistence and possible mutual dynamic between
cultural and political freedom.17 It was also the case that the nationalist emphasis
and frequent Anglophobia of Irish radicals sometimes marginalized or diluted
issues of class solidarity, both within Ireland and in the external relations of
nationalists. In 1914 George Bernard Shaw rebuked Mabel Fitzgerald concerning
her son’s education on the grounds that ‘You make that boy a good International
Socialist . . . and make him understand that the English are far more oppressed
than any folk he has ever seen in Ireland by the same forces that have oppressed
Ireland in the past.’18
Recent scholarship on working-class history has shown that experience of
classical material could have diverse effects. Jonathan Rose’s comprehensive
documentation of working-class intellectual life in Britain takes the story into
the second half of the twentieth century and includes some discussion of the
desire for and the impact of encounter with classical texts and ideas.19 His
research is particularly useful as a reminder that not all encounters with Greek
and Roman material were politically subversive. For example, he records how in
the course of the nineteenth century the dynamic of mutual improvement could
become regressive, domesticated into a complacent working-class respectability
that was suffocated by the remnants of Victorian culture.20
The cultural memories that grew out of the nineteenth-century experience in
Britain also reveal some striking parallels with the topoi that emerge from the
histories of the Irish hedge schools. In England and Scotland these include the
image of the weaver who has a classical text propped up against his loom: for
example, the editor of the People’s Journal (founded 1858), William Latto, was a
Chartist weaver who read from books propped against his handloom and had
taken lessons in Latin from a Free Kirk minister, while J. Ramsey MacDonald
(who before his career in national politics had been secretary to the Lossiemouth
Mutual Improvement Association) had supposedly been given a copy of a
translation of Thucydides by a ragman who kept it on his barrow.21 Alfred
Williams (1877–1930), who worked in the railway factory at Swindon, taught
29821.indb 25 02/03/2015 14:40
26 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
himself the Greek alphabet by chalking it up on machinery and refused to erase
it when asked to do so by a supervisor. Williams learned sufficient Greek and
Latin to translate from Ovid, Pindar, Plato and Horace, but culturally this made
him conservative, and a reviewer for the magazine of the Workers’ Education
Association advised him to make his own poetry less anachronistic.22 Classical
texts and ideas might simply be absorbed into a conservative canon, what Rose
calls ‘proletarian cultural conservatism’.23
Even in the more radical journals, the relationship between literature and
politics could be uneasy,24 but the increase in cheap general-interest periodicals
forced the political journals to broaden their base. In 1840 the Chartist Circular
appropriated Homer, Aesop and Socrates as ‘sons of the proletariat’, alongside
Shakespeare, Milton, Defoe and Dr Johnson.25 There were tensions between
direct action radicals and the ‘Knowledge Chartists’, who promoted intellectual
development and freedom as the political priority.26 William Lovett (1800–77)
argued that formally authorized education could become oppressive ‘when the
individualism in their nature is checked by education, and endeavoured to be
crushed out of them by the mandate of a majority’. Freedom would be lost when
the poorest labourer ‘is constrained to abandon his resolution, to conform to the
routine of the majority, and to make their aspirations the standard of his own’.27
For the Knowledge Chartists, direct personal encounter with works of literature
and philosophy was seen as liberating. Formalization, however, of the sometimes
ephemeral mutual improvement societies into Mechanics’ Institutes could be
dominated by the middle-class liberals who provided the necessary finance.
Radicals thought this could become a threat to authentic self-improvement.28
Autodidacts, mutual education and political consciousness
At this point, I want to focus on just one piece of this jigsaw and consider the
vital fact that the majority of extended working-class engagement with Greek
and Roman material was by adults, and that – within this group – a significant
proportion of it involved self- or group- directed study and experiment. This
opens the way to considering the utility of theories that have been developed to
describe possible relationships between adult learning and social action. Of
these, the most illuminating is the relationship between theories of knowledge,
adult learning and social engagement, and especially identification of the types
of consciousness that could be developed (naïve, critical, magical). An influential
strand in adult education pedagogical theory has drawn on the potential of
29821.indb 26 02/03/2015 14:40
Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 27
Habermas’s epistemology, formulated in his Knowledge and Human Interests
(Erkenntnis und Interesse, 1968) and Theory of Communicative Action (Theorie
des kommunikativen Handelns, 1981), for categorizing ways in which adults
learn.
Habermas identified three main categories. The first involves learning through
work and leads to action that can be termed instrumental. The second covers the
practical aspects of interaction for communication and interpretation, but is
largely framed by what is ‘given’. The third category can be termed emancipatory
and involves self-knowledge, self-reflection and a transformation of perspectives.
This is the domain that has been of the greatest interest to adult educators. It has
been described as ‘the learning process by which adults come to recognize their
culturally induced dependency roles and the relationships and the reasons for
them and take action to overcome them’.29 A variant on this approach is Freire’s
concept of ‘conscientization’, a process that makes problematic the social roles
and practices that are taken for granted in the norms of a particular society.
Freire makes a distinction between a naïve consciousness that recognizes a
situation but accepts its causes as established ‘facts’, critical consciousness that
addresses the underlying causes, and ‘magic consciousness’ that can recognize
situations but attributes them to a superior power (social, religious, economic)
over which it has no control and to which it must (fatalistically) adapt. Naïve and
magic consciousness underpin deference cultures. Freire thought that only
critical consciousness delivers the understanding that can lead to critical action.30
Similar distinctions, albeit untheorized, underlie the approaches that can be
summarized under the byline ‘Really Useful Knowledge’. The term was a skit on
the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge (SDUK), which was one
outcome of the new forms of education that developed in the 1820s and 1830s,
others being the Mechanics’ Institutes and schools for very young children.31
All of these attracted criticism from radicals on the grounds that they were
actually, or potentially, constraining. The English Chartists’ Circular (ECC)
commented on the SDUK’s ‘determination to stifle inquiry respecting the great
principles which question their right to larger shares of the national produce
than those which the physical producers of the wealth themselves enjoy’.32 The
question was, how else was education to be achieved, especially by those with no
money and very little leisure? The answer was to do it themselves. The defining
characteristics were informality and communality (pubs, coffee houses, reading
rooms, travelling lecturers and the radical press), and the focus and ‘content’
included the ability to understand existing economic, social and cultural
circumstances plus the fostering of the desire to do something about them.
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28 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
From the middle of the nineteenth century, however, the focus gradually moved
to the individual (self-education) or to a progressively depoliticized ‘mutual
improvement’. In the rest of this chapter I look at some examples of social and
cultural experiences that come within the framework of ‘informal’ education and
consider the extent to which they can be said to involve the raising of
consciousness, and whether or not that consciousness is best described as critical,
naïve or magical. A succession of thresholds have to be met before it can be
claimed that classical material enabled ‘grass roots’ people to develop critical
consciousness AND to translate this into social and political action. Significantly,
some art forms were experienced by much larger numbers than was the case
with the autodidacts. First on my list is theatre, which brought together audiences
that contained a cross section of classes, occupations and political views.
Drama and burlesque: on the page and on the stage
Edith Hall and Fiona Macintosh in their seminal book Greek Tragedy and the
British Theatre 1660–1914 (2005) reflect on the importance of performance for
investigation of the nature and effects of imagination. They argue that research
into performance history can
hold up a mirror to the shifting assumptions and contingent historical
perspectives which have been brought to bear on these (i.e. Greek and
Roman) texts in the most public arenas of consumption. But performance
history also constitutes time travel into a much more personal, individual
arena of human history. It offers privileged access to the private imaginative
worlds of the members of previous generations. Theatre critics have long
been aware that there is something very special about the immanent presence
of live performance in the memory. Far from being an ephemeral art, which
happens, comes to an end, and vanishes without trace, a compelling theatrical
experience can leave a much deeper impression on the memory even than
the printed word or painted image.33
These are large claims. They draw on Kierkegaard’s presentation of theatre as a
paradigm of the aesthetic consciousness and they chime with Erika Fischer-
Lichte’s arguments for the transformative power of performance, in spite of
(even, because of) its ephemerality.34 Fischer-Lichte holds that the bodily co-
presence of actors and audiences brings the individual imagination into a
collective arena. For the purposes of this discussion, I would be content with a
29821.indb 28 02/03/2015 14:40
Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 29
slightly more cautious position which merely holds that performance (and thus
the histories of performance) can mark high spots in the individual and public
consciousness that in turn feed into the construction of personal and collective
memories. These in turn mark subtle shifts in the way in which people look on
their world and its possibilities.
From the end of the eighteenth century there had been significant
developments in the ways in which plays and long poems based on Greek and
Roman material were presented and interpreted. In 1776, in the aftermath of the
American Declaration of Independence, a tragedy on the theme of colonial
conflict had been staged at Covent Garden (6 December). It was so popular that
performances continued through the winter and it was subsequently revived.
The play was Caractacus, written by a progressive Yorkshire clergyman William
Mason (1724–96), and it presented the theme of ancient Britons’ resistance to
the Roman army. The play was conceptually based on the work of Tacitus
and Suetonius, although the plot was thought to be modelled on Sophocles’
Oedipus at Colonus, with Mason’s druids singing of ancient Celtic resistance to
Roman rule, and thus making a glorious melange that allowed the identification
of ancient Britons with Greeks.35 The impact of the play is underlined by the
recitation, during a meeting of Shropshire Whigs opposed to the war, of additional
lines that urged independence for the colonies.36 At least one possible effect of the
1776 performances was the equation of Caractacus with the American rebels and
the Roman army with the British military; support for American independence
was strongest in Celtic areas of Britain, including the northern parts of Wales.37
The entertainment value of figures from ancient British history was also
shown in many examples of burlesque, a genre that crossed popular and elite
contexts from music halls to St John’s College, Oxford.38 Noteworthy examples
include Boadicea the Beautiful and Harlequin Julius Caesar and the Delightful
Druid (titles from a published collection, 1865). Burlesque was a distinctive
medium that covered well-known texts and stories, ranging from Greek tragedy
and Ovid to Shakespeare and the Arabian Nights.39 Its heyday was between the
1830s and the 1870s (after which it was overtaken by light opera and operetta,
such as those by Gilbert and Sullivan). Burlesques based on Greek and Roman
texts and themes were a significant part of the repertoire; to take just one
example, in 1865 London theatres staged five new ones, including an Odyssey
and Prometheus Bound as well as an Echo and Narcissus.40 Audiences might be
large, especially at holiday times.41
Jonathan Rose’s study of working-class culture attests to the ‘levelling message’
embodied by burlesque both as an art form and as popular entertainment. In late
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30 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
eighteenth-century poetry, Ann Yearsley’s ‘high-wire burlesque’ had transformed
great figures from Greek and Roman history and literature into ‘Hogarthian
lowlife’, with Horace cast as a street-sweeper, Ajax a butcher and Clytemnestra a
Billingsgate fishwife.42 The point with burlesque, however, was not only that it
reclaimed classical figures and stories for popular culture but that in so doing it
provided a fresh and sometimes devastating critique of the attitudes of a society
that had elevated them into figures of cultural authority and even reverence. On
the nineteenth-century stage, with its large and diverse audiences, burlesque
provided a physically dynamic counterpart to the political cartoons in printed
newspapers that exploited Greek and Roman figures and myths to mock current
affairs.43 As a theatrical style, burlesque might incorporate mythical themes,
elaborate stage machinery and visual effects combined with the doggerel
rhyming verse that was its oral medium and provided verbal tricks as well as
rhythms that served to debunk the way in which politicians and the highbrow
press quoted from classical authors.44 The novelist Charles Dickens had a
different perspective and wrote to Bulwer Lytton in 1867 that the public could
only be induced to go and see a Greek play if it was in the form of burlesque.45
It is clear that burlesque theatre appealed to a cross section of social groups.
The professor of English literature at University College London, Henry Morley,
wrote in the middle of the century that ‘There is a large half-intelligent population
in London that by bold puffing can be got into a theatre. It numbers golden lads
and lasses as well as chimney sweeps.’46 There is also an engraving by ‘Phiz’ that
shows an audience of the mid-1850s with the affluent sitting in the boxes, the
middling folk in the stalls and the least affluent standing in the gallery. The
Standard Theatre in the East End of London (then synonymous with a working-
class population) was the largest in Britain and attracted 60,000 to see the staging
of John Heraud’s Medea in Corinth.47 There is, then, good evidence for the
importance of popular theatre and especially burlesque as a means through
which working-class people could and did gain an entertaining perspective on
Greek and Roman figures and stories, and there is an argument by extension
that, since burlesque as a medium is an important vehicle for ‘sending up’ past
and present authority, classical material is in the interesting position of being
both a means and a target. That Greek and Roman material was popular does
also presuppose that audiences had an outline familiarity with the stories, if not
necessarily with the texts and the languages.
It is harder to arrive at judgements about the extent to which the experience
of tragedy and burlesque transformed political consciousness into radical
critique, as opposed to naïve awareness (in Freire’s terms). In the absence of
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Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 31
significant primary evidence from individual members of the audience, the aims
of the leading practitioners are relevant. The best known are Thomas Talfourd
(1795–1854), whose productions of Greek plays are associated with the Theatre
of Reform of the 1830s, and his star actor William Macready (1793–1873), a
strong republican. Talfourd was a grandson of the Manse, a grammar school boy
from the lower middle class who was too poor to progress to university. He
became a radical MP, committed to universal suffrage and instrumental in
passing legislation to permit separated wives to see their children. He gave a
passionate speech in Reading Town Hall after the Peterloo Massacre in 1819
calling for toleration of democracy: ‘Free and open discussion is the Promethean
heat, without which the noblest constitution would be useless.’48 Talfourd’s Ion
was revived several times in London right up until the 1860s and was also
popular in France and the United States up to the beginning of the twentieth
century. The published text was reprinted several times. This play, together with
The Athenian Captive (also inspired by Greek tragedy), was seen as a radical
political commentary on political despotism and an incitement to reform. Ion
was also full of nonconformist religious fervour; Talfourd’s political and
theatrical work indicates that he thought that moral and social reform went
together. This brought him some criticism that picks up the distinctions made
earlier in this essay: Macaulay wrote that ‘Ion is a modern philanthropist, whose
politics and morals have been learned from the publications of the SDUK.’49
Taken together, then, the evidence from history plays and variations on
tragedy, together with the medium of burlesque, gives Greek and Roman material
a substantial place in public entertainment and imagination, but it is not possible
to draw firm conclusions about the extent to which this developed critical
consciousness of the underlying causes of social conditions, let alone whether it
was decisive in prompting radical action from people at the grass roots. The next
section of my discussion focuses on an art form that was developed with the
direct aim of making political statements and promoting class solidarity.
Trade union emblems
A recently published study by Annie Ravenhill-Johnson (2013), in collaboration
with Paula James, provides a unique opportunity of bringing together study of
the Graeco-Roman elements in the emblems and the other images used to
promote worker solidarity. In particular, the trade union banners and other
emblems provide a window into the ‘public imagination’, partly because they
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32 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
were familiar both to their aficionados and to the wider public and partly because
they represent a non-text-based associative function that is an important part of
the public imagination. Ravenhill-Johnson refers in her Introduction to ‘the
expectation that mythological figures and motifs might be familiar, even if their
full import and “back stories” were grasped only by the cognoscenti’.50
Especially when taken in conjunction with evidence discussed by Jonathan
Rose in his study of the British working classes,51 the evidence from trade union
banners suggests not only that considerable artistic ingenuity was needed to
construct a visual narrative but also that the users’ awareness of nuances and the
dual or even multiple implications of the designs might be greater than has
sometimes been allowed.52 However, it would be a mistake to lump together
working (and unemployed) people in an undifferentiated way. Iconography
changed in the late nineteenth century as some workers gained the franchise and
new unions of the unskilled were formed. Particular aspects have special interest
for classicists – for example the images of Heracles and Vulcan.53 Here I want to
make just two points. It has frequently been argued that the dominant ideology is
nevertheless embedded in trade union emblems, that the different sections of the
working-class movement expressed a view of their role in society and their
contribution to it and that this expression also carried, often uncritically, elements
of the dominant culture of the time.54 There is some support for this judgement
from the use of abstract representations, for instance in the depiction of female
figures from antiquity that morph into Britannia (earlier conflated with Boudicca,
and by the nineteenth century associated variously with Gloriana and Queen
Victoria).55 Britannia appears on many certificates, sometimes specifically
labelled to indicate her association with commerce. The Amalgamated Stevedores’
banner (1889 by Tutill) shows Britannia draped in the Union flag, with an English
lion at her feet and behind her four red ensigns, the badge of merchant shipping.
On some early twentieth-century emblems the shield has a vague outline of a
Union flag. Such stereotyping was not far removed from that found in Punch – a
cartoon of 23 September 1893, referring to an incident in which protesters had
been killed, showed British soldiers and miners as Mars and Vulcan respectively
(the editor, Sir Francis Cowley Burnand, also wrote classical burlesque).56
The relationship between subject matter and creative agency is sometimes
problematic. For example, the designer Walter Crane was responsible for many
trade union emblems. His design for the Triumph of Labour (1891) adapted the
visual architecture and imaginative associations of the Roman triumph and
turned it into a procession of the workers of the world. However, although he is
often described as a socialist,57 Crane was also in receipt of other commissions
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Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 33
that required him to represent conventionally idealized ‘family’ values. The
nature of these commissions, which included illustrations for children’s books
and domestic wallpaper, raises questions about the extent to which crossover of
patronage and of technique mingled middle-class Victorian attitude to women
with the gender associations of the Graeco-Roman mythical figures that
appeared in his emblems. Certainly Crane’s representation of contemporary
female workers was minimal or entirely absent.58 Nor is this all. Crane’s trade
union banner design allied British Justice with Rome and John Bull. This
fractured the earlier association between British Justice, Rome and Liberty,
which were portrayed together in the context of the 1790s, notably in a cartoon
by H. Holland ‘Don Dismallo Running the literary Gauntlet’ (1790).59 Crane’s
iconographic shift provides one more small piece of evidence testifying to the
dispersal of the radical reform impulses of the 1790s into the gradualism of the
mid- and late nineteenth century.60
Nevertheless, despite the constant dangers of domestication within the
dominant narratives of respectability and empire, trade union iconography
could also accommodate statements of workers’ solidarity that went beyond
Britain. The 1889 banner of the Amalgamated Stevedores’ Protection League
shows an Australian emblem with the emu and red kangaroo in the roundel
immediately above Britannia.61 This may encode recognition that, in the Great
Dock Strike of 1889, Australian wharf workers sent more than £25,000 to
London’s starving dockers. In a dockside scene, British and Australian workers
shake hands across the central figure of Britannia. This is doubly subversive
because of Australia’s former status as a penal colony. Another image from the
1880s uses similar iconography but extends the scope internationally with
lettered strap work at the top of the certificate, just below the image of the
handshake – ‘The Grip of Brotherhood the World Over’.62 These examples show
that we are not dealing with simple polarities of nation and ‘other’, but nor are we
dealing with the kind of subversion that rejects the dominant images of Britannia,
the lion and the flag. Such internalization of the discourses of empire and nation
in the Trades Union movement demonstrates the extent to which they were
fighting for admittance into the civic realm rather than aiming at its overthrow.63
Poetry
I referred earlier to the links between the Chartists and use of classical texts.
One of the best known is Thomas Cooper (sometimes called the shoemakers’
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34 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
poet, b. 1805). Cooper was an autodidact, learning Latin and Greek on his own.
He became a tutor at Lincoln Mechanics’ Institute. He was committed to
universal male suffrage and action on behalf of the poor and, on an international
level, opposed imperialism. The extent and limits of his radicalism reveal a
contrast between his ameliorative approach and that of physical force Chartists
such as Ernest Jones.64 An avid reader, he valued not just the power of fiction to
instruct but also ‘the charm it exercised over the human mind’.65 However, his
aesthetic consciousness was by no means uncritical, as is shown by his comment
on Homer’s Iliad: ‘What matchless beauty, what deep truth, what life-like pictures
of humanity . . . and yet it enthrones the bad passion for war’.66
Cooper particularly deprecated the effect that The Iliad was said to have had
on Alexander the Great. One particularly inflammatory speech of Cooper’s
(at Hanley 1842) began with a catalogue of conquerors, including Alexander,
Caesar and Napoleon, who had all shed the blood of millions. He described
how the conquerors of America had nearly exterminated the Native Americans,
and excoriated British oppression of the Irish. His long poem The Purgatory
of Suicides (nine hundred stanzas: fine poetry it is not) was written in Stafford
Gaol when he was imprisoned for sedition.67 Two points are important as
indices to the extent of Cooper’s radical consciousness and the role of Greek and
Roman material in his thinking: firstly, the implications that British commercial
interests in India are linked to the predicament of the working classes
internationally, and secondly, that Cooper uses an Indian sage (Calanus, who
figures favourably in a number of ancient sources that deal with Alexander –
Plutarch, Arrian, Philo). Cooper’s Calanus instructs the Greek philosophers
about the utopian possibilities of a levelled democratic society and lectures them
on feeding the destitute. Cooper’s poetry provides further evidence in favour of
the argument that the ‘India’ question inspired the energy of radicals in Britain
to make links between empire, its association with Britishness and the
exploitation of the working class domestically.68 The multiple valencies and
trajectories of poetry, however, could bring antiquity, the British Empire and
grass roots people into association in different ways. The hugely popular poet
Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936) gains admittance to this discussion because of the
poetic forms he used and for the ways in which he brought Greek and Roman
material into public sensibility.
T.S. Eliot’s 1941 essay on Kipling brings out the importance of Kipling’s use of
ballad forms and modalities and probes links between his poems and topical
events – ‘an immense gift for using words, an amazing curiosity and power of
observation with his mind and with all his senses, the mask of the entertainer
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Radicalism and Gradualism Enmeshed 35
and beyond that a queer gift of second sight’.69 Kipling was born in India, where
he spent his early years. He returned as a young man to work there. He also spent
time in South Africa, including during the Boer War, and discussed his
experiences at length in his memoir Something of Myself (1937). He is interesting
because he was both a believer in empire and a critic and wrote popular/
middlebrow ballads, often using vernacular idiom, without being a man of the
people (although his memoir shows how he valued shared experience). Kipling
used a comparison with Homer to characterize both his own travels and his
ability to seize on the experiences it offered:
‘When ‘Omer smote his bloomin’ lyre,
He’d ‘eard men sing by land an’ sea;
An’ what he thought he might require,
‘E went an’ took – the same as me’
Rudyard Kipling (Introduction to the Barrack-Room Ballads
in The Seven Seas, 1892)
A second well-known piece draws on the experience of Romans in Britain to
provide a double perspective on British attachments to India:
‘Let me work here for Britain’s sake – at any task you will –
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
. . .
Legate, I come to you in tears – My cohort ordered home!
I’ve served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind – the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!’
Rudyard Kipling, ‘The Roman Centurion’s Song’
Tim Kendall has pointed out how Kipling’s reputation suffered after the First
World War, partly because his major poems, such as ‘Epitaphs’, brought home to
readers the international impact of the war and gave ‘equal honour to the Hindu
sepoy, the VAD nurse, the RAF pilot, the drowned sailor, the civilian bombed in
London, and the victim of conflict in Cairo or Haifa’.70 Kipling’s insights are
underpinned by his sense, derived from his knowledge of Greece and Rome, of
the spatial and temporal affinities between experience of war and empire in
antiquity and in his own time.71 By including a substantial section of music hall
and trench songs in his anthology of First World War poetry, Kendall shows how
popular lyrics could be adapted according to circumstance and audience,
combining satire with an almost fatalistic acceptance of the situation.72
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36 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
It will be clear from the examples I have discussed that this ‘grass roots’ picture
of the relationship between Greek and Roman culture and the nature and
directions of political consciousness is often messy. I see the Greek and Roman
aspects of nineteenth-century thought and action as being like the base of a
triangle, providing a degree of commonality but also allowing sometimes
startlingly different angles and trajectories in which naïve political consciousness
can morph into critical consciousness and also vice versa. Many experiences of
Greek and Roman material contain elements of both.
The topic also has the potential to inform wider debates in modern
historiography. For example, in his 2013 book The Undivided Past: History
beyond Differences, David Cannadine examined the implications of historians’
use of analytic and explanatory categories such as religion/nation/class/gender/
civilization, arguing that they are divisive and undermine the aspirations and
practices associated with humanism. My discussion here suggests the contrary:
that to address questions about political consciousness in the nineteenth century
it is necessary to look at the interweaving of ideas about class, religion and
empire and at notions of education and civilization, without keeping them
rigidly apart. Furthermore, mapping how Greek and Roman material was
experienced and communicated reveals labyrinths in the development and
repression of political consciousness. Analysing how Greek and Roman material
was experienced and used by disempowered people is a useful tool for exploring
the wider contexts and types of political consciousness. How Greek and Roman
material was used and experienced suggests that there were sometimes as many
differences between different radical perspectives as between radicals and
gradualists. It also shows that proletarian conservatism was never far from the
surface, whether in aspiration for access to a literary canon or in acceptance of
the norms of gender discrimination or of empire.
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3
Coleridge’s Classicized Politics:
Heraclitus and The Statesman’s Manual
Adam Roberts
All the major Romantics were political radicals in their youth, and some
maintained radical political affiliations to their death (in many cases, of course,
their deaths came young). But, famously, three of the most prominent did not.
Wordsworth, Southey and Coleridge each performed an ideological volte face
from a youthful radicalism eager to promote social revolution to an elderly
church-and-state Toryism. As is often the case with individuals who follow this
particular ideological trajectory, then and now, all three denied that there had
been any change in their underlying principles. Not many people have believed
this denial, then or now. Southey’s appointment as poet laureate in 1817
prompted his enemies to try to embarrass him by reprinting, without his
permission, his politically incendiary early play Wat Tyler. Questions were even
asked in the House of Commons, and Hazlitt mocked Southey’s inconstancy.
Browning recorded his disgust at Wordsworth’s apostasy, which he attributed to
the Establishment ‘bribe’ of (again) the laureateship: ‘just for a handful of silver
he left us/ Just for a ribband to stick in his coat . . .’
Coleridge is a more complex case. Close to both Wordsworth and Southey, he
was in his youth ardent in his support for the French Revolution – only a
fragment of the ode he wrote celebrating ‘The Fall of the Bastille’ survives, but it
is impossible to mistake its passion. But his disillusionment set in relatively early;
‘France: an Ode’ was written in April 1798 (its working title was ‘Recantation: an
Ode’). His reputation as a radical trailed with him into the 1800s, but by about
1810 a change in his political allegiance was being widely noted, as something
either to celebrate or to condemn.1 Coleridge insisted that there had been no
change. In the Biographia Literaria – published in 1817, a year with which the
present chapter will be much concerned – he discusses politics in a pro-Burkean,
anti-revolutionary manner; but also declares:
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38 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
In the rifacimento of THE FRIEND [in press but not actually published, in
November 1818, after the Biographia], I have inserted extracts from the
Conciones ad Populum, printed, though scarcely published, in the year 1795,
in the very heat and height of my anti-ministerial enthusiasm: these in proof
that my principles of politics have sustained no change.2
David Calleo has argued that it was not until 1816–17 that Coleridge’s political
thought finally assumed its mature form.3 Certainly, this period marks a
resurgence in his interest in matters not only of political current affairs but of
socio-political theory more generally. The two most influential book-length
works of Coleridge’s 1820s – Aids to Reflection (1825) and On the Constitution
of Church and State (1830) – are both deeply imbrued with the practical
considerations of religious belief, and the latter became a hugely influential
statement of political theory in the nineteenth century.4
Church and State has been very widely discussed, but, although sometimes
taken as a core statement of conservative political ideas, its influence was both
less party political and wider ranging. As Pamela Edwards puts it, the two salient
topics crucial to understanding Coleridge’s political writings are, first, his refusal
to self-identify as a ‘party man’ and, second, his classicism.5 Edwards also argues,
persuasively I think, how mistaken it is to read Coleridge’s political ideas as only
being influential on a ‘conservative’ political tradition. Certainly, as she says, for
much of the nineteenth century Coleridge provoked a ‘discipular tradition,
relatively uncritical in its admiration for the “Sage of Highgate” ’. Edwards notes
as evidence that ‘the amount and variety of Coleridgeiana and the number and
variety of both single and collected editions of Coleridge attest to his popularity
among the Victorians’, adding that he was taken as providing ‘justifications of
“Tory” principles’. But the truth was rather more complicated. In fact, he
influenced many thinkers,
even those who did not think of themselves as within the ‘Idealist’ or ‘Tory’
traditions. His writings received respect and attention from John Stuart Mill
and T H Green not merely as artefacts in the history of ideas but as a vital
rethinking of persistent problems.6
Edwards is one scholar who takes seriously Coleridge’s assertion that his later
political principles were not at odds with his earlier ones. Though ‘others,
including contemporary friends and associates from Robert Southey to Henry
Crabb Robinson, have viewed Coleridge’s portrait of himself as a lifelong
“independent” as disingenuous’, she insists that ‘careful examination of the
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 39
political thought of Coleridge from his earliest writings on politics and religion
in 1795 to his last and most coherent work of political thought, ‘On the
Constitution of Church and State on 1830’ results in a sense of profound
continuity that Edwards identifies as neither Radical nor Tory, but a second
school of liberalism’.
The present chapter seeks to discuss this continuity by focusing not on
the earlier, radical Coleridge writings, nor on the Church and State, but
instead on the writings Coleridge produced in the ‘hinge’ years of 1816–17.
This involves me in reading one of Coleridge’s most neglected, indeed most
reviled, works of prose: The Statesman’s Manual (December 1816). There are
various reasons why this transition period is crucial for gaining a sense of
Coleridge’s engagement with political debates, and two particular reasons why
I ignore the more famous and certainly more influential Church and State
volume. Those two reasons are classics and class. Though classical references
creep into Church and State, as they do without exception into everything
Coleridge wrote, it is not a work that engages with the classical heritage in any
specific detail – unsurprisingly, since it was occasioned by the debates concerning
the emancipation of Roman Catholics in the UK, and what that might mean for
the ‘idea’ of the nation. For the same reason, it has little to say about class; it is
more concerned with sect.
Coleridge was not incognizant of ‘class’, of course. If anything, the situation
was, rather, that he had a too firm a sense of what class signified in British polity
and society. In 1816 he planned three ‘lay sermons’ (of which only two were
completed), designed to be read by – according to the conceit of the volumes, to
be ‘preached at’ – upper-, middle- and working-class readerships, respectively.
The last is the one Coleridge never got around to writing. As R. J. White notes, it
would have been fascinating to see how far he was prepared to compromise his
notoriously ornate and complexly allusive prose so as to make his third Lay
Sermon accessible to a proletarian readership.7 My purpose here is to explore the
role played by one aspect of Coleridge’s multifarious classical learning in his
developing political writing, with particular attention to what this tells us about
class. I want to look in particular at Heraclitus in Coleridge’s The Statesman’s
Manual – the first serious treatment of Heraclitus in English literature – and its
relationship with Coleridge’s larger political ideas. This necessarily involves
picking a tricky path through Coleridge’s complex interrogation of ‘the classics’
as imaginatively animating tradition, on the one hand, and the dead hand of the
past, on the other. The essence of Coleridge’s political ‘evolution’ (or, if you prefer,
‘apostasy’), it seems to me, lies in his sense that things must change and also that
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40 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
things must remain the same. Injustice provokes the urge to make changes; the
upheavals of war and revolution provoke the urge to restore order.
There is a problem right away, however. Nobody really takes the Lay Sermons
seriously. They were written to argue the case that the Bible should guide all
aspects of social and political life. This is, to put it mildly, a deeply unfashionable
political philosophy. But, while pegging Coleridge as right wing because he
thought religion and politics were inextricable will distort the true picture,
it makes it harder to argue the case for the classics as being at the heart of his
world view. The classics of ancient Greece and Rome are, necessarily, pagan
classics. There is a class element to this at the level of mere engagement. In
the preface to their Classics in the Modern World: A Democratic Turn?
Lorna Hardwick and Stephen Harrison suggest that the essay collection’s titular
political ‘turn’ raises questions that ‘are historical and philosophical as well
as artistic and political’. The sense in which the classics ‘have become better
known among less privileged groups’ both through education and through
‘social institutions and entertainment’ is balanced by the sense in which a
parallel cultural tradition has invoked ‘the classics’ precisely as markers of elite
exclusion – or more: ‘Greek and Roman texts, ideas and images have been
exploited to justify tyranny and atrocity.’8 This is a crucial question for
Romanticism more generally, and for Coleridge in particular. We might expect a
passion for the classics to correlate with conservative political affiliations, since a
full engagement with this material required the sort of expensive public school
education in ancient Greek and Latin that only the aristocracy could afford. Yet
classicists like Byron, Shelley and Keats supported (in varying ways) revolution.
At the same time, the Romantic movement saw a more ‘politically conservative’
interest in specifically northern European myth, contradistinguished from the
classics.
Marilyn Butler makes this point in her discussion of Coleridge’s Biographia
Literaria (the writing of which overlapped with the composition of the Lay
Sermons). The charge is commonly laid by critics that, though enormously
influential on the development of ‘literary criticism’ as a discipline, the Biographia
is ‘shapeless’ and sprawling. Butler, on the contrary, argues that ‘the book’s
ideology is [its] unifying factor’:
Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria was a book deliberately written for an hour
of peril. Never since 1798, when the original [Lyrical] Ballads had appeared,
had revolution seemed as real a danger in England as it did in 1817. The
danger would come from below, from rioters, machine-breakers, the
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 41
unemployed or underpaid and hungry work-people. But it was fomented, or
so the propertied classes felt, by some educated men. The journalist William
Cobbett, who addressed himself in cheap newspapers direct to the populace,
was the focus of special anger and fear, as a traitor to his order. Coleridge’s
Biographia is addressed to that order, the intellectual élite, for the purpose of
urging it to fulfil its social responsibility.9
Butler goes on to explore the link between, on the one hand, the abstruse
Germanic philosophizing of the ‘metaphysical chapters’ of this work (‘meaningful’,
Butler thinks, ‘only to a small educated elite’), and, on the other, his critique in the
Biographia’s second volume of both Wordsworth’s ‘levelling’ poetics and the
‘jacobinical’ potential of plays like Maturin’s Bertram. Butler grounds her account
by sketching out precisely the ideological division in 1810s/1820s writing
between a ‘right-wing’ reactionary Germanism and a ‘left-wing’ liberal classical
emphasis on the Mediterranean. By way of example, she discusses de Staël’s De
l’Allemagne (1810) – which praises German culture ‘as a rallying-point for
opposition to Napoleon’:
Europe had two dominant cultural traditions: the classical, Mediterranean
inheritance, perfectly expressed in comedy, and culminating in a
predominantly French modern classicism; and the Northern or Germanic
alternative.
The German races did not organize themselves into large states. Man was isolated
in very small communities, effectively on his own and dwarfed among the vast,
oppressive, unmastered phenomena of Nature. He was obliged to look inward
for inspiration, or upward to the mountains, or to God. The literature of the
north accordingly became introspective, pessimistic and essentially religious. Its
religion was not social but individual, an intense unfulfilled aspiration which
was perfectly expressed in Gothic architecture, or in the passionate irregularity
of Shakespearian tragedy. The northern or Romantic tradition (which, as
Madame de Staël makes plain, is the unified culture of the Germans and the
English, Napoleon’s leading enemies) has become the most vital and imaginative
intellectual force of the present day.10
Butler aligns Coleridge with this perspective, and notes the lack in England of
any other ideological perspective (‘no disinterested exegesis of contemporary
German literature or philosophy – nothing that separated [it] out . . . from the
now triumphant cause of the extreme Right’) by way of explaining why
younger, liberal or radical writers like Byron, Shelley and Keats gravitated so
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42 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
enthusiastically towards classical Greek and Roman literature. But Coleridge sits
very uneasily in this division. Though certainly conservative and a Germanist, he
was also a passionate classicist. Religion for him was much more a social than a
personal matter – as On the Constitution of Church and State (1830) makes clear.
And, though capable of gloomy Gothic pessimism in his writing, he was strongly
drawn to comedy. The Biographia, whatever else it is, remains a consistently, and
sometimes hilariously, funny book.
These, then, are the terms of debate for the political debate in Coleridge’s later
political writings, and they are familiar enough from other political contexts –
order versus freedom, the pay-off between individual liberty and collective
strength.
The Statesman’s Manual and A Lay Sermon were written, rapidly, at the moment
of the last and greatest change in Coleridge’s life. This personal change coincided
with a great shift in European political and social life attendant on the end of
decades of Napoleonic war in 1815. The years that followed were marked, across
the Continent, by economic hardship, social collapse and unrest. Coleridge’s
personal life, however, improved. Though the early century had seen a miserable
Coleridge living a peripatetic life abroad and in England, haunted by money
problems, in ill health, his life increasingly disordered by his opium addiction,
April 1816 ushered in a more settled and happier period. This is when Coleridge
moved into the house of London physician Dr James Gillman, under whose
care, and in the company of whose family, he lived out the rest of his life –
eighteen calmer and more regular years writing and publishing as the ‘sage of
Highgate’. The move marked more than a personal climacteric: it was a writerly
one too. In the 1790s and 1800s Coleridge had (of course) composed all his
great poetry, and undertaken ambitious but fundamentally scattered projects
in prose, such as the ten-part polemical The Watchman (1 March to 13 May
1796) – perhaps the most politically radical of all Coleridge’s early works – or
single-handedly composing a regular journal (The Friend, supposedly a weekly
magazine, in fact appearing at irregular intervals between 1809 and 1810).
This latter was certainly not apolitical – it was reissued in three volumes in 1818
with the subtitle ‘to aid in the formation of fixed principles in politics, morals
and religion’ – but it did largely avoid commentating on current political events.
The Watchman had done that, and in its final number Coleridge had declared
‘Henceforward I shall cease to cry the State of the political Atmosphere.’ His
immensely popular public lectures were all on literary topics, and when he
started writing his first what we would nowadays call ‘stand-alone’ book in
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 43
mid-1815 – the Biographia Literaria – he concentrated on ‘practical criticism’ of
Wordsworth’s poetry and contemporary drama.
In September 1815 Coleridge sent the manuscript of the Biographia to his
Bristol publisher to be set up in type. It was not actually published, however,
until July 1817, and then it was issued by a different, London-based press,
Coleridge having quarrelled with his original company. In that period the
Biographia was expanded by the addition of a great deal of new text, much of it
explicitly political in nature.11 While he was revising and expanding the original
MS Biographia prior to publication, Coleridge also wrote the verse-drama
Zapolyta (published November 1817), which is much concerned with questions
of good governance and proper political authority. He wrote two of his planned
three ‘Lay Sermons’ – The Statesman’s Manual; or The Bible the Best Guide to
Political Skill and Foresight, addressed to the Higher Classes of Society was
published December 1816, and the second, A Lay Sermon Addressed to the Higher
and Middle Classes on the Existing Distresses and Discontents, emerged in March
1817. When the revised Biographia finally appeared in July it was a much more
explicitly political work than the original 1815 draft had been.
Neither contemporaries nor posterity have been kind to the Lay Sermons.
One of Coleridge’s friends, Charles Lamb, wrote to Wordsworth in 1816 – almost
certainly without having reading the actual works, and merely assuming
(incorrectly, in fact) that they advocated political quietism – that Coleridge
has produced a prodigious mass of composition for a sermon to the
middling ranks of people to persuade them they are not so distressed as is
commonly supposed. Methinks he should recite it to a congregation of
Bilston colliers, – the fate of Cinna the poet would instantaneously be his.12
The Bilston colliers were starving working men from Staffordshire who protested
their condition by yoking themselves, like beasts of burden, to wagons loaded
with coal and dragged them to London to present a petition to the Prince Regent.
The Times of the day reported the protest:
The men proceeded at the rate of about twelve miles a day, and receive
voluntary gifts of money, &. on the road as they pass along, declining of
themselves to ask alms: their motto, as placarded on the carts, being – ‘Rather
work than beg.’13
Cinna the poet was, according to Plutarch, and more famously according to
Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar Act 3 scene 2, torn to pieces by the plebeian mob
during Caesar’s funeral, because he happened to share the same cognomen as
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44 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
another Cinna, one of the conspirators. The classical allusion is interesting, not
least in its buried assumptions. Lamb thinks Coleridge a foolish poet caught up
in violent working-class politics (although, in fact, Coleridge spent much of the
1790s preaching religion and politics through working-class communities up
and down the country). There is also the assumption that any working-class
protest must tend towards mob violence – in fact, the Bilston colliers were
perfectly peaceful: The Times conceded that their approach to London ‘excited
alarm’, but added ‘but as it proved without cause, as the men demeaned themselves
with the utmost propriety’. In a sense what is most interesting is that Coleridge
himself anticipated Lamb’s objection: for, in a slightly oblique manner, he did
present the sermon to the Bilston colliers.
As Robert Keith Lapp notes, the advertisement announcing the imminent
publication of The Statesman’s Manual promised that its ‘Profits’ were to be ‘given
to the Association for the Relief of the Manufacturing and Labouring Poor’. As
Lapp points out, the Prince Regent’s response to the colliers’ protest (an ‘act of
symbolic condescension’) was to send ‘his brother, the duke of York, to the City
of London Tavern, where he was to preside over a meeting of the Association for
the Relief of the Manufacturing and Labouring Poor – the very association
named in Coleridge’s advertisement’.14
Still, contemporary reaction to the Lay Sermons was wholly negative,
dominated by three hostile reviews (in the Edinburgh Review and the Examiner,
all written by Hazlitt and so swingeing that Coleridge added a late passage to the
in-press Biographia deploring them). There was a good deal of private puzzlement.
‘Have you seen Coleridge’s “Bible the Statesman’s best Manual”?’ Dorothy
Wordsworth wrote to a friend. ‘I think it is ten times more obscure than the
darkest parts of the Friend.’15 The copy Coleridge sent to his friend Robert
Southey was sold after the latter’s death (along with the rest of his library) with
its pages still uncut. Contemporary reaction to the Biographia was similarly
hostile, or puzzled. The difference is that this work was recuperated, such that by
the beginning of the next century it had become, in effect, the foundational text
for the new discipline of ‘University English’. Nothing like that happened with
the Lay Sermons. Here is Richard Holmes’ late-twentieth-century account:
The Gillmans watched anxiously as he worked from nine til five and then
began to sit up all night, ‘writing and erasing’. He demanded more opium and
made scenes. Finally he dictated a chaotic text to Morgan, ‘not able even to
look over the copy’ before he sent it off. The Statesman’s Manual (as he now
nervously renamed it), emerged as the most obscure and disorganised short
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 45
work that Coleridge ever published . . . rambling . . . [a] mixture of
metaphysics and sentimental pieties.16
Since I (you will be unsurprised to learn) hope to reclaim the importance of
these much-abused volumes, I will need to start by exploring the grounds for
this hostility. The issue, I think (contra Holmes’ rather tendentious implication),
is not that they were written in a muddle of opium. Or, to put it another way, it is
true, of course, that they were written under the influence of opium; but then so
were all the works Coleridge wrote in the 1810s and 1820s, and most of these are
accounted masterpieces.
There are two main ‘problems’ with The Statesman’s Manual. The first is right
there, in the subtitle. The only people who believe today that ‘the Bible is the best
guide to political skill and foresight’ are the hard-right ‘evangelical’ wing of the
US Republican and UK Tory parties. I do not mean to be cheaply dismissive.
Speaking more generally, there is much to be said for the complex, mutually
enriching and occasionally mutually degrading interrelationship between
people’s religious and their political beliefs without needing to stray into the
straitjacket literalism of arguing – as Coleridge does here – that the French
Revolution and Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow were prophetically described in
the Book of Isaiah. R. J. White suggests that ‘the patient study of Coleridge on
allegory and symbol, on the sense in which scriptural history is history, and
whence it derives its prophetic power’ might put the reader in a more sympathetic
place with respect to this daft stuff.17 But he also quotes Walter Pater’s 1895
observation that too often Coleridge ‘allows the impress of a somewhat inferior
theological literature’ in his prose writings. Quite. We can hardly help feeling that
there is something unhealthily monomaniacal in the mind that reads the Bible
to discover references to contemporary current affairs – or insists that we must
‘elevate even our daily newspapers and political journals into COMMENTS ON
THE BIBLE’.18 It is too rigid a world view.
But the second ‘problem’ in the book is exactly the opposite – that it is too
fluid, a too disorganized, obscure and confusing piece of writing. As anybody
who has actually sat down and read the book will confirm, it is hard to keep the
cogent progression of paragraphs and developing argument in mind, and
individual passages can provoke head-scratching. We might, as Richard Holmes
does above, attribute this to a fundamental confusion in Coleridge’s opium-
addled mind at the time of writing. Or we might, as Henry Crabb Robinson did
in 1817, try to see in it something more suggestive. ‘What he has to say’, Robinson
declared, with what sounds like more hope than surety, ‘cannot be rendered
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46 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
intelligible in merely popular language . . . under such circumstances the
temptation is scarcely to be resisted, of endeavouring to blend in one mass
heterogeneous materials and adorn the abstractions of a scholastic system by a
popular rhetorick.’19 Towards the end of the book Coleridge himself seems to
concede the point. ‘In reviewing the foregoing pages, I am apprehensive’, he
confesses, ‘that they may be thought to resemble the overflow of an earnest mind
rather than an orderly premeditated composition.’20
Which is it, then? Does Coleridge’s political analysis here suffer from too
strict and procrustean a ‘conservative’ hyper-order? Or does it suffer from too
destabilizing and ‘radical’ an overflow? Perhaps the mistake is to read it on
the level of content only. One of the things that make the Lay Sermons so
extraordinary, and which informs their continuing relevance as political
meditations, is the way they seek to embody their political philosophy, and
their understanding of class, formally rather than ideationally. Both these
short books manifest in themselves the tension between too rigid an order
and a liberating looseness, or, if you prefer (and it is part of the complexity
of Coleridge’s argument that this second dyad cannot be separated out from the
first), a necessary social harmony and a divisive and violent social instability.
The plan of three sermons explicitly connects this with the traditional
categories of social class, in a way that also connects with Arnold’s later,
Coleridge-influenced, distinction between ‘Hebrew’ and ‘Hellene’. The distinction,
of course, is: a social philosophy founded on order and restraint – and their
cognates, oppression and tyranny – as against a social philosophy of life-joy and
freedom, and their cognates, anarchy and chaos.21 We might expect, in a text in
which the subtitle declares ‘the Bible the best guide to political skill and foresight’,
to find the Hebraic valorized. But it is a classical contrast, between Rome and
Greece, and more specifically between Horace and Heraclitus, that animates
Coleridge’s core thesis. The volume’s epigraph is selected from the Psalms of
David, and Coleridge’s opening sentence is:
If our whole knowledge and information concerning the Bible had been
confined to the one fact of its immediate derivation from God, we should
still presume that it contained rules and assistances for all conditions of men
under all circumstances; and therefore for communities no less than for
individuals.
The whole book is threaded with quotation from the Bible, particularly from
the Old Testament (Isaiah especially), together with a few sterner passages
from that rarely un-stern authority, Milton. The former of these explicitly
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 47
valorizes what Coleridge calls the ‘Jewish prophets’ over the merits of classical
paganism:
As men divinely taught and better teaching
The solid rules of civil government
In their majestic unaffected style,
Than all the oratory of Greece and Rome.
Paradise Regained iv. 354
This stress on ‘the acts and constitutions of God, whose law executeth itself, and
whose Word is the foundation, the power, and the life of the universe’ would
seem to have little place for classical paganism.22 Indeed, when examples from
the classical world are invoked it is often to stress the dangers of societal collapse,
the violence of revolution: ‘the examples of former Jacobins, as Julius Caesar,
Cromwell, and the like . . . the revolutions of Corcyra [in 427 bc], the proscriptions
of the Reformers, Marius, Caesar, &c. and [their] direful effects’.23
This has a kind of rather single-minded logic to it. If the Bible is the best guide
to political skill and foresight, we must expect societies that have not had the
advantage of this book, and its religion, to be failures. The point is reiterated
several times: ‘we are compelled to admit, as a fact of history, that the Bible has
been the main lever by which the moral and intellectual character of Europe has
been raised to its present comparative height’.24 Comparative to what? To pagan
antecedents and the rest of the un-Christian world, we assume. The Bible is
superior to ‘all the books of Greek philosophy’ because it affirms a God, ‘and not
a God only, but the living God’.25 The Pythagorean αὐτός ἔϕη (‘he himself said
it!’) is Christianized by Coleridge: ‘Ο ΛΟΓΟΣ ΕΦΗ. IPSE DIXIT!’26 – the
[Johannine] Logos has said it. The work closes with a peroration on ‘science’
(the Bible alone contains a Science of Realities’) in which the Archimedean
‘EUREKA’ (Coleridge mistakenly attributes this to Pythagoras) can only be made
‘comprehensible’ in the ‘gleam of our own inward experience’ via ‘the ‘hidden
treasures of the Law and the Prophets’.27 But there is a key exception to Hebraic
conceptual dominance in the work: Heraclitus. Just the fact of Heraclitus being
used to make serious and far-reaching political points is remarkable. It is in the
Lay Sermons that we find the first iteration, anywhere in the world, of what we
might call ‘the modern Heraclitus’, the Heraclitus who became so important a
figure a hundred years later in the writings of Modernists like T. S. Eliot and
Heidegger.
Prior to this, when Heraclitus was mentioned it was to stress his supposed
gloominess – to invoke him, indeed, as a sort of personification of pessimism
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48 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
itself. Matthew Prior in 1718, after two years in prison, summoned him: ‘Sad
Heraclitus, serious wretch, return/In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn’
(although he does so to distance himself from such unalloyed misery: ‘I
unconcerned stand by’).28 The conventional contrast was between laughing
Democritus and sad Heraclitus. Henry Kirke White (1785–1806) addressed
himself in the 1790s in ‘My Own Character’ as ‘a chaos of all contradiction’:
Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus
Now laughing and pleas’d like a child with a rattle;
Then vex’d to the soul with impertinent tattle.29
Though Heraclitan gloom was not always assumed to be ‘impertinent’, it was
generally taken as a type of fixed or unreachable grief. Of the Biblical Solomon,
Walter Bradick noted in 1765 that ‘this great Connoisseur of human nature
would not have us to be always laughing with Democritus, nor always weeping,
with Heraclitus’.30 Thomas Flatman’s 1681 work signals its paradoxically ludicrous
tone from its title: Heraclitus Ridens. As to the actual content of Heraclitus’
philosophy, the eighteenth century was uninterested. Johann Jakob Brucker’s
Historia Critica Philosophiae (1742–4) laments that this thought ‘has been almost
entirely overlooked by the moderns’, despite the fact that it ‘obtained among the
antients no small share of celebrity’.31
Coleridge takes Heraclitus seriously, even joyfully. He first cites the Greek to
bolster his argument that, lacking the Divine and Biblical prompting, ‘the human
understanding musing on many things snatches at truth, but is frustrated and
disheartened by the fluctuating nature of its objects’. Unlike other classical
sources mentioned in The Statesman’s Manual, Heraclitus is quoted at length,
and with respect:
Its conclusions therefore are timid and uncertain, and it hath no way of
giving permanence to things but by reducing them to abstractions. Hardly
do we guess aright at things that are upon earth, and with labour do we find
the things that are before us; but all certain knowledge is in the power of
God, and a presence from above.32
The latter sentence is taken from the Wisdom of Solomon; and in a pedantic
footnote Coleridge inserts a quotation:
Ποταμῷ γὰρ οὐκ ἔστι δὶς ἐμβῆναι τῷ αὐτῷ καθ᾽’ Ἡράκλειτον οὐτὲ θνητῆς
οὐσίας δὶς ἅψασθαι κατὰ ἕξιν ἀλλα ὀξύτητι καὶ τάχει τῆς μεταβολῆς σκίδνησι
καὶ πάλιν συνάγει, μᾶλλον δὲ οὐδὲ πάλιν οὐδὲ ὕστερον ἀλλ᾽ ἅμα συνίσταται
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 49
καὶ ἀπολείπει καὶ ‘πρόσεισι καὶ ἄπεισι, ὅθεν οὐδ᾽ εἰς τὸ εἶναι περαίνει τὸ
γιγνόμενον αὐτῆς τῷ μηδέποτε λήγειν μηδ᾽ ἡττασθαι τὴν γένεσιν.
PLUTARCH.33
This is surely the most famous of Heraclitus’ many and occasionally opaque
fragments. We cannot step into the same river twice: the process of generation
itself is unceasing and ineluctable.
We might take it that Coleridge’s implication here is something along
the lines of: the Hebrew God gives order, structure and law; and without
the Bible the best a philosopher can do is speak gloomily of a cosmos of
endless fluidity and impermanence. This, however, would distort the thesis
being advanced. The book’s argument certainly does not divide neatly between
a valorization of Hebraism and a dismissal of Hellenism. Even St Paul,
Coleridge notes, drew on the classics.34 Divine Providence can work its
way through in many forms; and at the exact midpoint of The Statesman’s
Manual Coleridge quotes two classical sources, ‘two great men, both pagans;
but removed from each other by many centuries, and not more distant in
their ages than in their characters and situations’.35 One is the ‘darling of
the polished court’, Horace, five lines from whose Satires (2:6, 71–4) are
quoted to the effect that the ‘summum bonum’, rather than ‘conversations
in country seats’, ought to guide political decisions. The other is ‘Heraclitus, the
sad and recluse philosopher’, quoted first in Greek, and then in Coleridge’s own
translation:
Multiscience (or a variety and quantity of acquired knowledge) does not
equal intelligence. But the Sibyll with wild enthusiasm mouth shrilling forth
unmirthful, inornate and unperfumed truths reaches to a thousand years
with her voice through the power of God.36
Later (probably in the 1820s), Coleridge versified this as:
– Not hers
To win the sense by words of rhetoric,
Lip-blossoms breathing perishable sweets;
But by the power of the informing Word
Roll sounding onward through a thousand years
Her deep prophetic bodements.37
This imports λογος, the ‘informing Word’, into the original – though a crucial
Heraclitan concept, it is not actually in the Greek of this fragment. In The
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50 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Statesman’s Manual, Coleridge follows the Heraclitus quotation with ‘Shall we
hesitate to apply to the prophets of God, what could be affirmed of the Sibyls by
a philosopher whom Socrates, the prince of philosophers, venerated for the
profundity of his wisdom?’
Heraclitus is quoted again in one of the appendices to The Statesman’s Manual.
Here Coleridge takes a different tack, first mocking with sarcastic parody those
who would dismiss all classical philosophy:
Greeks indeed were a fine people in works of taste; but as to their
philosophers – the writings of Plato are smoke and flash from the witch’s
cauldron of a disturbed imagination: – Aristotle’s works a quickset hedge of
fruitless and thorny distinctions; and all the philosophers before Plato and
Aristotle fablers and allegorizers!38
Coleridge wants to distance himself from this position:
The eldest and most profound of the Greek philosophers demanded assent
to their doctrine, mainly as σοϕία θεοπαρδοτος that is, a traditionary
wisdom that had its origin in inspiration; that these men referred the same
power to the πῦρ ἀείζωον ὑπὸ διοικοῦντος ΛΟΓΟY; and that they were
scarcely less express . . . in their affirmations of the Logos, as no mere attribute
or quality, no mode of abstraction, no personification, but literally and
mysteriously Deus alter et idem.
Coleridge then expatiates for a lengthy paragraph on the Gospel of Saint John,
the Logos of whom played so central a role in Coleridge’s own life and thought:
The very same truth is found in a fragment of the Ephesian Heraclitus,
preserved by Stobaeus, and in somewhat different words by Diogenes
Laertius: Ξὺν νόῳ λέγοντας ἰσχυρίζεσθαι χρὴ τῷ ξυνῷ πάντων· τρέφονται
γὰρ πάντες οἱ ἀνθρώπινοι νόοι ὑπὸ ἑνὸς τοῦ θείου (Λογου·) κρατεῖ γὰρ
τοσοῦτον ὁκόσον ἐθέλει, καὶ ἐξαρκεῖ πᾶσὶ καὶ περιγίνεται. TRANSLATION –
To discourse rationally (if we would render the discursive understanding
discourse of reason) it behoves us to derive strength from that which
is common to all men: (= the light that lighteth every man.) For all
human understandings are nourished by the one Divine Word, whose power
is commensurate with his will, and is sufficient for all and overfloweth,
(shineth in darkness, and is not contained therein, or comprehended by the
darkness.)
Again Coleridge has imported λογος into the text – it is not in the original
fragment.39 He goes on:
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 51
This was Heraclitus, whose book is nearly six hundred years older than
the Gospel of St. John, and who was proverbially entitled the Dark
(ὁ σκοτεινός). But it was a darkness which Socrates would not condemn,
and which would probably appear to enlightened Christians the
darkness of prophecy, had the work, which he hid in the temple, been
preserved to us.
What are these two classical points of reference doing in a work that otherwise
repudiates paganism for the ethical and spiritual solidity of the Bible? Horace,
we may suppose, is there because such quotation, as Kenneth Haynes notes in a
different context, is liable to ‘draw on Horace’s reputation for moral wisdom, as a
judicious enjoyer of life’s goods’.40 Heraclitus is a different matter. He embodies,
on the one hand, a kind of dark, joyless, pre-Christian ‘flow’. Πάντα ῥεῖ καὶ οὐδέν
μένειν (‘everything flows; nothing remains the same’) may not be found in
precisely this form in Heraclitus’ remaining fragments, but it encapsulates the
most widely known aspect of his philosophical beliefs.41 On the other hand, he is
the first great philosopher of the logos, a much-debated principle of ‘order’ or
‘organization’ concerning the precise valence of which scholars remain unable to
agree.42 Logos is also the Greek term translated in the King James Bible as ‘word’
in the opening to John’s gospel (‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word
was with God, and the Word was God . . . And the Word was made flesh, and
dwelt among us’, John 1:1–14).
Modern scholarship agrees that Heraclitus means something quite different by
logos than does the author of the Gospel of John, and that there is no plausible line
of influence connecting the two uses.43 But this is not how Coleridge saw matters.
He spent much of his later life working on a vast ‘Magnum Opus’, designed to
synthesize and summarize his entire theological philosophy. He contemplated
several titles for this work (the ‘Logosophia’, the ‘Opus Maximum’) – and one of
those titles was Heraclitus redivivius. In the introduction to his edition of the
fragments that compose all we have of it, Thomas McFarland notes ‘how well . . .
logos served the deepest purposes of the magnum opus’:
Logos . . . in short, in melding to the idea of rational structure the reality of
the person, fused the deepest and most habitual concerns of Coleridge.44
For Coleridge, as for Heidegger a century later, it was not that he believed the
logos of Heraclitus directly influenced St John; it was that both writers connected
through it with something core to being itself. ‘For Heidegger Logos is important
in Heraclitus not because it anticipates Christianity, but because it penetrates to
the essential nature of being. Instead of “logic” in the modern sense, Heidegger
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52 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
contends, Logos actually carries the significance of “gathering together”.’ Such
an emphasis, McFarland rightly stresses, is wholly congenial to ‘Coleridge’s
harmonizing and reconciling temperament’. We might add: it is precisely this
communitarian sense of the word that informs his work as a social and
political thinker.
Coleridge quotes Heraclitus and Horace as his two sole classical points of
reference (in an otherwise wholly Hebraic, Biblical text) for reasons that are both
original to him, and yet – despite the relative obscurity of the Lay Sermons –
remarkably forward looking. The argument, as is often the case with Coleridge,
is oblique rather than straightforward. Nonetheless, it can be argued that
Coleridge tacitly anticipates the distinction Heidegger draws by way of defining
‘the political’: in his ‘Parmenides lectures’ of 1942–3 he says:
The political, which as πολιτιkόν arose formerly out of the essence of the
Greek πόλις, has come to be understood in the Roman way. Since the time of
the imperium, the Greek word ‘political’ has meant something Roman. What
is Greek about it is only its sound.45
Heidegger develops his argument with opposing etymological definitions of
‘truth’. On the one hand is the Greek alētheia, which he derives from a notional
privative ‘a-lētheia’, an ‘unconcealment’ (truth not as ‘correspondence and
correctness’ but, rather, as a revelatory encounter with the lost and forgotten).
This Heidegger contrasts with the Roman veritas, which means ‘correspondence
of matter to knowledge’. It is tempting to consider how proto-Heideggerian
much of Coleridge’s political and social thinking is, not least because doing
so provides one way of bringing the early ‘radical’ Coleridge and the later
‘conservative’ Coleridge into some manner of conceptual alignment.
This brings me, at last, back to the subject of class. The logos as Coleridge
conceives it is both religious and secular – a divine context for the whole of
creation, and also a practical ‘coming together’ mediated by communication,
speech, writing and art. It is, in other words, both ‘individual’ and ‘social’. The
infelicitous reception history of The Statesman’s Manual has tended to obscure
how radical a conceptual gesture it was of Coleridge to bring Heraclitus into the
debate in this way. This has a number of important consequences for how we
read later Coleridge, which shortness of space unfortunately prevents me from
elaborating. Part of the difficulty is the very complexity and involution of
Coleridge’s ideas – closer to the density of Heidegger than the simpler dyad of
Nietzsche’s ‘Apollonian’ and ‘Dionysian’ principles. Like Nietzsche’s famous pair,
Coleridge is finding a way of talking about the dynamic of ‘social order’ and
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Coleridge’s Classicized Politics 53
‘social energy’. The point where liberty becomes licence, freedom anarchy or
(conversely) order tyranny is articulated by the distinction between a Hebraic
strictness and a Hellenic flow, and is dynamic not only between but within the
two forms.
This reverts back upon the odder portions of the book. Take Coleridge’s
interpretation of the Book of Isaiah as prophesying the Napoleonic Wars.
The focus here is less on the specifics, and more on what he later identifies as
‘the two poles or Plus and Minus states’ of Biblical interpretation. The first
is epitomized by the ‘comment on some high and doctrinal text introduced
with the words It only means so and so!’46 The latter is to abdicate all ‘strictness’
and precision from such reading: to say ‘it is a mystery: and we are bound
to believe the words without presuming to enquire into the meaning of them’.47
Heraclitus, here, stands for the obscure ‘mystic’ darkness for which he was
also a byword – but also for the illuminating proto-Christian eloquence of
‘the word’ which animates a class system that would otherwise be an arthritic
and rigid social systematization. If he feels he does not have to spell this out
in The Statesman’s Manual (1816), it may be because the book was specifically
aimed at ‘the upper classes’. The unwritten third volume would, it can be
argued, have developed this idea in a less obliquely patrician manner – that class
itself is logos, a mode of ‘logic’ in the (bad, Heideggerian) sense that Western
society has derived from the Greek λογος, while also being a free expression of
societal difference, a process of ‘congregation’ as much divinely as mundanely
determined.
We recall that Coleridge was writing when the Bilston colliers’ deliberate,
parodic adoption of the role of ‘beasts’ was filling news reports, and in part to
address such ‘discontents’. In the light of this, his specific Biblical interpretation
may look less like narrow-minded Biblical literalism, and much more like a
poetical apprehension of the way the symbolism of class informs practical
politics. He provides a reading of the ‘sixth trumpet in the Apocalypse’, scrupulous
(he insists) not to be ‘seduced by the wonderful (apparent) aptness of the symbols’,
as a fabulous realization of ‘a seditious and riotous multitude’, with ‘their Heads
of Leaders’, and themselves reduced to the status of ‘thousands of pack-horses’.
But in his reading it is not the Bilston-collier-like ‘horses’ who are the real beasts:
it is the Heads ‘resembling those of a roaring wild beast, with smoke, fire and
brimstone (that is, empty, unintelligible, incendiary, calumnious and offensively
foul language) issuing from their mouths’.48 This is to read both the rhetorical
effectiveness of the Bilston colliers’ protest, and the Bible as well, as informed by
an animating logos.
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54 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
The main thesis of Coleridge’s On the Constitution of Church and State (1830)
is that actual politics, and the harmonious interrelation of the classes, depends
upon the ‘idea’ each has of their polity. Although this influential late work is
sometimes glossed as a work of political Platonism, Coleridge does not really
mean ‘idea’ in the way Plato talks about them. On the contrary, as the work
anticipates the coming (as it was written) and then actual (as it was published)
legal emancipation of British Catholics, it reflects the sense that the ‘idea’ of the
state grows and develops. What that idea is, in fact, is a logos – in the Heraclitan
rather than the more theologically elevated Johannine sense.
Yet the Church and State book became one of the most influential books of
British nineteenth-century political discourse, while The Statesman’s Manual
was almost wholly ignored. Why? Heraclitus might, again, explain the difference.
Church and State mentions the Greek philosopher once, in passing (he is pegged
as a ‘mystic’); and, although Coleridge’s discussion of the ‘idea’ of the state in that
work is more complex than is often thought, it is always related to questions of
practical social and political engagement. The Statesman’s Manual is, if anything,
more widely framed; but it articulates itself through a theoretical ‘metaphysics’ of
political engagement. As such, it was, if not exactly ahead of its time (for its
reputation is still to recover), at least out of alignment with what was happening
in political debate. As Richard Hole has demonstrated, from about 1760 to the
1830s there was ‘a general movement away from the theoretical toward the
empirical’ in political discussion: the ‘concept of rights was largely abandoned,
constitutional reforms came for reasons of political expediency, social reforms
for utilitarian or humanitarian ones’.49 There was, moreover, a ‘movement away
from theological concept of political and social obligation to a utilitarian one.
Many men gradually ceased to believe that they had a duty to submit to
government and the social order because God willed it, and instead based their
allegiance on their own human perception of the usefulness of that government
and society.’ Heraclitus is for Coleridge, inter alia, a way of broadening out his
appeal to a logos-based theory of social function and justice from the Biblical
sanction of St John.
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4
Swinish Classics; or a Conservative Clash with
Cockney Culture
Henry Stead
On 1 November 1790 Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France
was published in England. The counter-revolutionary intervention of a Whig
politician who had previously championed numerous progressive causes
provided an important rallying point for traditionalist thinkers by expressing in
plain language their concerns about the social upheaval across the Channel.
From the viewpoint of pro-revolutionaries, Burke’s Reflections gave shape to the
conservative forces they were up against; its publication provoked a ‘pamphlet
war’, which included such key radical responses to the Reflections as Mary
Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Man (1790) and Tom Paine’s The
Rights of Man (1791).1 In Burke’s treatise, he expressed a concern for the fate of
French civilization and its culture, and in so doing coined a term that would
haunt his counter-revolutionary campaign. Capping his deliberation about what
would happen to French civilization following the overthrow of its nobility and
clergy, which he viewed as the twin guardians of European culture, he wrote:
‘learning will be cast into the mire, and trodden down under the hoofs of a
swinish multitude’.
This chapter asks what part the Greek and Roman classics played in the
cultural war between British reformists and conservatives in the periodical
press of the late 1810s and early 1820s. The ideological struggle – as we shall
see – over the ‘correct’ use and ‘ownership’ of classical culture had its very
real, material counterpart in the intense fight over the social and political rights
(and, therefore, living and working conditions) of the British underclasses. The
chapter focuses specifically on the conservative critical assaults upon those
predominantly professional writers, artists and thinkers associated with the
‘Cockney School’, who clustered around the reformist poet, journalist and ‘King
of Cockaigne’, Leigh Hunt (1784–1859). The group had its own high-circulation
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56 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Sunday journal in The Examiner (founded in 1808), which printed and promoted
the work of its circle, disseminating their reformist ideology to the steadily
growing reading public. The assaults – under consideration here – made on
Hunt and his friends were conducted chiefly by the notorious team of reviewers
writing under the pseudonym of ‘Z’ for the Scottish Tory monthly, the Blackwood’s
Magazine (founded in 1817), including John Gibson Lockhart (1794–1854),
John Wilson Croker (1780–1857) and William Maginn (1794–1842).2 Since
these attacks were part of a public dialogue, wherever possible I shall address
both the provocation and the counter-attack, in each case exploring the vying
appropriations of classical culture.
In his Reflections Edmund Burke was writing about France, and his swine
were therefore French swine, but it was all too clear that his anxieties about the
shifts in world order (now that the stabilizing forces of unquestioning deference
to the crown, orthodox religion and the landed gentry were being dismantled)
transcended national boundaries and played heavily, too, upon the cultured ease
of the British aristocracy. His derogatory characterization of the animalistic
masses was by no means limited to France. In the same publication Burke also
drew unfavourable parallels between the French Revolutionaries and Catiline,
Cethegus and the heaven-storming giants; but these were not the comparisons
that caught the imagination of the British public. It was Burke’s swine (or their
self-appointed British radical representatives) that would steal the day and rally
against him, provocatively squealing their way through the 1790s and, as we shall
see, well beyond.
Burke’s pigs were pressed into service by British radicals, who remorselessly
exploited such an ideologically loaded phrase. All of a sudden the expression was
everywhere in the radical press, notably in Thomas Spence’s revolutionary
periodical, One Penny Worth of Pig’s Meat: Lessons for the Swinish Multitude
(1793), Richard ‘Citizen’ Lee’s The Rights of Swine, an Address to the Poor (1795)
and Daniel Isaac Eaton’s Politics for the People, or Hogs Wash (1793). An especially
potent, but lesser-known, example can be found in the influential fourth edition
of Thomas Bridges of Hull’s burlesque translation of Homer’s Iliad, printed by
G. G. and J. Robinson of Paternoster Row in 1797.3 The same booksellers, who
were in November 1793 fined for selling copies of Tom Paine’s The Rights of Man,
introduced into Bridges’ translation – before the first line of the humorously
abridged classic – an illustration of a blind Homer among a parcel of pigs
(Figure 4.1). The caption reads: ‘Homer casting pearls before swine’. This clever
hybrid allusion to Burke’s polemic via Matthew 7:6 (‘Give not that which is holy
unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them
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Swinish Classics 57
Figure 4.1
under their feet, and turn again and rend you’4) exemplifies the carefully balanced
and covert industry of radical booksellers, many of whom were committed to
communicating dissent at huge personal risk of imprisonment and bankruptcy.
Burke may have considered it futile to cast the pearls of learning before the
uneducated masses, but Homer (as depicted) was blind to such class distinction,
and the act of disseminating a burlesqued Iliad became explicitly one of powerful
political and social protest.
We find in Shelley’s Oedipus Tyrannus (1819) a further and much later
example of the radical appropriation of Burke’s hogs. In listing among the
dramatis personae of his version of Sophocles’ tragedy ‘a chorus of the Swinish
Multitude’, the reformist poet was alluding not so much to Burke’s conservative
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58 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
treatise as to what must have appeared in the post-revolutionary ‘gloom’ of
the 1810s to be the Golden Age of British popular radicalism. In his poem The
Mask of Anarchy – written, as was Oedipus, in the wake of the Peterloo Massacre
(1819) – Shelley would memorably call upon the working classes to ‘Shake your
chains to earth like dew’ and remember that ‘Ye are many – they are few!’5 It was
natural for post-revolutionary radicals such as Shelley to attempt to reignite the
spirit of the 1790s in a moment of renewed crisis. Calls for social reform in
Britain had, over the previous two decades, been dampened by the clamour of
patriotism aroused by the identification of a new, and yet time-honoured, foreign
enemy, the new French Republic. Critics of the war, such as Leigh Hunt, had to
be careful not to appear unpatriotic.
In the aftermath of the French Revolution, social reform had become
associated with revolution, and revolution with the crude gallows of lamp posts
and the thud of the guillotine. It became the principal calling of those reformist
writers whom it is now common practice to call either the second-generation
Romantics or the ‘Cockney School’ to rebrand the struggle for social reform.6
John Keats says as much in a letter to his brother and sister-in-law in 1819:
[The French Revolution] has had an unlucky termination. It put a stop to the
rapid progress of free sentiments in England, and gave our Court hopes of
turning back to the despotism of the 16th century. They have made a handle
of this event in every way to undermine our freedom. They spread a horrid
superstition against all innovation and improvement. The present struggle in
England of the people is to destroy this superstition.7
One important way the Cockney radical poets attempted to ‘destroy this
superstition’ and rebrand the struggle for reform was to work with ancient Greek
and Roman culture – the very foundations of conservative culture – and do with
it something radically new. The Cockney classicism of the late 1810s and early
1820s became a site of political contest because their hijacking of conservative
elite culture, and their communication of it via popular ‘broadcast’ channels –
that is, the middle-class periodical press – to a burgeoning, educated and newly
culturally confident consumer society, was evidence that the aristocratic
stronghold of the classical education had been breached.8 Such a breach reflected
the erosion of traditional means of preserving social order by class distinction as
much as the rise of consumerism as a power to rival the ownership of land,
international trade and big industry. In the press the old battle lines from the
revolutionary 1790s were re-established: while Shelley and his fellow ‘Cockneys’
were reaching back to the inflammatory language of Spence, Lee and Eaton,
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Swinish Classics 59
conservative critics reached back to many of the same satirical strategies as those
employed by the editors of the influential counter-revolutionary periodical, the
Anti-Jacobin (1797–8), namely George Canning, John Hookham Frere, George
Ellis and William Gifford.9
Part of the power (and, indeed, appeal) of the invective found in the Tory
periodical press of the 1810s – as of the 1790s – was the skilful blend of fact and
fiction; a key feature of the attacks was their interweaving of shrewd and detailed
observation with cynical flights of smearing fantasy. This technique was beguiling
enough not only to have influenced contemporary reception of the highly
politicized ‘Cockney culture’ and – by extension – the progress of that part of the
reform movement, but also to continue distorting our retrospective view of the
cultural output of those writers and artists who, as we shall see, posed a serious
threat to the upholders of the status quo. Lockhart and friends would write with
deceptive precision and insight about the Cockneys and their work, and then –
in the blink of an eye – fly off into outrageous and comical hyperbole. They
simultaneously make astute (albeit openly class-prejudiced) jibes against Leigh
Hunt and his circle, and mix them in with entertainingly bizarre and fanciful
denunciations of their inhumanity, likening them, for example, to wild animals;
or – when humanity was granted them – they were painted in the most intricately
outlandish caricature. The skilful reactionary critics thus fostered their own
credibility while also destroying that of their enemies and their progressive
cause. A reader is, and was, hard pressed to tell the learned truth and the savage
fiction apart.10
I humbly suggest, that you [. . .] conduct yourself, at your court at Lisson
Grove, with a stateliness and hauteur that may be considered, by the youthful
nobility of Cockaigne, a perfect model of monarchical dignity, but is, in fact,
risibly characteristic of your plebeian origin and education.11
Reading Z’s work is a lesson in how fiction laid on thick enough, repeated and
reinforced with strands of realism, appears as reality. We are therefore landed
with the difficult job of disentangling Blackwood’s forceful ‘reality’ from that with
which a more objective analysis of Hunt-school reform furnishes us.
What the high-profile feuding between Scottish Tory and the London-based
left-wing writers reveals is a sustained period (1810s to 1820s), like that of the
late 1790s, in which there was a clear perception that poetry, and its critical
reception, really could change the world. The stakes have rarely been higher. It
was the time of the Spa Field Riots (1816) and the March of the Blanketeers
(1817), which provoked Lord Liverpool’s government to pass the Seditious
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60 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Meetings Act in the same year. While the cavalry were sent by the government to
disperse peaceful mass meetings in the open (e.g.‘Peterloo Massacre’, Manchester,
1819), the Tory journalists wielded their own sabres in the periodical press. It
was not only the printing and distribution of the great political pamphlets that
spurred on social reform in Britain, but also the more enigmatic but equally
potent expressions of dissent in poetry, whose importance was increased by the
authorities’ determination to suppress distribution of radical pamphlets.
Classical knowledge and reference to ancient Greek and Roman texts loom
large in these cultural wars, not only because these were a key feature of the
Cockney style of the late 1810s, but also because a favoured way for Tory critics
to ridicule their political opponents was to demonstrate the superiority of their
own classical learning. It was something of a Tory critical commonplace to
suggest that their political opponents were ignorant of classical culture. This
premise, in combination with the overtly classical writings of the Cockneys,
made for a classical showdown. Lockhart, Maginn and Croker could each have
pulled classical rank over just about anyone – for their knowledge as classicists
was not only profound, it was certified by the top educational institutions of the
day.12 The scene was set for an epic clash between reformist writers and their
reactionary foe, both reaching for classical culture as their weapon of choice; but
these weapons could scarcely have resembled one another less. Each side poured
scorn on the other’s notion of the classical: Hunt saw that ‘what they called the
classical’ was, in fact, ‘Horace and the Latin breeding, instead of the elementary
inspiration of Greece’.13 Lockhart and friends, as we shall see, would repeatedly
delight in reminding their readers (misleadingly) that Hunt and his Cockneys
knew nothing of ancient Greece because they could not even read Greek.
That the men and women associated with the Cockney School, most of whom
had not been to university or – in some cases – the top schools, should profess to
commune with the classical poets was portrayed as a hilarious breech of etiquette.
As Lockhart at his most provocative would have it, ‘a Hottentot in top-boots is
not more ridiculous than a classical Cockney’.14 It is important, however, that we
resist buying into the Blackwood’s homogenization of the socio-economically
diverse ‘school’, which ranged from the lower middle classes (e.g. Keats and
Hazlitt) to the landed gentry (both Shelley and Byron were intimates of Hunt
and linked closely by the Tory press to the Cockney School).15 One of the most
impressive achievements of the group was the example they set of people putting
their differences aside, defeating their class prejudices and clubbing together in
their struggle for the common goal of social reform. Jeffrey Cox rightly points
out that ‘the attempt by Blackwood’s to reduce the complexities of the group’s
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Swinish Classics 61
social status to a single class category . . . is a sign of their [the Cockneys’] success
in forging a group solidarity beyond originary class positions’.16 It is a persistent
misconception, for example, that Keats was raised in poverty and poorly
educated, knowing scarcely any Latin and no Greek. The grain of truth, around
which the other accretions have gathered, is that Keats knew precious little
Greek. The rest is based on a highly selective presentation of the facts, carelessly
dismissive of any education (formal or informal) outside the leading public
schools and Oxbridge, and apparently blind to degrees of social and economic
status between crow-scarer and monarch of the realm. Both Keats and Hunt
were, broadly speaking, middle-class and well-educated men; neither went to
university, nor, in consequence, did they ever profess to be scholars, in spite of
their obsessive study of the poetry and culture of ancient Greece and Rome.
Hunt wrote in his preface to Foliage (1818): ‘I pretend to be no great scholar
myself; but what I do read, I read closely and with a due sense of what the
poet demands.’17
As I have pointed out elsewhere, Keats’s Latinity has been severely
underestimated, and Hunt could have boasted that he was a ‘deputy Grecian’ at
Christ’s Hospital, a school with the famously irascible headmaster and learned
classicist, the Rev. James Bowyer. Although still only a schoolboy accolade, being
a ‘deputy Grecian’ meant that Hunt left school having read a quantity of Roman
literary texts (from Republican to post-classical Latin) that would rival, if not
surpass, most Classics graduates today. It also, of course, meant that he had
advanced to the study of ancient Greek literature, including everything deemed
worthwhile by the rigorous Bowyer, excepting the Greek tragedies, which
were reserved for the full ‘Grecians’, or final-year classical scholars at Christ’s
Hospital.18
The universe according to Blackwood’s was one of stark contrasts. This resulted,
especially in the literary criticism of the likes of Lockhart, in the fictional creation
of a Britain made up of a population repelled to political and social extremes:
at one end were the polite and educated gentry – alias the sensible Tories – and at
the other the vulgar mob, identified politically with the ‘radical’ Whiggish left.
Such a polarization of class division is, of course, absurdly reductive, as well
as anachronistic. The Tory critics who wrote the counter-Cockney reviews appear
to uphold an outmoded, quasi-feudal society. Their ‘peasantry’, or simply those
who are not ‘us’ (i.e. respectable Tory Blackwood’s readers – largely referring to
the aspirant middle classes and the professional and commercial nouveaux
riches),19 was the threatening ‘other’. This ‘peasant population’ consisted largely of
the educated, economically secure and increasingly culturally confident middle
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62 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
classes, who, alongside the upper-class radicals and many of the newly and
increasingly literate working classes, were calling for social reform. Blackwood’s
flattered its readers by casting them as the defenders of aristocratic values, high
culture, established religion and national morality.20
As can be detected in phrases that acknowledge the popularity of the
Cockneys’ cultural output, and by the vehemence of the Tory attacks themselves,
this group was enormous, and therefore an enormous threat to the cultural
ascendancy of the conservative establishment. The attacks were, as Cox notes, ‘in
fact a counterattack, an act of recognition by ideological enemies of the gathering
of writers around Leigh Hunt’.21 Social distinction by education and cultural
activities and interests (in which the classics played a key role) was becoming
ever more difficult to maintain in a newly industrial and commercial Britain,
where basic education was improving, alternative routes to classical culture were
becoming available, and increasing numbers of the emerging managerial and
professional classes were acquiring the means to buy a classical education for
their children. Rolf Lessenich puts it well, when he writes:
It was a standing joke with Tories that Whigs and Dissenters, who fashioned
themselves and Britain in the liberal succession of Athens with its cultural
and religious variety and tolerance, knew neither Attic Greek nor refined
manners due to their alleged ignorance of the Classical Tradition.22
In the October 1817 edition of Blackwood’s magazine, readers would find a
new feature bearing the title: ‘on the Cockney school of poetry’. They could
tell that it was just the beginning of a new series by the fact that the column’s
second line was given over entirely to a generously sized ‘No. I’.23 Immediately
below was the epigraph or motto taken from a poem written by the almost
entirely obscure poet Cornelius Webb, whom Keats referred to as a ‘poetaster’
and who appears as something of a hanger-on at the social gatherings of the
Cockneys.24
Our talk shall be (a theme we never tire on)
Of Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, Milton, Byron,
(Our England’s Dante) – Wordsworth – HUNT, and KEATS,
The Muses’ son of promise; and of what feats
He may yet do.
As Cox notes, however, Webb was, at the time, a relatively well-published poet
with strong ideological as well as stylistic ties to the Cockneys, and ‘In praising
his colleagues in strong terms, Webb brought down abuse upon himself and
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Swinish Classics 63
them, for Blackwood’s and its conservative allies could not allow a claim for
cultural power by the liberal Hunt circle to go unchallenged.’25 Poor, forgotten
Cornelius Webb was a convenient scapegoat. The crime of which he is
undoubtedly guilty was the provision of so tantalizingly a distilled version of
what Lockhart and his cronies hated most about Hunt and the Cockneys, which
was their high-profile trespassing on areas of high culture previously enclosed
(like the common land) by the gentry via the expenses of a classical education
and foreign travel. It is interesting that the language of trespass is directly invoked
by Maginn in 1821, when he calls the Cockney poet Bryan Waller Proctor,
alongside Haynes and Dillon, ‘poachers on the domains of tragedy’.26 The
Harrow-educated Proctor, also known as Barry Cornwall, was a commercially
successful proponent of the Cockney classical poet. Now, like Webb, few have
heard of him.
There were by this point – in the age, for example, of a democratizing
educational press and improvements to working- and middle-class living
conditions and education, and increased access to museums and reproductions
of ‘high’ art – a considerable number and variety of alternative routes, and
shortcuts, to ancient Mediterranean and Renaissance culture. People could sail
the seven seas through cheap novels and travel journals, explore ancient
monuments and admire classical material culture through the line drawings of
Henry Moses (d. 1870), and even adorn their suburban boxes (in the parlance of
Blackwood’s) with faux-marble busts of their favourite classical poets made from
plaster or papier-mâché.27 Thanks in part to Hunt’s friend Vincent Novello
(1781–1861), who established Novello & Co., and then later his son, who really
innovated the cheap music press, anyone who could afford an upright piano
could now learn to play in their own homes the songs (from sheet music) which
they could never have hoped to afford to hear in the concert halls. This was a
mixed blessing for the thin-walled metropolitans, but a dramatic example of the
wide-ranging cultural democratization in action in Regency London. Newly
empowered and culturally confident, these intolerable parvenus with their heads
full of ‘inadequate’ translations and papier-mâché Venuses had now begun
writing poetry, and, what’s worse, people were reading it and putting it on a level
with ‘real poets’! That is, in any case, the kind of class-based incredulity the
Blackwood’s reviewers would have had their readers feel.
However much the contemporary conservative critics damaged the
reputations and consequent receptions of the cultural output of this new breed
of artist, the reality is that these ‘parvenus’, powerfully represented by the
Cockney School – but by no means limited to them – were not creating inferior
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64 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
cultural artefacts; they were simply creating different kinds of artistic product
for new audiences, new readerships, largely uninterested in, if not entirely free
from, the class connotations of their production, in which I include the nuances
of their unorthodox, occasionally mediated genesis.28 Keats’s ecstatic, inspired
and (therefore?) ‘masturbatory’ poetry has been ingeniously classified and
devalued by critics, following in the prints of Byron and the likes of William
Gifford and Lockhart. For example, Marjorie Levinson, in a sophisticated and
elegantly misleading analysis, writes of how
the early readers [of Keats’s poetry] sensed the violence of Keats’s raids upon
that empowering system: a violence driven by the strongest desire for an
authorial manner and means, and for the social legitimacy felt to go with it.
In the alienated reflexiveness of Keats’s poetry, the critics read the signature
of a certain kind of life, itself the sign of a new social phenomenon.29
This is exactly what was going on in the minds of the classically educated and
reactionary critics, and those of the readers who took their word for gospel. But
it is also categorically not the reception of his circle, or of the majority of Keats’s
readers, once he had them (after his death), and, even more importantly, not
what should be going on in the heads of apparently disinterested critics in the
twenty-first century. It does not take into account the plurality of readerships in
Romantic-era Britain. Influential though the Blackwood’s and Quarterly reviewers
undoubtedly were, their opinion tells only one – and one extremely partisan –
side of a far more complex reception history. In this cynical tradition of criticism,
poems that openly celebrate encounters with high culture have long been
understood as masturbatory, middle-class faux pas, or expressions of social
anxiety. There is logic in such readings, but little sense. How many of us read On
Chapman’s Homer and find in it the anguished yelp of a Cockney upstart? We
can be safe in the assumption that it was not written for the reader who thinks
that way, but for a reader or listener who was willing to be swept along with the
poet’s genuine excitement of connecting with something of the spirit of deep-
browed Homer, in the only way he knew how – which is, of course, dependent
upon his complex class conditioning – but not necessarily negatively so. Although
it may influence a reader’s reception of the sonnet, the fact that Keats had never
read Homer in Greek does not make his poem culturally inferior, does not mean
that Keats was suffering from any kind of cultural or social anxiety, and does not
it make it a rooky faux pas. It was written for the likes of Leigh Hunt, the readers
of the Examiner, and all those people who could share in the defiant spirit, if not
the actual experience, of turning one’s back on Alexander Pope’s ‘gentle’ couplets
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Swinish Classics 65
and diving headlong into the rugged and (according to Keats) more authentic
lines of Chapman’s Elizabethan translation.
The direct connection to classical inheritance through scholarship was
already in Keats’ own time being forcibly called into question, for example when
Elgin stripped the Parthenon of its frieze and other architectural features, and
shipped them to London in 1808. By 1816, following a noisy public debate, they
were eventually bought by the government and housed (for all to see and without
appointment) in the newly built British Museum. Britain was divided on the
matter of the marbles’ authenticity. Wealthy connoisseurs of the Dilettanti, led
by Richard Payne Knight (1751–1824), said they were Roman replicas, but the
community of artistic practitioners rallied. Indeed, it was the voice of the
‘Cockney Raphael’ that helped to swing the debate; Benjamin Robert Haydon, a
professional artist and central figure of the Cockney circle, played an important
role in the verification of the Parthenon marbles. Against towering opposition,
Haydon vociferously wrested cultural authority away from the connoisseur, the
scholar and the moneyed elite, and demonstrated to all that the professional
creative practitioner’s voice was not only as loud, but as culturally valuable, as
that of the traditionally educated amateur. After weeks of waiting to be called
upon as witness to the Select Committee, he finally took to print. In Hunt’s
Examiner and other newspapers he wrote an impassioned open letter, entitled
On the Judgement of Connoisseurs being preferred to that of Professional Men:
In no other profession is the opinion of the man who has studied it for his
amusement preferred to that of him who has devoted his soul to excel in it.30
Keats would spend, we are told, hours among the marbles.31 While others
obsessed over their disputed provenance, he wallowed among the objects, which
had (as far as he was concerned) fallen straight from ancient Athens, and the
workshop of Phidias himself. There was no more direct route to ancient Greece
than these stones carved by the hands of the ancients. He wrote many a
celebration of what he would in Ode on Indolence call ‘Phidian lore’, beginning
with his two sonnets addressed to Haydon (March 1817), who first took him to
see the marbles. Their stony presence is never too far beneath the surface of the
five odes he wrote in the spring of 1819, breaking through most visibly, perhaps,
in that ‘heifer lowing at the skies’ in stanza four of his Ode on a Grecian Urn,
which has as a literary source also Catullus’s sixty-fourth poem.32
In Keats’ On the Elgin Marbles he compares himself to a ‘sick eagle looking
at the sky’. Hardly – at first glance – a celebrative simile. But it is. Keats was so
awestruck by the workmanship and beauty of the stonework that he felt artistically
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66 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
dwarfed by their achievement. This is, of course, an expression of inferiority, but
one of inspiration as opposed to depression. It is similar to the way he imagined
his favourite poet, Shakespeare, towering above him when he likens himself, also
addressing Haydon – but this time in a letter (May 1817) – to a Shakespearean
samphire picker half way up the ‘Cliff of Poesy’. But he saw beneath himself the
(to him) entirely mundane Alexander Pope, whose words seemed ‘like mice to
mine’. His expressions of inferiority are often attended on by ones of extraordinary
self-confidence, easily forgotten when focus is placed on his humble expression
rather than the lofty figures with which he compared himself.
In response to Hunt’s Story of Rimini (1816), Webb’s socially hubristic
poem and the ‘Cockney’ breach of the ring-fenced worlds of literature and
scholarship, Lockhart whetted his quill and produced nothing less than a
masterclass of critical genocide. He reduced in one article a socio-economically
and educationally diverse group of independent thinkers, bound by a shared
commitment to social reform and an inclusive cultural practice, to a vulgar
bunch of mal-educated and lowborn pretenders, ‘The Cockney School’.
Its chief Doctor and Professor is Mr Leigh Hunt . . . a man of little education.
He knows nothing of Greek, almost nothing of Latin, and his knowledge of
Italian literature is confined to a few of the most popular of Petrarch’s
sonnets, and an imperfect acquaintance with Ariosto, through the medium
of Mr Hoole.33
In one fell swoop, Lockhart destroyed any claim Hunt might have made to
scholarship, or even the basic knowledge needed for one who dared to propose
a new generation of poets.34 As always, it is hard to disentangle the truth from
Lockhart’s scathing fiction. Hunt apparently ‘knows nothing’ of the classics and
only knows some Italian poetry through translation. The factually unfounded
abuse continues. Lockhart points out Hunt’s various wants, including any direct
engagement with French and Spanish literature.35 Lockhart, as a university-
educated and prize-winning classical scholar, could without qualm look down
upon the classical attainment of Hunt, who was (as he himself admitted) nothing
more than a passionate reader of classical poetry and an intelligent graduate of
Christ’s Hospital.36
It was, of course, not only literature in which the Cockney professor was
deficient. Lockhart attacks Hunt with numerous charges of parochialism:
He raves perpetually about ‘green fields’, ‘jaunty streams’, and ‘o’er-arching
leafiness’, exactly as a Cheapside shop-keeper does about the beauties of his
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box on the Camberwell road. [. . .] His fame as a poet [. . .] is entirely confined
to the young attorneys and embryo-barristers about town. In the opinion of
these competent judges, London is the world – and Hunt is a Homer.37
It is in this passage that we see that the demographic with which Lockhart
associates Hunt and the Cockneys corresponds not at all with the working
classes. The jobs listed here are explicitly middle class and metropolitan – junior
lawyers and suburban grocers. The King of Cockaigne can only be considered a
Homer by those whose cultural horizon extends no further than the overcrowded
and morally corrupt capital. Lockhart’s nicknaming Hunt the ‘Cockney Homer’
is just one of many apparently ridiculous epithets attributed to members of the
school. We have already met Haydon, known to Lockhart as the ‘Cockney
Raphael’;38 in the same article (the fifth Cockney School attack) William Hazlitt
was dubbed the ‘Cockney Aristotle’, and Keats is in one place referred to as
‘Esculapius’ to Hunt’s Apollo.39 As upper-class readers, we are encouraged to
laugh scoffingly at the group’s hopeless pretensions to classical knowledge.
In the third article in the series, Lockhart as ‘Z’ closes with a classical flourish,
saying that Hazlitt and Hunt are ‘Arcades ambo / Et cantare pares . . .’40 Lockhart’s
use of classical allusion, both the more obviously ironic epithets aligning them
comically with leading and cherished figures from classical, or at least classic,
culture, and the more erudite allusion to Virgil’s Eclogues 7.4, are designed
simultaneously to flatter his classically educated readers and shame those
Cockneys, who – we are to imagine (mistakenly) – could not understand the
jokes made by the critic at their expense. The reviewer gives Hunt and Hazlitt
little room for manoeuvre; they are at once incurably metropolitan and
ridiculously rustic. ‘Arcades ambo’ (literally ‘Arcadians both’, i.e. people from the
pastoral common-place of Arcadia), however, seems to have naturally been
employed by aristocrats at the time as a damning class slur. The Eton and Oxford-
educated lawyer and critic John Taylor Coleridge (1790–1876) – nephew of the
poet – responded learnedly, referring to the Cockney king in a mid-1818
Quarterly Review as ‘Arcadian Hunt’ – which might at first glance appear a
compliment.41 Lord Byron too, in a letter to his friend Hobhouse, applies the
term to the radicals Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt and William Cobbett on 22 April 1820,
pinning down the term with a quick ‘id est, blackguards both’.42 In the same letter
he follows immediately with: ‘Why our classical education alone – should teach
us to trample on such unredeemed dirt . . . and all who follow them.’ It will be
noted that in this usage, too, there are both political and class dimensions. This,
of course, results from the fact that the struggle for social reform and its
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reactionary suppression were at the heart of contemporary political debate.
Since the classical education was the foundation of both of Burke’s twin bastions
of an unequal yet stable society, religion and gentility, it is no wonder that the
Greek and Roman classics were central, too, to both the social and the political
debate.
Lockhart, writing in ‘The Cockney School of Poetry, No. IV’, laments the
madness gripping the British people:
Of all the manias of this mad age, the most incurable, as well as the most
common, seems to be no other than the metromanie.43
But what does Lockhart mean by metromanie?44 Literally, it means ‘a madness for
poetry’. But it speaks, here, of far more than a love of verse, symbolizing a
heightened cultural confidence among the lower classes:
The just celebrity of Robert Burns and Miss Ballie [both poets of humble
origin] has had the melancholy effect of turning the heads of we know not
how many farm-servants and unmarried ladies; our very footmen compose
tragedies, and there is scarcely a superannuated governess in the island that
does not leave a roll of lyrics behind her in her bandbox.
The reason for his lamentation is that the poet John Keats is a victim of the
malady, and this article is dedicated to the character assassination of Lockhart’s
Keatsian persona. It is a persona because, as with Lockhart’s portrayal of Hunt,
it has a loose relationship with the facts of Keats’ life. Likening Keats to raving
governesses and farm-servants is his first blow, and is partially responsible
for the persistent perception of Keats as an impoverished and culturally
malnourished young man, which he was not.45 On the subject of Keats’ longer
narrative poem Endymion: A Poetic Romance (1818), Lockhart wrote:
The old story of the moon falling in love with a shepherd, so prettily told by
a Roman classic, and so exquisitely enlarged and adorned by one of the most
elegant of German poets, has been seized upon by Mr John Keats, to be done
with as might seem good unto the sickly fancy of one who never read a
single line either of Ovid or Wieland.46
Keats’ choice of subject, a classical story already told by Ovid and Wieland, is a
key provocation. How dare a man who did not go to one of the great schools
before one of the two ancient universities take on the tale of Endymion? ‘His
Endymion’, Lockhart continues, ‘is not a Greek shepherd loved by a Grecian
goddess; he is merely a young Cockney rhymester dreaming a fantastic dream at
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the full of the moon.’ Keats’ distance from his source is therefore a further
provocation. Keats used the story as the premise for his own original work,
imagining how the socially unequal relationship between the shepherd boy
Endymion and the goddess Phoebe might be conceived in his own day, according
to the modern mythology of transcendence and dream states, which were, as has
been endlessly documented, important to Romantic poets.
The effective internalization of the divine and the implicit challenge to social
hierarchy of mortal/immortal relations were as noxious to the establishment
as the unapologetic celebration of the pagan imagery and mythology. Add to that
the self-aware and stylized delivery of Keats – at his most Cockney – flaunting
his loose rhymes, compound adjectives and Huntian neologistic adverbs, which
they all knew so frustrated their Tory critics. In the face of such Tory-baiting it
is perhaps a wonder Lockhart is not more splenetic:
From his prototype Hunt, John Keats has acquired a sort of vague idea that
the Greeks were a most tasteful people, and that their mythology can be so
finely adapted for the purposes of poetry as theirs. It is amusing to see what
a hand the two Cockneys make of this mythology: the one confesses that he
never read the Greek tragedians, and the other knows Homer only from
Chapman – and both of them write about Apollo, Pan, nymphs, muses and
mysteries as might be expected from persons of their education.47
The attack again focuses on their lack of knowledge and lack of education.
Lockhart attempts to laugh it off (‘it is amusing . . .’), but he has betrayed his true
feelings, his true fears. If this kind of metromanie is as widespread as he sets out
at the beginning of the article, then surely the threat it poses is no laughing
matter. Lockhart’s attempted conflation of the metromanie of governesses and
farm-servants and the radical rewriting of classical myth is unconvincing.
Although the two kinds of poetry appear immiscible, this does not mean that
they are not born from the same movement, the cultural empowerment of the
middle classes. Lockhart’s infamous criticism, although highly visible at the time,
due to the high circulation of Blackwood’s, and now, due to its fiendish literary
quality and, ironically, its affiliation with the poets it sought to destroy, was in
the wider perspective tantamount to the barking of a dog in a tropical storm. The
popular invasion of high culture was well under way. This said, the impact of
the Cockneys’ radical appropriation of the classical, a natural consequence of the
wider popular movement, was to some extent stemmed by the Tory critics, who
undermined their opponents any which way they could.48 In such criticism the
fused languages of moral conduct and class predominate:
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No man whose mind has ever been imbued with the smallest knowledge or
feeling of classical poetry or classical history, could have stooped to profane
and vulgarize every association in the manner which has been adopted by
this ‘son of promise’ [Keats].49
This can be paraphrased as: ‘only a man with no classical education could be so
morally corrupt (to profane) as to render in the language of the common people
(vulgarize) the cultural material that comes from the ancient world (every
association [of the classical]) and is digested in some kind of secret and obscure
way (the feeling) by those of us who have been expensively educated at the top
establishments’. As Olivia Smith neatly summarizes in The Politics of Language
1791–1819, the kinds of polarization in play completely obscure the far more
subtle and varied relationships between social class, education and language of
the day:
A vulgar language was said to exist, a refined language was said to exist, and
others were not recognized. Such extreme concepts dismissed everyone
except the classically educated as an identifiable group characterized by their
incapacity for refined thought and moral behavior. Varieties of social class
and modes of education were disregarded as diverse groups of people were
reduced to one, most disreputable kind . . .50
In the sixth Cockney attack, Lockhart as ‘Z’ gets even more creative, pretending
that Hunt has died and that his recent collection of poems in Foliage (1818) was
printed posthumously. ‘There is’, Lockhart explains, ‘too much reason to believe,
that this everlasting tea-drinking was the chief cause of Leigh Hunt’s death. The
truth is, that he had for many years been sipping imitation-tea, a pleasant but
deleterious preparation – more pernicious by far than the very worst port’.51
Why death by tea? Tea-drinking was just one aspect of Hunt’s flamboyantly
countercultural lifestyle that critics such as Lockhart and Croker simply loved to
hate. It was commonly associated with domesticity and considered a feminine
pastime, in comparison with the manly drinking of coffee, which was done in the
male-dominated coffeehouses of the big cities.52 Others ranged from his famous
yellow breeches and open collar to his vegetarianism and ‘chaunting’ sonnets in
public places. It was tea-drinking that Lockhart would focus on in his review of
Foliage, because among the collection’s miscellanies was a verse epistle to Hazlitt
containing the following paean to Hunt’s wife’s tea:
The tea made by one, who although my wife be,
If Jove were to drink it, would soon be his Hebe,
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Then silence a little, a creeping twilight,
Then an egg for your supper with lettuces white,
And a moon and friend’s arm to go home with at night.53
Lockhart reproduced this extract in Blackwood’s, prefacing it with: ‘Mr Hunt’s
notions of sociality are moderate ones indeed . . .’ The joy Hunt takes in the
simpler things in life was a part of his programme of promoting thrifty forms of
entertainment, which enabled him in a proto-hippy fashion to opt out of the
daily grind.
The poets only do with their imaginations what all might do with their
practice, – live at as cheap, natural, easy, and truly pleasurable a rate as
possible; for it is not industry, but a defeat of the ends of it, and a mere want
of ideas, to work and trouble themselves so much as most of our countrymen
do; neither is it taste, but an ostentatious want of it, that is expensive . . .54
Lockhart continues: ‘Think of the delicacy of the compliment paid to the
lady who pours out the gun-powder! Jupiter drinking tea at Hampstead with
Mr and Mrs Hunt, and Mr Hazlitt! “Cedite Romani Scriptores Cedite Graii.” ’
The Latin quotation is deeply ironic. It comes from Propertius 2. 34 (line 41) and
has been well translated as ‘make way you Roman writers, and you Greek,
make way!’ The following line in the Roman poem runs ‘nescio quid maius
nascitur Iliade’ (‘a [something] greater than the Iliad is born’).55 By the implication
of the unspoken line, Hunt’s epistle to Hazlitt is humorously and mockingly
likened to Virgil’s great epic, to the arrival of which Propertius was alluding.
The joke, of course, demands not only knowledge of the Latin language but
also a familiarity with the literary context of the quotation. It was a relatively
common citation, the kind to be found in a book of quotations, but it would
surely have been one of those tags embossed on the brains of all leavers from the
leading schools.
In the same collection is a poem called Fancy’s Party, a fragment. It has as its
epigraph a quotation from Manilius, ‘Juvat ire per ipsum / Aera et immense
spatientem vivere caelo’, for which he offers the following translation in the line
below: ‘We take our pleasure through the very air, / And breathing the great
heav’n, expatiate there.’56 Even in the translation can be seen Hunt’s desire to
display in the ancient poets a precedent for his own radical blend of sociality
and his much scoffed-at ‘philosophy of cheer’; the ‘breathing’ of the air and
the somewhat quirky ‘expatiation’ at once recall Hunt’s famed rambles up
on Hampstead Heath, and the scarcely breathable air of the newly industrial
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city – especially downwind of the factory quarters where the working poor lived.
Hunt has chopped off the end of Manilius’ oft-quoted sentence. The Roman
astrological poet continues in his imagined journey from the ground, through
the earth’s atmosphere, towards outer space and ultimately the hallowed
knowledge of the movements of the cosmos: ‘and get to know the signs and
contrary movements of the stars’ (signaque et aduersos stellarum noscere
cursus). Hunt literally tethers the cosmic ambition expressed by Manilius in
lines 13–15 of book one of his Astronomica, and makes what has now become a
relatively bland fragment read as a truncated yet enraptured Cockney manifesto.
What ‘they’, in Hunt’s epigraph, are so pleased to escape from and leave behind
on the earth’s surface is the real subject of the poem. And Hunt reveals this,
reflecting briefly before taking flight bound for his ethereal locus amoenus:
In this poetic corner
With books about and o’er us,
With busts and flowers,
And pictured bowers,
And the sight of fields before us;
Why think of these fatalities,
And all their dull realities?
’Tis fancies now must charm us;
Nor is the bliss ideal,
For all we feel,
In woe or weal,
Is, while we feel it, real:
Heaven’s nooks they are for getting in,
When weeping weather’s setting in.
‘Et in Arcadia ego’: thoughts of the recent dead, at Waterloo and Peterloo, leer
into Hunt’s poetic corner. He makes it absolutely clear that his cheerful escapism
is a direct response to the horrors of the present.
But back to the tea party:
One is at a loss to know if Jupiter staid supper, short commons for a god, who,
in days of yore, went to sleep on Juno’s bosom, full of nectar and ambrosia –
An egg for his supper and lettuces white!
Then think of letting Jove decamp, without so much as offering him a
bed – leaning on the arm of Mr William Hazlitt – and perhaps obliged, after
all, to put up for the night at Old Mother Red-Caps!57
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Old Mother Red-Caps was a famous coaching inn on the site where The World’s
End now stands in Camden. Needless to say, it was not the kind of place where
the king of the gods, or even any respectable gentleman, would be seen dead.
Hunt’s cottage in the Vale of Health was small, too small to comfortably
accommodate his family and houseguests, which is exactly what Lockhart wanted
to remind his readers. When imagining what it would be like when Byron visited
Hunt, Lockhart wrote: ‘We have sometimes imagined what “confusion worse
confounded” must have reigned in the box at Hampstead, when the maid-servant
announced his lordship, more especially if it happened to be washing-day.’58 How
could a man who could not even afford to play host to a member of the gentry
have the nerve to write about the Greek gods, even in jest?
In his criticism of Hunt’s translation, Lockhart does not mince his words:
‘Hunt makes Homer call a fountain “clear and crisp”, which had he ever done,
Apollo would have shot him instantly dead.’ By his own admission, Hunt’s
translations of Homer were experiments of ‘how far I could give the intelligent
reader, who is no scholar, a stronger sense of the natural energy of the original,
than has yet been furnished him’.59 He wanted to provide his English readers
with an approximation of Homer’s style and an opportunity to get closer to the
Greek poet than other translators had before him. The bold directness of
Lockhart’s criticism indicates his utter command of the subject. Still by this
point a young man (twenty-three in 1817), Lockhart had long excelled in his
classical studies as something of a child prodigy.
After a spell at Glasgow Grammar School, Lockhart was admitted to the
University, where at the age of thirteen he won the gold medal in Greek on the
infamous Blackstone Chair. This was literally a chair with a slab of black marble
inlaid, on which the quaking examinee would sit before a public audience and
take a grilling from his professor on the book list he had ‘professed’ (to know)
before the happy moment when the sand in the glass timer ran out. It is said that
Lockhart professed a formidable list of books and showed ‘an intimate knowledge
of them in translation and comment’. To win, as Lockhart did, the medal in
Greek was to be proved ‘a very sound classicist’.60 The following year, 1808, saw
Lockhart being awarded the Snell Exhibition to Balliol, Oxford, whence, in 1813,
he graduated with first class honours. What he writes about the classical poets is
usually full of insight, but what he writes of Hunt and friends is always full of
biased, misleading and manipulative bile.
The following description, though very conceited and passionless, seems to
us the best thing the late Mr Hunt ever did ‘in the poetic line’. But instead of
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breathing ‘of the fine imagination of the Greeks’, it is nothing more than a
copy in words of a picture in oil. Mr Hunt used to be a great lounger in
picture-dealer’s shops . . . Whenever you meet with a vivid image in his
verses, you are sure that it is taken from a picture.61
There is much truth in the fact that Hunt, and indeed Keats, were highly
influenced by classicizing artwork. What is misleading is the implication that
this creative practice is exclusive of other more ‘textual’, ‘direct’ and thus
‘legitimate’ engagements with classical sources. The contemporary reader may
well have followed Lockhart in the estimation that creating ‘a copy in words
of a picture in oil’ is somehow a lesser poetic achievement than conceiving
something entirely new. Without the heightened preoccupation with artistic
originality, this may strike many readers today as a foolish argument. In any case,
the selective reproduction in Blackwood’s and damnation of Hunt’s polemical
collection with false praise, such as this, is typical of the slippery sophism at work
in the Z attacks.62
We ought not to forget that he was conducting these callous character
assassinations partly for comic effect. His particular blend of invective is
consistently highly amusing. He has a mastery over the stinging insult without
which English literature would be considerably worse off. The harsher and more
fanciful he gets, the funnier it is; the insults are protected from gratuitousness by
his deft balance of biting reality and insightful readings of the Cockney poems.
Were it not for Z’s criticism, it would have been easy to see Foliage (1818), an
important Romantic text, fall into obscurity. Hunt’s more sociable lyrics often
appear like those of a spoken word artist or performance poet. They are relaxed
in form and designed to delight as much by the delivery and personality of the
poet as by their textual content. John Wilson Croker memorably played on
Coleridge’s famous definition of poetry, when he defined Cockney poetry as
consisting of ‘the most incongruous ideas in the most uncouth language’.63 He
and Lockhart were on the same page:
How could any man of high original genius ever stoop publicly, at the present
day, to dip his fingers in the least of those glittering and rancid obscenities
which float on the surface of Mr. Hunt’s Hippocrene? His poetry is that of a
man who has kept company with kept-mistresses. He talks indelicately like a
tea-sipping milliner girl.
Back to tea. But, this time, the class import of tea-drinking is made explicit. It
is the occupation of gossiping female apprentices in trade. Has Hunt, in his
generous and progressive attempt to free himself and those around him of the
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trappings of class division, defiled the holy spring of the ancient muses? Or has
he instead incurred the wrath of a particularly sensitive establishment by
exposing without reserve the countercultural and Graecomaniacal lifestyle of
his social group to the public gaze?
By engaging freely with classical mythology and poetry (‘not as a set of
school-boy common-places which it was thought manly to give up’64), and
including luxurious scenes of sexual excess, moral depravity and unapologetic
display of pre-Christian religiosity, Hunt set out to disturb the very foundations
upon which (Burke knew) class division stood, gentility and clergy, both
themselves nourished by the classical education. The poetry (original and
translated) of the Cockney School in the 1810s had a purposefully high irritant
factor. The free and celebratory ‘misuse’ of classical subject matter was perfectly
calibrated simultaneously to please their philhellenic readerships and rile
their conservative adversaries. In all decency (it was thought), reference to
classical deities and classical verse ought to be confined to the schoolboy’s
jotter and the yellowing pages of poets dead and gone. The classical in
contemporary poetry had long since reached the status of cliché for the
literary establishment. There was, we can assume, a greater tolerance in the
wider reading public. Hunt did not become a successful newspaperman by
writing and printing outmoded work. The Cockneys were tapping into the
contemporary frenzy for ‘all things Greek’; it was for many clearly the height
of fashion:
There is something very curious [. . .] in the way in which he [Keats], and
Mr Barry Cornwall also, have dealt with the Pagan mythology, of which they
have made so much use in their poetry. Instead of presenting its imaginary
persons under the trite and vulgar traits that belong to them in the ordinary
systems, little more is borrowed from these than the general conception
of their conditions and relations; and an original character and distinct
individuality is bestowed on them, which has all the merit of invention, and
all the grace and attraction of the fictions on which it is engrafted.65
The Edinburgh Review’s Francis Jeffrey (1773–1850) here observes that the
Cockney classical is new in the way it comes at classical mythology. It avoids
triteness and vulgarity by ‘grafting’ originality onto the graceful, attractive and, I
would add, aesthetically ‘on trend’ fictions of classical myth. That is to say nothing
of its reformist aesthetic, which would perhaps have repelled as many readers as
it attracted. The example of ‘the Greeks’ was absolutely central to Hunt’s recipe
for a good life:
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The main feature of the book are a love of sociality, of the country, and of the
fine imagination of the Greeks.66
Hunt’s major poetic intervention, then, broke into three strands: sociality, Nature
and his reception of ancient Greece (mediated in large part by Latin and English
poetry, visual art and material culture).
Jeffrey admits that he ‘scarcely recollect[s] a passage in all the writings of
antiquity in which the passions of an immortal are fairly disclosed to the scrutiny
and observations of men’. Keats and his associates were therefore adding cultural
value to a tired subject matter by having ‘created and imagined an entire new set
of characters, and bringing closely and minutely before us the love and sorrows
and perplexities of beings, with whose names and supernatural attributes we had
long been familiar, without any sense or feeling of their personal character’.
Jeffrey here lights upon a key factor: classical subject matter was familiar
to readers (from their predominantly classical education), which situation
allowed such things as classical travesties and burlesques to be popular, as well
as reimagined classical mythological stories to build on classical reading and
stretch it by allusive techniques of which Keats, for example, was a master.
Other critics were less indulgent of this original approach to classical
mythology, as can be seen in a Cockney parody printed in the Literary Journal,
entitled ‘Pleasant Walks; A Cockney Pastoral – In the Manner of Leigh Hunt
Esq’.67 It takes the form of a verse epistle to Keats by Hunt.
Do you not like [. . .]
To go, and see the industrious pig root up
The buried acorn, where the oaks shoot up,
Making itself ‘green head-dresses,’
And ‘leafy Wildernesses,’
Lovely dryad! – and the ‘young-eyed’ lambs
That walk by their dams,
With their milk-white dresses,
And their light prettinesses,
And feet that go skipity-skip!
And the sage cow,
That munches the drooping newly-clad bough,
Hanging its fresh’ning leaves o’er her head
And her back’s glossy red;
O! these are objects for Castalian springs!
But I, you know, can see ‘the beautiful of things!’
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This parody is useful for understanding the Tory perception of Cockney poetry.
The haphazard and forced rhyming and the abundant compound adjectives
exaggerate the Cockney style, while the comical appropriation of the classical
head-dress and dryadic status to an ‘industrious pig’ truffling for an acorn
highlights the perceived bathetic debasement of the classical in the hands of the
Cockneys. The declaration of Hunt’s farmyard scene as ‘the objects for Castalian
springs’ shows the Cockneys getting the classics wildly wrong. Pseudo-Hunt’s
classical coronation of a pig is an example of his seeing classical beauty and
wonder where none can possibly be. Nor is there any direct engagement with
classical sources, which renders the Greek elements entirely decorative. The
chattiness of the poem and Hunt’s constant self-aggrandisement build a picture
of Hunt as a wannabe aesthete suffering from a serious taste malfunction.
It is telling that in his criticism of Foliage (1818) Lockhart did not dwell on
Hunt’s translations from the Greek and Latin, aside from the passing swipe
quoted above. Hunt’s ‘Evergreens; or Translations from the Poets of Antiquity’
make up around half of the book, over one hundred pages. The poets translated
are Homer, Theocritus, Bion and Moschus, Anacreon and Catullus. They all
bear the unmistakable mark of Hunt’s irrepressibly flamboyant and accessible
style. Catullus, as honorary Greek, is represented by two of his most Greek
compositions, the dark galliambic poem 63 (‘Super alta vectus Attis celeri rate
maria’), which tells of the young man, Attis, who regrets his decision to join the
celebrants of the mother goddess, Cybele, and the epithalamium 61 (‘Collis o
Heliconii’), which Hunt entitles ‘The Nuptial Song of Julia and Manlius’. In
reference to poem 63, Hunt rightly points out that ‘among the other pieces’ it
‘comes as a spectre at noon-day’.68
Aside from the three episodes from Homer’s Iliad and one from the Odyssey,
Hunt was displaying an altogether different side of classical poetry from that
traditionally exploited by the classical education. It would, no doubt, have
stretched many university graduates, but not, we might suspect, the voracious
Lockhart and friends of Blackwood’s. Horace, Juvenal, Ovid and Virgil, the
staples of the school curriculum, are conspicuously absent. Hunt explains the
predominance of pastoral by expressing the opinion that the ‘real genius and
character [of those poets] the public have hitherto had no idea whatsoever
given them by the translators.’69 Whether or not he does this is the subject of
another study.
This deliberate display of classical learning, in combination with the
familiarity, liveliness and eminent readability of his translations, shows just how
possible it was at the time for a man outside formal education but immersed in
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his profession to navigate the realms of gold. It was undoubtedly not the young
Keats alone who was inspired by this man to defy the gamekeepers of the literary
establishment and trespass on classical land by whatever route necessary. Hunt’s
sunny depiction of antiquity was a welcome antidote to what he called ‘the gross
mistake of what they [the French school, and by extension their descendants]
called classical’.70 Foliage, and Cockney classicism as a whole, was also an antidote
to the post-revolutionary gloom of the 1810s. Hunt’s conception of Greek
mythology was ‘something which it requires more than mere scholarship to
understand, – as the elevation of the external world and of accomplished
humanity to the highest pitch of the graceful, and as embodied essences of all the
grand and lovely qualities of nature’. The message wrapped up in the apparently
innocuous expression ‘mere scholarship’ was the celestial fire wrapped up in
Prometheus’ heart-shaped fennel. This does not belong to you; it belongs to us.
Every bit as incendiary as its Promethean counterpart, this message – in a time
of intense social and cultural struggle – was identified by the government press
as something which needed to be violently stamped out.
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5
The Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary:
Radical Classics in 1850s London
Edmund Richardson
‘I believe,’ wrote Robert Brough,‘in the Revolution.’1 Brough lived a short, precarious
life – as poet, editor, burlesque writer, Bohemian, drunk and debtor – and staked a
remarkable claim on the classical past. His ancient world spoke for the powerless in
Victorian Britain – for the poor, the marginalized and the abandoned. He hoped
that it would point the way towards a contemporary revolution. His life, his politics
and his singular encounters with the classical past will be discussed in this chapter.
It will focus on a period of acute political tension in Britain: the 1850s and the years
surrounding the Crimean War. It will explore Brough’s radical classics through
three of his works: a volume of ballads, Songs of the Governing Classes, a failed
‘squib’, Olympus in a Muddle, and his greatest triumph – a burlesque Medea. The
central questions of the chapter are these: could Brough rewrite antiquity to make
the working classes into its heroes and heroines? And could he use that antiquity to
reshape contemporary politics? For a time, he believed that he could.‘ ’Tis wondrous’,
as he put it, ‘how the smallest folks, / Whom you have wrong’d, can tease ye!’2
His ambitions could hardly have been larger. In a period when the working
classes (with some notable exceptions)3 rarely received a classical education, to
claim antiquity for the dispossessed was an intensely ambitious agenda. But
Brough’s commitment and belief were equally intense. He listened to Britain’s
‘governing classes’4 reinventing the past to justify their status and power, and
heard only anxiety:
We’ve lectures long
By the Peers, on ‘Art and Song,’–
Pointing all the moral strong –
‘Class array’d,
‘Gainst its ruling class is wrong’ –
Who’s afraid?5
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80 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Brough’s determination to seize the ancient world was all the more remarkable
because he himself never received a formal classical education: ‘Robert Brough
had neither Latin nor Greek [. . .]. I am sure, poor fellow, that he had a sufficient
appreciation of the advantages of a classical education; but as from the age of
fifteen or sixteen he had to earn his livelihood by the labour of his own hands
and brain, the most he could do was to add to his stock of knowledge such
adjuncts as he deemed most valuable for his working career.’6 Born in London in
April 1828, he grew up in Wales, where his father brewed ‘Brough’s Beer’. When
Robert was thirteen, the brewery fell into bankruptcy – and he was soon sent out
into the world to earn himself a living.
Brough’s existence was far from an easy one. His days and years were
harried and anxious. ‘Poor Robert Brough’, wrote the New York Times. ‘In
pure fun, in genuine mirth, there was no man in the whole range of English
litterateurs worthy to break a lance with him [. . .]. A grim, sardonic,
lachrymose man, with a very feeble constitution, he was only gay by fits and
starts, and spirits and energy often deserted him when most required.’7 ‘
Poor Brough’ was rarely well. ‘I never knew’ remarked one of his friends
later, ‘anyone who was such a perfect martyr to dyspepsia.’8 He nevertheless
guzzled life – approaching it with immoderate delight and appetite – and
became a fixture of London’s literary Bohemia, ‘a land’, as Thackeray put it, ‘of
tin dish-covers from taverns, and foaming porter: a land of lotos-eating (with
lots of cayenne pepper) [. . .] where most are poor’.9 James Hannay captured the
sweet chaos of Brough’s days in his chronicle of London life, where Brough
appears as ‘Bob Marston’:10
Bob’s horror of the polite and conventional world was such that he once gave
it as a reason for leaving a place, that ‘the clergyman of the parish had called
upon him.’ ‘By Jove,’ he went on ‘when it came to that, I thought it was time
to be going back to London.’ A dress-coat was a Nessus’ shirt to him, and
patent-leather boots a torture [. . .].
How kind of thee, Bob, after taking a house, to say to an intimate friend, ‘I’m
a householder now, old boy, and always good to be bail!’ How cheerfully
didst thou reflect, when circumstances forced thee to drink the smallest of
beer, that at least the stuff had the merit of being wet. The law itself did not
appal or humiliate thy Aristophanic spirit; for when a cruelly sarcastic beak
[magistrate], in inflicting a fine of five shillings, inquired whether certain
fluids did not impregnate thy writings, the answer was ready – ‘Yes, and they
sell in consequence.’11
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 81
Brough worked urgently: he depended upon his words to feed himself and his
family. Time to reflect was a luxury he never possessed, and little of his writing
satisfied him. When short of money and in wretched health, he wrote, in the
preface to his Life of Sir John Falstaff, ‘The author may be permitted one little
word of apology, and, perhaps, self-justification [. . .]. The concluding portion of
his labours has been achieved under acute and prolonged physical suffering. This
may be no excuse for loose or indifferent writing; but, in the memorable words
of Ben Johnson to John Sylvester – it is true.’12 To this, the Saturday Review
responded: ‘If this is the true account of the production of any book whatever,
its author ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself.’ As for Brough’s book
itself, it was ‘bad throughout; yet we must own in honesty that we have not read
the whole’.13
Contempt answered Brough all his professional life. No matter how successful
he became – and many of his classical burlesques were undisputed triumphs –
there was not a work of his which was not greeted with scorn and condescension
by some. Along with the other ‘most miserable scribblers of burlesque’,14
Brough was a favoured target of the Saturday Review – which judged his
writing ‘nothing less than an elaborate effort to vulgarize one of the noblest
productions of human genius’.15 This was a common refrain: lacking the
capacity to respond to ‘the noblest productions’ properly, Brough sullied whatever
he touched. Even his greatest triumph, a joyous extraordinary burlesque of
Medea, was altogether too stained with ‘the mud of Cockney existence’ for
The Times:
If the whole human race were suddenly deprived of the power of writing
mock tragedy, so that the art of burlesquing became classed with those
obsolete processes that were peculiar to the ancient inhabitants of Egypt
and of China, there would be no great cause for lamentation. [. . .] As soon as
a poetical thought begins to show itself over the horizon, it is surely a work
of supererogation to begin encumbering it with weights of facetiousness
that drag it down into the mud of Cockney existence.16
What could a Cockney have to say to Euripides? Brough could not opt out of
the discourses of classics and class. By stepping, without a classical education,
into London’s literary world, he stepped into them. His critics (and they were
many – Brough made enemies with abandon)17 reached for the full weight of
Victorian classicism to silence and to ridicule him – ‘fellows who, if once you
get into their pillory, will pelt you with Greek roots, like so many cabbage-
stumps’.18 As one of Brough’s friends put it, ‘we [Brough and his collaborators
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82 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
on one radical magazine], in our rivals’ opinion, were Radicals, scoffers, ribalds,
ignoramuses, lacking the blessings of a University education – mere pressmen,
living by our wits, and without many of them to live on. We held the
opposition to be bigoted Tories, self-sufficient prigs, hammering out their thin
coating of classics to cover their otherwise universal ignorance.’19 ‘Pelted’ with
antiquity, Brough could abandon the field, or he could claim the classics on
his own terms.
Brough was never inclined to submit to the better judgement of his ‘betters’.
He was ‘an ardent hater’20 – a passionate opponent of the privileged classes. ‘That
he had a fierce hatred of the governing classes there is no doubt.’21 ‘I have often
wondered’, wrote one friend, ‘what gave Robert Brough that deep vindictive
hatred of wealth and rank and respectability which permeated his life [. . .]. It
was probably innate; it was certainly engrained. It was largely increased by
poverty.’22 And Brough was well aware that classics and radical politics had a
history together. One scholar, Barthold Georg Niebuhr, fascinated him in
particular.23 In 1828, Julius Hare and Connop Thirlwall had translated Niebuhr’s
History of Rome24 from German into English.25 When the translation was
published, The Quarterly Review alleged that Niebuhr’s history was not only
academically unsound but also politically explosive.26 Students at Heidelberg
had recently been reading Niebuhr, it remarked, and the results – evidence of the
destructive power of the ‘wrong’ kind of classics to established authority – had
not been pleasant:
At this moment the university of Heidelberg is completely deserted. It
appears that these ungovernable youths were holding democratic meetings;
and a report having spread that the Grand Duke of Baden intended to
arrest some of the leaders, the whole swarm of about eight hundred burst
forth into the streets, bawling out Burschen, heraus! ‘Turn out, turn out,’ and
marched off to a town a few leagues from Heidelberg, from whence they
dispatched terms of capitulation to their professors.27
There is little evidence that students in Heidelberg were truly driven to riot
and revolution by their reading of Niebuhr. But the widespread unease caused
by his singularly dense (for many, impenetrable)28 history is striking. Classics,
in the wrong hands (in the right hands), was combustible. Brough, then, had
cause to hope that antiquity’s potential to spark off social agitation – widely
acknowledged – was largely untapped.
Of course, there was no revolution. And Robert Brough’s name has no
place in nineteenth-century political history. His story should be simple. An
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 83
ever-earnest, ever-hopeful revolutionary, whose efforts to stoke public anger
against the ‘governing classes’ never found success, whose radical classics never
ignited.29 But it is both more troubled and more complex. Brough deserves a
place in this volume not just because he tried to put classics and class together,
but because he found it impossible, and was forced to put his hopes aside.
As Henry Stead explores in his Introduction, those who struggled for social
reform – and sought to put the classics to work in that struggle – encountered
setbacks, failure and ridicule at least as often as success.
Throughout his adult life, Brough was indeed ‘an ardent hater.’30 But his
hatred was tamed, and his radical classics were muzzled: by an official
pen, by collaborators – and ultimately, out of stark economic necessity, by
Brough himself. Brough’s story demands that we question the stability and
authenticity of class politics and class positioning in nineteenth-century
classicism. The dialogue between classics and class is altogether more elusive
than it might at first seem: even the most strident texts, even the most
‘ardent haters’, are veined with contradictions, accommodations, censorship and
self-sabotage.
Vulgar declamation
The summer of 1855 was a bad time to be an aristocrat in Britain. Daily
reports on the Crimean War – stuffed with instances of incompetence and
mismanagement by aristocratic generals – fuelled increasing public anger.
British commanders such as Lord Raglan and Lord Lucan, who entered the
war imagining themselves as ancient heroes reborn,31 had their ambitions
blasted into bathos by the Russian winter: ‘Our generals’ marquees were as
incapable of resisting the hurricane as the bell-tents of the common soldiers.
Lord Lucan was seen for hours sitting up to his knees in sludge amid the
wreck of his establishment, meditative as Marius amid the ruins of Carthage.’32
Were these men truly born to lead? Many found it hard to believe. From
Parliament to the village hall, inherited privilege came under steady attack.
Lord Palmerston, on the defensive, was heard to snap at one MP: ‘He performs
what he thinks a public duty in pointing out old errors and instances of
mismanagement in regard to the army [. . .], and has thought proper to
mingle with his observations and comments a deal of what I must call vulgar
declamation against the aristocracy of this country.’33 In this public mood, Robert
Brough saw an opportunity.
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84 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
In June 1855, he put the final touches to his Songs of the ‘Governing Classes’ – a
collection of ballads with one very large, simple target:
The feeling of which the following ballads are the faintest echo and imperfect
expression, is a deeply-rooted belief that to the institution of aristocracy in
this country (not merely to its ‘undue preponderance,’ but to its absolute
existence) is mainly attributable all the political injustice [. . .] we have to
deplore – a feeling by no means recently implanted or even greatly developed
in the writer’s heart, but one which the preparation of the public mind
by recent events and disclosures has afforded him the opportunity of
spreading.34
Songs of the ‘Governing Classes’ was saturated with the classics – but with a
shabby, shameful past, not a glorious one. A succession of tawdry aristocrats
creep across the pages, caught half-way between the nineteenth century and the
ancient world:
Lord J.’s a sage – the Viscount P.[almerston]
A statesman sound – Lord X., a hero;
Some good in all the great must be,
Suppose we look for it – in Nero.
There is a tale, devoid of proof,
That, for a lark, he set Rome burning,
And fiddled on his palace roof [. . .].
Row Polkas to each homestead’s crash,
To ev’ry death – Pop goes the Weasel!35
Glib though the rhymes may be, Brough’s appropriation of the classical was the
opposite of perfunctory – he was keenly aware of the connections which had
been forged between classics and radical politics earlier in the nineteenth
century. The finale of Songs of the ‘Governing Classes’ crosses the story of
Coriolanus – long bound up with political protest36 – with the incendiary
histories of Niebuhr. In this ballad of a Roman general, the hapless contemporary
commanders of the Crimean War are clear in Brough’s sights:
‘Coriolanus snubs the People [. . .].
Taxes are doubled, and armies perish;
Slavery spreads.’ ‘He’s your chosen man.’
‘Yes, but suppose we chose the wrong one?’
‘It can’t be help’d!’ Said the mob, ‘It can.’
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 85
Roman history is edifying,
And though by Niebuhr, in the German tongue,
Proved to consist of nine-tenths lying,
Morals, here and there, may from it be wrung.
Soon, by the force of wrath and brickbats
Urged from Rome, the Consul flees.
This is the story of Coriolanus –
You may apply it how you please.37
Reading of this ancient Lord Lucan, driven out of ancient Rome by the ‘brickbats’
of a contemporary mob, a weary friend remarked that ‘the statements in this
poem will not bear analysis, and are to a certain extent uncalled for; but that
Robert Brough felt them there is no doubt.’38 Songs of the ‘Governing Classes’ is
unapologetic in its anger, and unambiguous in its radical classicism. One cannot
put down the volume uncertain of Brough’s politics:
And as for giving working men
Ideas above their station
‘Tis positively wrong, as well
As vulgar declamation.39
A few short weeks after finishing Songs of the ‘Governing Classes’, Brough was at
work on another project, with his brother William – a ‘squib’40 entitled Olympus
in a Muddle, or, Wrong people in the wrong place,41 first performed on 23 August,
at the Haymarket Theatre, London.
Its conceit was simple: ‘Jupiter, having quarrelled with the Goddess of
Wisdom, makes a new set of administrative arrangements, appointing the
various gods and goddesses to the posts for which they are the most unfit.’42
Mars became a scullion, Venus the goddess of war, Neptune was given the
chariot of the sun – and so on. Light-hearted it may have been, but its political
message was unmistakable. As the Crimean War rumbled on, ‘the right men in
the right place’ had become a rallying-cry for reform. Politicians, army officers
and newspapers alike argued that appointments to high office, henceforth, ought
to be made on the basis of merit alone – not inherited privilege:
Mr. Lindsay, M.P. [. . .] said [. . .] It was wrong in principle to intrust
the government of the country to men simply because they happened to
be lords and honourables, and that some other claim to govern ought to be
required. [. . .]
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86 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Sir C. Napier, who was received with great cheering, briefly thanked the
meeting for the reception [. . .] believing that, after the disasters which had
occurred in the Crimea, it was only by placing the right men in the right
place that the safety of the country could be secured. (Loud cheers.)43
Brough’s Olympus quickly descends into chaos. Jupiter’s thunder fizzles, Apollo
forgets the tea, Venus gets stuck in her armour, Mercury steals the spoons – and
Poseidon crashes the chariot of the sun. Minerva watches it all unfold, and
ensures that the audience do not miss the point:
MINERVA: When Vulcan forged the bolts of Jove
The bolts would work we know –
When Phoebus Sol’s bright Chariot drove
He knew the way to go.
And Mars could fight – Apollo write
Each fitted was to do
The work he was appointed for
When this old world was new. [. . .]
Each held a post he understood
The duties of quite pat
And wasn’t chosen for being good
At anything but that. [. . .]
No doubt a many living now
Would be delighted to
Go back to the old plan pursued
When this old world was new.44
Brough’s timing was perfect. His targets were ripe, and public opinion was
moving in his direction; his radical classics could scarcely have been more
relevant. In fact, a few days before Olympus in a Muddle was first performed,
The Bradford Observer, with remarkable hubris, cast the stagnating Crimean
campaign as a new and greater Iliad, presided over by new Olympians:
What was the conflict between Europe and Asia in the Trojan war, to the
conflict pending for now two years between the principles of European and
Asiatic thought and life! A new Iliad – we may call it a Sebastopoliad – is
being enacted in these very days; a new epic of the nineteenth century is
being developed before our eyes [. . .]. Homer [. . .] represented the denizens
of Olympus as taking part in the Greco-Trojan conflict; but, though we have
outlived the Grecian mythology, can we doubt that something corresponding
to the Homeric gods and goddess is mixed up with the tremendous epic of
our age?45
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 87
This Olympus seemed ready to fall. Indeed, when the manuscript of Olympus in
a Muddle was submitted to the Lord Chamberlain’s office, prior to being licensed
for performance, the edgy censor demanded changes. Brough’s final scene, where
Jupiter admits his foolishness and capitulates to Minerva – and the script’s last
line in particular – cut rather too close for comfort:
JUPITER: Oh
Minerva – you come back – my best of friends. (seizing her hands)
How for my audience shall I make amends?
MINERVA: How! By allowing wisdom to direct
The acts you do – the servants you select –
Come then confess you’re wrong – your steps retrace
And put the right man in the right place.46
Minerva’s speech could have been lifted from any of a hundred contemporary
debates and public meetings – and would not be permitted on stage. The day-
books of the Lord Chamberlain’s office record the decision: ‘Last line for “right
men” put “right gods”“in the right places”.’47 Beyond this, while the cuts demanded
were not extensive, they were still recognized in reviews: ‘The piece [Olympus in
a Muddle] had a political tendency and we understand that the functionary so
obnoxious to the English constitution and the English society – the licenser, or
Lord Chamberlain – struck out all the points of the piece before he would grant
his license for the performance.’48 But the Lord Chamberlain’s pencil did not
prevent Brough’s political message being heard loud and clear by audiences: it
was ‘an attempt to extract some amusement out of the political topic of the day.’49
‘The reformers’ favourite motto’, as the Theatrical Journal noted, of ‘ “the right
man in the right place” has been burlesqued.’50
In the summer of 1855, Robert Brough was unapologetic in his radical agenda.
Loaded with puns though his work was, it was also in deadly earnest: forthright
in its condemnation of the contemporary aristocracy, and its use of the classical
past to advance his political agenda. Brough was betting that the time for radical
classics had come – and scorned suggestions from his friends that he might
moderate his views, or protect his position. As he wrote, with perhaps a trace of
nervousness, in the preface to Songs of the ‘Governing Classes’,
I have been advised not to print my name to this volume of poems, (for poems
I believe they are to be called, if bad ones) on the grounds, that being only
known (where at all) as a ‘profane jester and satirist,’ the public will refuse to
take me au serieux; and that what is at all events an attempted expression of
earnest convictions, will stand a risk of being passed by as a collection of
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88 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
ephemeral squibs written in a spirit of the merest tomfoolery [. . .]. I have
certainly made jokes for a livelihood, just as I should have made boots, if I had
been brought up to the business [. . .]; but I do not see that I am thereby
disqualified from giving serious utterance to my feelings on vital questions.51
But Brough’s time had not come. That summer, in spite of his established
reputation and previous successes, in spite of continuing public anger at the
aristocracy, his audience melted away. Songs of the ‘Governing Classes’ had ‘had
scarcely any sale’.52 Olympus in a Muddle was most vilely received. ‘The piece’, the
Daily News wrote, ‘went off very flatly; and when the curtain fell the applause was
feeble, and mingled with loud disapprobation.’53 The Morning Chronicle twisted
the knife:
The idea – not in itself novel – was treated without elegance or tact. The
incidents introduced were common-place; the dialogue bald and flagging;
the jokes – such as they were – nothing better than puns of a very so-so
character. [. . .] Its progress was not unmarked by ominous sibillations, and
the fall of the curtain was followed by a very vigorous contest between the
hissers and the applauders.54
Brough had offered his radical classics to the world, and his audience had
deserted him – staying, if they stayed, only to hiss. Reflecting on his life, from the
end of the nineteenth century, one admirer wrote: ‘Robert Brough was far too
intensely genuine to devote himself exclusively to popular amusement [. . .]. His
hatred of shams, his detestation of political self-seeking, his scorn of hereditary
claims to govern or to oppress mankind [. . .] were deep and constant. Still, he
knew the limitations of his own power to help the cause.’55 At the beginning of
1855, Brough was not ready to acknowledge those ‘limitations’ – but by the end
of the year, he had been compelled to do so.
Harmless impudence
As great a success as Olympus in a Muddle was a failure, Medea; or The Best of
Mothers with a Brute of a Husband was Brough’s most spectacular hit. It opened
in July 1856, with Frederick Robson in the title role, and cast the proud ancient
princess as a heroine from the contemporary lower classes. ‘Robson’, as Hall and
Macintosh note, ‘won more sympathy for Medea than any previous actor on the
British stage.’56 This was a Medea for the dispossessed. Evicted even from the
workhouse, she came before the audience for the first time as a beggar:
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 89
Slow Music. – ‘The Beggar’s Petition.’ Enter MEDEA with her two CHILDREN,
one in her arms, the other by her side [. . .]. She then puts the child down, and
they stand like street beggars: the smallest child having a placard on its neck
inscribed –
Φα θερλεσσ
ORPHELINS
ORFANI
FATHERLESS
The other has a little tin begging-box and wallet.
MEDEA. My Grecian friends, with deep humiliation
I stand in this disgraceful situation.
Though unaccustom’d publicly to speak,
I have not tasted food since Tuesday week.
Three sets of grinders out of work you see,
Through the invention of machinery.
A landlord, as inclement as the weather,
Has seiz’d our flock bed – we were out of feather.
Shoeless and footsore, I’ve through many lands
Walked, with this pair of kids upon my hands.57
Amplified to absurdity though her woe was, this Medea’s low social status and
precarious position were recognized by reviewers. The Times called her ‘the
moody virago of low life’,58 while the Illustrated London News remarked that
‘Mr Robson was the Medea of vulgar life’.59 Medea was a woman who had been
rendered destitute by her husband’s abandonment of her and her family – a
figure with powerful contemporary resonance.60 Brough’s Jason, cheerfully the
villain of the piece, confesses to his desertion of Medea61 – and proceeds to take
her children away from her:
JASON. Our ties are o’er.
MEDEA. O – oh! I was not aware.
JASON. Why, yes, of course;
Our separation equals a divorce. [. . .]
Of course ‘twould never do for boys like those
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90 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Within whose veins the blood of princes flow,
To be brought up by (no offence) a vagrant,
Given to sorcery and crimes as flagrant.
You understand me?62
Brough’s Medea astonished London. The production was the talk of the
city – and Londoners lined up outside the theatre, night after night, to applaud
his ancient world. Revived time and again, the slight burlesque became
something of a cultural touchstone – ‘Robson’s edition’ of Medea even finds
its way into Trollope’s Barchester Towers.63 Key to its triumph was Brough’s
remarkable leading actor, Frederick Robson, the sweet ‘strange genius’64 of the
stage in 1850s London. Robson’s style was always that of ‘true passion, merely
exaggerated by one premeditated step too far in the direction of the real (not
mock) heroic.’65 ‘You saw capering about the stage, absurdly clad, now mouthing
tumid bombast, now chanting some street song, a strange figure – one of the
quaintest of buffoons. Nothing more? Of a sudden the actor would be in earnest;
the eyes that had been winking with a knowing vulgarity all at once looked you
full in the face, mastered you at a glance; there was a passionate cry, a taunting
shout, or a wail of utter heartrending misery in the voice which had just been
trolling a Cockney ditty; and then, ere your tears, so strangely surprised from
you, were dry, the mime was again prancing.’66 Robson was, for The Times,
‘an artist who has invented a school of acting totally distinct from anything
with which we have been familiar [. . .]. His representation of the terrible heroine
of Colchis [Medea] is a great creation, to be compared with those choruses of
Aristophanes.’67
Brough’s Medea, then, appears to be a triumphant appropriation of classics for
the dispossessed – a radical claim on the ancient world with a notable impact.
But had the classics truly been claimed for the Victorian lower classes? Closely
examined, the story of Brough’s Medea reverses: it becomes one of how political
ambitions – no matter how passionately held – were often stifled and frustrated;
a story of the space between sincere belief and its successful articulation, of the
quicksilver nature of radical classics.
In the manuscript of Medea which Brough submitted for approval by the
Lord Chamberlain’s office – necessary to obtain a licence for performance –
traces can be seen of an angrier, more unsettling story. In one song, crossed
through before the manuscript reached the Lord Chamberlain, society is heavily
complicit in Medea’s abandonment: the police stand ready to run her off, and ‘a
cast-off wife’, as she puts it, ‘is a cast-off slave’.
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 91
MEDEA: Of all the pretty scoundrels bold
With faces cast in brazen mould,
The biggest’s he who just has told
He’s going to marry Creusa. [. . .]
A cast-off wife is a cast-off slave. [. . .]
JASON: Take my advice, be calm and go.
Policeman Three
Of Division B
Has his eye on folks disliked by me.68
In the final version of the burlesque, Medea is decidedly less strident or
threatening – speaking, instead, of her ‘tenderness.’69 This early draft shows
Brough working to reduce the threat posed by his Medea. And his small changes
start to add up: ‘Making a bauble of her murderous blade’ becomes ‘Making a
bauble of Medea’s blade.’70 Most tellingly, while the final lines of Olympus in a
Muddle twisted the knife in Brough’s aristocratic targets, the final lines of Medea
reduce the author’s voice to that of an insignificant ‘gadfly’ – and his radical
politics to ‘harmless impudence’. Ultimately, the threat of Medea is defused by
Brough himself:
FINALE.
MEDEA AND THE CHARACTERS.
‘One horse Shay.’
There was a little man,
And he made a little fun
Of a very great woman ‘bove his head, head, head [. . .].
And he trusts you’ll carry hence
Of his harmless impudence
No impression to your supper or your bed, bed, bed,
Save the merry chirping sound,
Of a gadfly buzzing round
The wreath upon a noble statue’s head, head, head.71
As Medea herself laments, ‘My plot destroyed – my damages made good, / They’d
change my very nature if they could.’72
Heading to their ‘supper’ and their ‘bed’, the audience at the Olympic Theatre
laughed off the evening’s entertainment, just as Brough invited them to. None of
the reviews of Medea suggest that it was a dangerous or incendiary text; no one
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92 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
expected the theatregoers to march out, like those ‘ungovernable youths’ of
Heidelberg, full of revolutionary zeal. (The Lord Chamberlain’s office, likewise,
was magnificently unruffled by Medea: no changes were demanded to Brough’s
text before it was licensed for performance.73) Given the make-up of the
Olympic’s audience, that is hardly surprising: in 1856, the theatre had ‘become
one of the most favourite resorts of the British aristocracy’74 – far from a hotbed
of radicalism. Alfred Wigan, the theatre’s manager, ‘had hopes of attracting the
fashionable world [. . .]. Wigan [was] one of the only gentlemen of the stage, and
he was tenacious of his gentility.’75 While, of course, many different social classes
were strongly represented in the audience at the Olympic, there is no doubt
that Wigan cultivated the aristocracy assiduously, and had no wish to alienate
them: ‘Court patronage meant so much to Wigan.’76 Brough’s Medea was staged
as a piece of ‘harmless impudence’ to delight the ‘governing classes’, as its author
well knew.
Wigan permitted the semblance, but not the substance, of radicalism. On
Boxing Day 1855, at one of the lowest points of the Crimean campaign, The
Discreet Princess played at the Olympic. It seemed, like Brough’s Medea, to have
an incendiary side: ‘There are topical allusions to the Crimean War, including
King Gander’s excuse that he was “coming home on urgent private business”, a
phrase rather too often used by officers asking for home leave.’ But in the
audience, far from squirming, those same officers hooted with laughter: ‘Lord
Clyde in the audience took this in good part.’77 So it was in Medea: Robert
Brough’s radical classics had turned into little more than a punchline. How, in
the space of a year, could so much have changed?
‘For alms we humbly sue’
Radical claims on the classical past – and those who staked those claims – were
rarely pure or simple. The voice of the outsider echoes throughout Brough’s
work – but he himself was not the outsider he championed. He spoke, it is true,
of his time in ‘a kind of back-slum suburb to the cities of literature and art’;78
his furious politics did keep him out of some of the time’s most prominent
journals.79 Yet there is another side to the coin: Brough was connected to many
of the leading writers and artists of the time. He was one of the founders of the
Savage Club, which still endures in London. He called Dickens and Dante Gabriel
Rossetti his friends. His reputation frequently preceded him – ‘the Broughs
and the Romers’, wrote a friend, ‘were the greatest Bohemians we knew’80 – and,
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 93
though his wish to champion a more egalitarian world was unwavering, his
own social positioning was complex; oscillating between insider and outsider,
imprisoned debtor and brilliant friend – nothing quite so simple as an abandoned
writer, waiting like his greatest heroine at the workhouse gates. One friend of his,
indeed, lamented not that Brough had remained unknown, but, rather, that he
had found fame too swiftly:
The ‘Brothers Brough,’ to Robert’s misfortune, attained immediate popularity,
and, in theatrical circles, celebrity. [. . .] He had the run of the green-rooms
and the literary circles, when it would have done him much more good
to have had the run of a decent library, or even of a garret, a book-stall, or
a coffee-shop, with some back numbers of the Quarterly Review on its
shelves. Then he speedily found that Christmas and Easter will not come a
dozen times a year, and that he could not earn a livelihood by burlesque
writing.81
Poverty was, indeed, Brough’s most dependable companion. How, he wondered
in his novel Marston Lynch, was it possible to work when ‘the coalman knocks
at the door three times an hour, and the baker bullies you from his cart up to
the first-floor window, and the green-grocer forces his way up-stairs, and takes a
seat with his back against the door?’82 By 1860, his health was in terminal decline.
‘I hear’, wrote George Augustus Sala, a friend and colleague, ‘poor Bob Brough is
in an awful state dying and hard [up].’83 As his condition spiralled down, his
friends tried to do what they could for his wife and children: ‘With regard to
poor Bob Brough, of whom I am afraid there is no hope, Shirley Brooks is
trying the Literary Fund. If that fails we must try a private subscription. I have
already given Mrs Brough four guineas I collected and what I could do,
temporarily, myself.’84 Both sides of Brough are on display in this letter – the
threadbare circumstances of the outsider, but also the insider’s dense network
of friends, who stood ready to help. Brough’s life, and his political positioning,
were veined with such ironies and contradictions, countless small moments of
accommodation – and of surrender. In 1856, blunt economic reality forced him
to put his radicalism aside. He had to stop writing so stridently about victims
of economic oppression, because he had become one himself. In Medea he can
be seen weighing carefully how each word of his would play (and pay) with the
‘governing classes’ in Wigan’s audience.
One last time, with his health slipping away, Brough tried to make his radical
classics heard. In 1859, he gave a reading at the Marylebone Institution – and ‘his
address to the audience was not, as might have been expected, comic, but
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94 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
serious’.85 He read extracts from his poetry, and from Medea – and those few who
were in the audience found him a revelation:
Well do we remember one evening when, in the lecture room of the
Marylebone Institution, Robert Brough read a collection of his poems to an
audience so scanty, as to dispel all intentions of repeating the experiment.
But singular were the beauty and force of the poems themselves – some of
them wildly passionate and exquisitely pathetic; – some sportively fantastic
[. . .]. But all were marked by a thorough mastery of language and of metre,
and by a stern earnestness of purpose [. . .]. If ever there was a genuine poet
it was Robert Brough, as he stood before that scanty audience at the
Marylebone Institution. He appeared in a new character, but that character
was evidently his own.86
His Medea stood revealed as it might once have been – a work ‘in a new character’
entirely. Even The Times was to remark that ‘in another age, he [Brough] might
have taken a high position as a writer of even serious verse’.87 ‘In another age’,
that is to say, The Times might have taken Robert Brough seriously. But, other
than on that day, few ever saw the ‘serious’ edge hidden behind Brough’s
burlesque. Frederick Robson took over management of the Olympic Theatre
from Wigan in 1857, and in the years that followed he produced Medea several
times, to the delight of London.88 But Brough’s ‘moody virago’ was tamed still
more effectively by these later revivals: in a rehearsal copy of Medea, dating from
Robson’s period as manager of the Olympic (the front cover is marked ‘Please
return to Mr. J. Robson’),89 much of the remaining radicalism is edited out of the
script. Jason is no longer very much to blame for deserting his wife: his song
about abandoning Medea is drastically shortened, and the lines which make
him most culpable are cut. The bitter fury of the abandoned wife likewise
fades away: where Medea, enraged and plotting against Jason’s new bride, sang
‘Guerra! Guerra!’ in the original edition, the song is changed to another character
singing ‘Spare her! Spare her!’ (Figure 5.1). Medea’s anger, and its cause, are
made safe. ‘My plot destroyed’, indeed.
It is, of course, far from uncommon for the political agenda of a text to become
lost in performance. Brecht’s Threepenny Opera (1928), co-written with Elisabeth
Hauptmann to Kurt Weill’s score, was written as a searing indictment of
bourgeois capitalism – yet bourgeois capitalists flocked to it, and cheered its
condemnation of all they stood for.91 But something more than this is at work in
Brough’s Medea. The Olympic’s management, the censor’s lurking presence, the
demands of his audience – but, most of all, the need to feed his family and
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 95
Figure 5.1 Where radical classics used to be: Medea, diluted.90
himself – led Robert Brough to defuse the threat posed by his working-class
classics. Far from a call for reform – ‘the right man in the right place’ – Medea
became an evening of ‘harmless impudence’. The ‘governing classes’ jostled in the
streets to see it: ‘On four or five nights in every week during the season, Drury
Lane is rendered well nigh impassable by splendid equipages which have
conveyed dukes and marquises and members of Parliament to the Olympic.’92
Their laughter drowned out all else. However greatly he may have wished to
silence them, Brough did little to disturb their sleep.
‘Lowlife’ classics does not necessarily translate into classics for the working
classes. A ragged Medea may have little comfort for those in rags themselves.
Few works on the nineteenth-century stage could afford to target one social class
above all – or to create an uncompromising working-class classics: theatres were
too difficult to fill, productions too expensive and the likelihood of being
taken seriously too slim. Critics were inclined not to write of the politics of
the burlesque-stage, but to feature it – on a semi-annual basis – in articles on
‘the “Decline of the Drama” [. . .] [which] happens to be in fashion for the
moment – just as were General Tom Thumb, the Hippopotamus, and the Talking
Fish’.93 A theatre manager might commission a burlesque from Brough after he
‘had tried in succession elephants, jugglers, “real water,” and cavalry spectacles,
but had reaped little by such experiments beyond harvests of abuse in the
newspapers’.94 The fickleness of theatre management and public taste – what
Brough called ‘the Big Baby Society’95 – drove works into obscurity as easily as
into prominence; even when established as a writer, Brough never knew when
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96 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
he might next find success. On stage, business often trumped belief; radicalism
yielded to pseudo-radicalism.
Of course, as other chapters in this volume explore, the ancient world played
a key part in many texts created for the working classes. However, ‘lowlife’ classics
could also be, and often was, a pose – a fraying, harlequin history, created to
delight ‘sharp little boys’ who knew their Latin, not hungry little boys who swept
the streets. So it was in Francis Burnand’s drawing-room burlesque, Harlequin
Julius Caesar:
SCHOOLMASTER (astonished). Quis? quae? quod? (Sharp little boys among
the audience may correct the schoolmaster’s mistake, and ask their papa for a
bottle of champagne as a reward. We wish they may get it.)
CLOWN (to Pantaloon). Why don’t you answer him?
PANTALOON (vacantly). I’d rather not.
SCHOOLMASTER (eyeing Pantaloon majestically). Amo, amas.
CLOWN (cutting in cheerfully). You love a lass. I know, Governor; but you’re
getting rather old for that. [. . .]
Clown and Pantaloon seize Schoolmaster, and insert him, feet foremost, in the
sack. Schoolmaster struggles and cries for help. They drag him to the window
and lift him up.
CLOWN (shouting as if to someone below). Hi! you, down there! Do you
want something nice to eat?
VOICE FROM OUTSIDE. No.
CLOWN. Well, then, take this. (Lifts him up, carries him to the side-scenes,
struggling and shouting all the time, then pretends to throw him out. If there’s
a false window, he may put him through it: noise heard as of fall, and shout –)
‘There’s some education for the lower classes.’96
‘Education for the lower classes’ is a punch-line: like the ‘Cockney’97 who
presumes to rewrite Euripides, it is a joke Burnand’s readers are invited to share
(for surely, the text assumes, you readers who know your Latin could not be from
‘the lower classes’?).
Many in Victorian Britain used classics to talk about class – Robert Brough’s
voice is simply one of the loudest and the most passionate. But how many were
able to use classics to do something about class? Did working-class classics ever
truly drive political reform – or present a serious threat to the established elite?
In 1856, the choice which Brough had to make was a stark one: write incendiary
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Harmless Impudence of a Revolutionary 97
verses which would sit unsold, or watch the ‘governing classes’ of Britain laugh at
his ‘harmless impudence’. He chose to make his ‘betters’ laugh. How many more
did the same? How many times was seemingly-radical classics anything other
than ‘harmless impudence’? Despite Brough’s passionate beliefs, this question
must now be an open one.
Brough’s chaotic lifestyle – and his confinement in the debtors’ prison – did
his health no good;98 ‘indeed, for a long period, those nearest and dearest to him
had known that the most that could be done for him was to soothe and cherish
him to the end.’99 He died very young, in 1860, at the age of 32. ‘It will be long
before we meet with so brilliant a genius and so unhappy a man’, wrote the
New York Times. ‘With a wife and family to support and his constant illness to
contend with, he had been unable to make much fight in his great battle of life,
and he died almost penniless. His friends have taken up the cause of those left
behind him, and have organized a public subscription and a dramatic and
musical entertainment in their behalf.’100 On 25 July 1860, ‘at Drury-lane Theatre,
for the benefit of the widow and children’101 of Robert Brough, this performance
took place.
At the end of the evening, Sala, Brough’s friend and colleague, delivered his
tribute from the stage – a poem written for the occasion. Infused with the ancient
world, it was a strange and bitter epitaph: Sala’s Brough was no triumphant
‘Caesar’, but an anonymous soldier, who fought and was forgotten. ‘His valour
help’d to swell / The glorious triumphs Caesar bears so well. / Now his cold
corse in some dark trench is laid.’102 The classical analogy, far from granting
Brough power and remembrance, took them away from him. But for that ‘ardent
hater’ who never saw an aristocrat he did not yearn to topple, Sala’s final lines
would have been the deepest betrayal. Desperate to provide for Brough’s widow
and children, Sala looked out to the wealthy audience, took a deep breath,
and begged:
He [Brough] never crav’d the bounty of my lord.
We crave it now. For alms we humbly sue;
We hinge the knee, we bow the head, to you.
We ask your charity.103
After all the hope, all the anger, all the plans, all the defeats, after Medea and
Jason, Nero and Coriolanus, and all the gods of Olympus, it had come to this.
Robert Brough was remembered through the ancient world – as helpless subject
for ‘the bounty of my lord’. Here at the end of his radicalism, with an old friend
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98 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
sweeping away the last of his revolutionary self, Brough should have the last
word – for few have known so deeply as he the illusory power of antiquity:
For freedom oft I pray’d;
Invoking Rome’s and Athens’ names [. . .].
O, set your mind at ease, my love;
I’ll speak of them no more.104
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6
Making it Really New:
Dickens versus the Classics
Edith Hall
The present splendid brotherhood of fiction-writers in England, whose graphic
and eloquent pages have issued to the world more political and social truths
than have been uttered by all the professional politicians, publicists and
moralists put together, have described every section of the middle class from
the ‘highly genteel’ annuitant and fund-holder who looks upon all sorts of
business as vulgar, to the little shopkeeper and lawyer’s clerk. And how have
Dickens and Thackeray, Miss Brontë and Mrs. Gaskell painted them? As full
of presumption, affectation, petty tyranny and ignorance; and the civilised
world have confirmed their verdict with the damning epigram that it has
fixed to this class that ‘they are servile to those above, and tyrannical to those
beneath them.
Thus thundered Karl Marx in The New York Tribune on 1 August 1854,1
recognizing the crucial role the British writers of realist fiction played in
exposing the worst aspects of industrial capitalism. Heading his roll of honour
is Charles Dickens, ‘the first great urban novelist in England’ and ‘one of the
most important social commentators who used fiction effectively to criticize
economic, social and moral abuses in the Victorian era.’2 Marx’s admiration for
Dickens’ reformist power was well founded. Scarred forever by his childhood
misery when his father was imprisoned in the Marshalsea Debtors’ Prison
under the Insolvent Debtors Act of 1813, required to work at the age of twelve
in a shoe-blacking factory, Dickens transformed his deep empathy with the
poor and disadvantaged into scintillating storytelling. His extraordinarily
popular novels helped to change attitudes to class, poverty, crime, housing, child
employment and education; they were, at least indirectly, instrumental in the
passing of several pieces of reformist legislation. Dickens himself wrote to
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100 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
another novelist, Wilkie Collins, four years after Marx’s accolade, that he felt a
strong personal commitment to society and its improvement: ‘Everything that
happens [. . .] shows beyond mistake that you can’t shut out the world; that you
are in it, to be of it; that you get yourself into a false position the moment you try
to sever yourself from it; that you must mingle with it, and make the best of it,
and make the best of yourself into the bargain.’3 And Arnold Kettle showed, in a
famous study, how Dickens’ own understanding of capitalism, or at least of how
as an economic system it created inhumane social conditions, steadily increased
over his writing career, the more he ‘mingled’ with the world.4
Mingling with the world in order to make the best of it: in his novels Dickens
described the class-conflicted world of late Georgian and early Victorian society
in the way he had experienced it, and at this time the ancient Greeks and Romans
were deeply implicated in the class struggle. Romantics and revolutionaries had
taken inspiration from the rebellious gods and heroes of classical antiquity –
Prometheus, Spartacus, Brutus, the Gracchi;5 Dickens is satirizing such radical
appropriations of classics when he makes Slackbridge, one of the trade union
organizers in Hard Times (1854), drop classical names into his inflammatory
oratory in book 2 ch. 4, ‘Men and Brothers’:
Then Slackbridge, who had kept his oratorical arm extended during the
going out, as if he were repressing with infinite solicitude and by a wonderful
moral power the vehement passions of the multitude, applied himself to
raising their spirits. Had not the Roman Brutus, oh, my British countrymen,
condemned his son to death; and had not the Spartan mothers, oh my soon
to be victorious friends, driven their flying children on the points of their
enemies’ swords? Then was it not the sacred duty of the men of Coketown,
with forefathers before them, an admiring world in company with them, and
a posterity to come after them, to hurl out traitors from the tents they had
pitched in a sacred and a God-like cause? The winds of heaven answered Yes;
and bore Yes, east, west, north, and south. And consequently three cheers for
the United Aggregate Tribunal!6
Despite Dickens’ sympathy with the factory workers of Coketown, there is a
bitter satire in his imputing to Slackbridge a reference not to Brutus’ foundation
of the Roman Republic but to his brutal act of filicide, and in the firebrand’s
obvious confusion about Spartan maternal heroism. Yet, at the same time,
Dickens was all too aware that the upper and aspiring middle classes were using
classical education to create barriers between their sons and those of factory
workers, and to shore up class snobbery in both public and private life.
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Dickens versus the Classics 101
Dickens was, of course, far from the only novelist of his time to express his
disapproval of the contemporary classical curriculum. A searing indictment
of the conventional adulation of antiquity by the aspiring classes is put by
Thackeray in the mouth of M. A. Titmarsh, describing a journey to Athens.
Titmarsh regards the ten years of Classics he endured as ‘ten years’ banishment
of infernal misery, tyranny, arrogance’. In Attica Titmarsh was visited by the
Greek muse, and explains that he could not effect any reconciliation with
her because he read her poets ‘in fear and trembling; and a cold sweat is but an
ill accompaniment to poetry’. Ancient History was ‘so dull . . . that when the
brutal dulness of a schoolmaster is superadded to her own slow conversation,
the union becomes intolerable’. People only ‘say they are enthusiastic about the
Greek and Roman authors and history, because it is considered proper and
respectable’.7
Dickens, however, was more sensitive than Thackeray to the role of classics
in social exclusion, and his allusions to classical authors and episodes, although
relatively rare, often use irony in order to expose classically informed snobbery.
This will be one theme in this chapter. Another will be his exposure of the
abusive forms that classical education often took in schools at the time, where
grammar, rote learning and corporal punishment inculcated in boys and youths,
even of the upper and relatively privileged middle classes, an incurable hatred
of everything to do with the Greek and Latin languages: educational reform, in
Dickens’ view, was entangled with the question of the very desirability of the
classical curriculum, at least as it was taught in his day.
Yet Dickens’ stance on classics is complicated. My examination of the nature
of the classical presences in Dickens’ works therefore leads into a consideration
of his own aesthetic project: his desire for social reform is analogous with
his project of reforming fiction, of creating a new form of literary prose that
responded to the ever-changing world of the Industrial Revolution all around
it, rather than to the inherited literary canon fundamentally based on classical
notions of rhetorical structure, genre, balance, appropriateness and literariness
of language. Dickens’ struggle to push at the frontiers of possibility in the
language of prose fiction entailed replacing the idiolects of Enlightenment and
Romantic classicism with an acute sensitivity to the languages and soundscapes
of the newly industrialized nineteenth-century reality. This agenda in the realm
of literary form, I argue, corresponds at a profound level with his moral and
social objective, which was to make people draw their own conclusions from
looking hard at the new dystopia around them and paying attention to their own
emotional responses to the prevalent squalor, hypocrisy and hardship.
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102 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
During the alterations to Dombey House in Dombey and Son (1848), which
herald the imminent wedding of Mr Dombey and the arrival of the beautiful
second Mrs Dombey as the new mistress of the house, Dickens describes the
young Florence Dombey’s amazement at the sight of the workmen on the
internal scaffolding:
The staircase was a labyrinth of posts and planks like the outside of the
house, and a whole Olympus of plumbers and glaziers was reclining in
various attitudes, on the skylight.8
These workmen are compared with the reclining gods on the East Pediment of
the Parthenon, part of the ‘Elgin Marbles’, sculptures acquired in Athens by
Thomas Bruce, 7th Earl of Elgin, between 1801 and 1805, and presented by
Parliament to the British Museum. In 1832, the elegant new ‘Elgin Room’ on
the west side of the museum had been opened to much public fanfare, and many
of Dickens’ readers will have seen either the marbles or drawings of them in
periodicals and encyclopaedias. But Dickens’ image replaces the elegant gods of
Olympus with early Victorian working men.
This is in some ways an atypical Dickensian classical reference, because
it is positive about both the ancient artefact and the individual whose
subjectivity is being explored. It asks the reader to remember the beauty of
the ancient sculptures. Unlike the standard, even clichéd idealization of
classical Greek statuary and art in the literature of his immediate predecessors
and contemporaries, aesthetic beauty is hardly ever the point of comparison
when Dickens refers to ancient Greece or Rome. But its role here is, indeed,
to help the reader understand the pleasing visual experience of a virtuous
character – Florence Dombey – who is portrayed most sympathetically
throughout the novel. Many of Dickens’ classical allusions make an acerbic
point about the character with whom they are associated, as we shall see. It is
interesting that Florence’s dog, Diogenes, named for the founder of the ancient
school of Cynic philosophy, functions as a consistent moral presence, capable of
sniffing out individuals whose characters are marred by hypocrisy and malice,
and offering Florence the only straightforward, wholehearted and unconditional
love she has experienced.
From other perspectives, however, the comparison with the Parthenon
pediment is, indeed, typical of Dickens’ overt classical references. First, it
democratizes an ancient artefact by making a claim that contemporary working
people are equally fit as subjects for art – whether sculpture or prose fiction – as
ancient divinities. We are asked to imagine the plumbers and glaziers as beautiful
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Dickens versus the Classics 103
ancient gods, with muscular bodies developed in the athletic pursuits of
the leisured class, taking their ease at a festival where they are honoured by
the temple-visiting public. The comparison is a perfect example of what
G. K. Chesterton called Dickens’ ‘democratic reality’, which supports equality
by insisting on ‘the interest and variety of all men.’9 In this democratic aspect of
‘the interest and variety of all men’, there is, of course, no democrat as great
as Dickens. Second, Florence’s father, Paul Dombey senior, is precisely the
kind of aspirational nouveau riche who would enthuse over the ‘Elgin’ marbles
and Grecian taste. As Jenkyns writes, for the Victorians, ‘Grecian culture easily
became a symbol of social or cultural pretentiousness’.10 Yet the Olympus
comparison and Diogenes the dog are slim pickings for a novel of the length and
substance of Dombey and Son: it contains few other allusions to either Greece or
Rome (most of them are mentioned later in this chapter). We must not overstate
the rather sparse Dickensian evidence for even ironic references to the study and
cultivation of Mediterranean antiquity.
Dickens has been a bestseller for over a century and a half, beaten into third
place among popular classics only by the Bible and Shakespeare.11 His impact on
culture has been inestimable: he almost single-handedly created the Victorians’
own mental pictures – which we have inherited – of urban life, London, prisons,
schools, childhood and Christmas. His cultural presence may not be ignored by
anyone seeking to write about nineteenth-century English-speaking fiction,
literature or theatre. Nor may the scholar of the nineteenth-century reception of
Greek and Roman classic underplay his significance. The issue becomes more
pressing on account of the massive importance of ancient Greece and Rome to
other major nineteenth-century novelists such as Thackeray, Eliot and Hardy, as
also to other novelists of Dickens’ era who enjoyed outstanding popularity in
their own time, especially Bulwer (later Bulwer-Lytton), above all through his
1834 bestseller The Last Days of Pompeii.12
Moreover, Dickens’ avoidance of classical material does look deliberate. He
was theatre-mad, and we know he frequently attended spectacles, plays and
burlesques on classical themes. It is not easy to specify, from the available
evidence, his reasons for liking some and loathing others. For example, when he
saw the famed horseman, strongman and exponent of artistic tableaux Andrew
Ducrow adopt various ‘classic poses’ at the reopening of the Colosseum in 1835,
including his famous ‘Brutus condemning his son to death’, Dickens was
appalled.13 His revulsion may have been caused by the unpalatable content of the
story (a father incapable of empathy with his son), the French Republican
neoclassical associations of the patriotic tale, or just the extravagant heroic
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104 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
pantomimic idiom in which Ducrow specialized. It certainly was not the
simple adoption of a classical story to a popular art form, because Dickens
thoroughly enjoyed the best of the classical burlesques, including Frank
Talfourd’s witty, Ovidian Atalanta, or the Three Golden Apples, an Original
Classical Extravaganza (Haymarket 1857); he savoured Frederick Robson’s
emotive performance in the role of Medea in Brough’s dazzling burlesque The
Best of Mothers, with a Brute of a Husband (1856), discussed by Richardson in
the previous chapter of this volume. Dickens’ personal stance on the Greek and
Roman classics was connected both with his particular model of indigenous
radicalism and with his conventional mid-nineteenth-century taste for theatrical
farce, sentimentality and melodrama. He wrote with some glee to Bulwer-
Lytton in 1867 that the public of their day could only be induced to go and see a
Greek play in the form of burlesque: moreover, ‘a Greek name and breakdown
nigger-dance [the (to us shocking) term for a type of musical frolic characteristic
of the mid-nineteenth-century popular burlesque theatre] have become
inseparable’.14 Dickens tolerated some of the more affecting contemporary plays
set in antiquity, including John Oxenford’s Roman tragedy Virginia, based on
Livy’s tale of Appius Claudius, at the Royal Marylebone theatre in May 1849,
especially the scenic effect of the Roman forum. But even his mildly approving
response to this classicizing drama contrasts powerfully with his far greater
enthusiasm for Douglas Jerrold’s tale of contemporary working-class tribulations,
Black-Eyed Susan.15
Clarity about Dickens’ views of classical stories as retold in the theatre is
made harder to achieve because he was absent from London throughout the first
half of 1845, when the ‘Mendelssohn’ Antigone – a spectacular performance of
an English translation of the Sophoclean play, with music by the outstandingly
popular Continental composer – made such a huge impact at Covent Garden.
This production, and the familiarity with Sophocles’ heroine it encouraged,
demonstrably informed works by Thackeray, Eliot, Bulwer and Elizabeth Barrett;
Dickens would certainly have seen the production had he not been in Italy at the
time.16 One of the reasons why Dickens did not like reusing some classical
material was that (as is clear from his editing of other people’s stories) in
literature he loathed excessively emotional females and amoral adventuresses of
the type which is to be found in abundance in Greek and Roman authors. But
the virginal, god-fearing Antigone is another matter. We can speculate on a
possible connection between Antigone and Louisa Bounderby (née Gradgrind)
in Hard Times (1854), who sacrifices herself for her brother and spends the
whole novel trying to be heard by her Creon-like and emotion-despising
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Utilitarian father. Another virtuous Greek tragic heroine who, I have sometimes
thought, makes an appearance in Dickens is the dying queen in Euripides’
Alcestis (in the nineteenth century one of the most famous of Greek tragedies
through its adaptation into operas). Florence Dombey weeps over her dying
mother at the opening of Dombey and Son, unaware as yet that she will be faced
with an unsatisfactory stepmother, just as Alcestis fears her little girl will be
persecuted (Euripides, Alcestis 309–19).
But both these parallels between Dickensian and Greek tragedic heroines are
speculative. There is just one possible Dickensian reaction to a classical text, as
experienced through the theatre, where there is at least a little documentation.
1837 was a momentous year for Dickens. His first child, Charles, was born on
6 January. In May he was driven nearly to despair by the death of his wife’s
sister, with whom he had a seriously ambiguous relationship. But in April he had
moved to 48 Doughty St, London, just a block or two from the Foundling
Hospital, and this made a huge impact upon him: he used to watch the orphan
children lining up against the wall.17 There may be another ‘foundling’ connection.
Dickens attended the premiere of the Ion by Thomas Talfourd in May 1836, and
it was during the immediately subsequent months that Dickens’ shift to the
novelistic type of the foundling Bildungsroman began with Oliver Twist, which
started to appear in serialized form in 1837. This new interest developed into
the fatherless young man outmanoeuvring a dastardly elder male in Nicholas
Nickleby (serialization of which commenced in 1838), although the most
autobiographical of them all, David Copperfield, had to wait until 1849. Before
Oliver Twist, Dickens’ principal work, besides his Sketches, had been The Pickwick
Papers. There were few signs in this genre of writing that the emotive story of a
child, from babyhood to rediscovery of his true identity and birthright, would
become the shape taken by what have become his most famous books.
Thomas Talfourd, radical Whig MP and judge, was seventeen years older than
Dickens and an established figure on both the literary and the political scene. His
adaptation of Euripides’ Ion, which also uses material from the other ancient
Greek foundling tragedy, Oedipus Tyrannus, was a popular hit at Covent Garden
in 1836. Talfourd’s Ion tells the tale of a virtuous youth in an ancient Greek city
state who sacrifices love and life to help his fellow-citizens rid themselves of a
vicious tyrant and found an idealized, peaceful republic. Despite its high-minded
politics, Ion is warm, emotional and stirring, and made excellent theatre. Talfourd
sent Dickens a private copy, which Dickens wrote he would ‘always be more
proud of, and value more highly, than any book I possess’.18 Dickens was also a
close friend of its star, the actor Macready, and genuinely seems to have admired
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106 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
both Ion and Talfourd’s other Greek foundling play using both Ion and Oedipus
Tyrannus, The Athenian Captive, a vehicle for Macready in 1838.19 Dickens
wrote with great enthusiasm to John Forster that he had heard a reading of The
Athenian Captive, ‘which, as an acting piece, I think admirable; I am as much
surprised as you to imagine by what mental process such a very striking and
complete thing can have been forged in so short a time’.20 The philhellene
Talfourd and the innovation-loving Dickens seem to have shared a special bond
at this time: Talfourd dedicated a sonnet to Dickens, written on Christmas Day
1838, entitled ‘On perusing the completed Oliver Twist’.21
Dickens had dedicated The Pickwick Papers to Talfourd, and he named the
secondary couple in Nicholas Nickleby after Talfourd’s children. He formed the
adorable character of the well-meaning lawyer Tommy Traddles and his
pious wife in David Copperfield upon Talfourd and his dissenting wife Rachel.
Although no close parallels can be pressed between Talfourd’s Ion and Oliver
Twist or Nicholas Nickleby, I see no reason why the basic plot shape and
overriding youthful subjectivity of these orphan novels should not owe
something to Dickens’ experience of Talfourd’s play, especially its combination
of social propaganda with a personal rite-of-passage, rags-to-riches structure
featuring an initially ingénu and always virtuous hero. We know how much
Macready’s performances in other roles, especially those of Shakespeare,
affected Dickens. Macready’s Lear of 1838 informed the delineation of Little
Nell’s grandfather, and his heartbreak at her death, in The Old Curiosity Shop
of 1840, and also Dombey and Son. His Hamlet affected David Copperfield, and
his Macbeth Bleak House.22 Dickens’ change from social satire in the form of
artfully arranged individual sketches, or those arranged around a theme like
the Pickwick Club, may, therefore, have been partly inspired by the success of
Talfourd’s Ion. Such a response to a performance based on an ancient text,
however, would scarcely constitute an instance of Dickens deliberately using the
classics. But it would constitute an instance of him responding to a powerful,
indeed melodramatic, stage play with a sympathetic foundling hero and a
socially reformist agenda. He liked Ion, I believe, in spite of its ancient Greek
credentials. He would almost certainly have preferred the play to have been
given a new, more up-to-date setting: he advised Bulwer to transfer the setting of
his The Captives, an adaptation of Plautus’ comedy by that name, from ancient
Greece to more recent Russia.23
Leaving aside the possible implicit influence of fundamental plot-types,
what sort of work is done by Dickens’ explicit classical allusions? An article
by Pauline Fletcher proposes that there is a discernible development in Dickens’
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use of classical references.24 She argues that, in his earlier books, the treatment
of Greek and Latin material is oppositional and parodic and almost always
in the spirit of denigration of both the classics and the individual or attitude
under scrutiny. In particular, in Martin Chuzzlewit (1844), Mrs Hominy,
the horrendously self-important literary lady, is referred to as ‘the Mother
of the modern Gracchi’ and wears a ‘classical cap’.25 Fletcher argues, however,
that Dickens’ references gradually become less parodic and less oppositional
over his writing career, as his own relationship with the dominant culture
evolved.
Now, in the earlier books it is true that classical allusions of any explicit
kind tend to be in the mouths of, or in relation to, pedants and/or social aspirants.
The best example is Alfred Jingle, the charlatan actor with pretensions to
gentility in The Pickwick Papers. But I am not sure that Fletcher lends enough
weight to the places in which they occur in all his books – they almost invariably
mark a contrast between views of class at a moment when class identity
is being formulated, challenged or asserted. Throughout chapter 21 of
Dombey and Son, the sight of Edith Dombey’s affected, hypochondriac
seventy-year-old mother, who languishes regally in a wheelchair she does
not need and declares herself too pure at heart for urban life, is consistently
described as an absurd parody of Cleopatra in her galley. In Our Mutual Friend
the bride’s aunt at a fashionable wedding – exactly the sort of venue where
class distinctions are publicly fine-tuned – is compared to Medusa ‘in a stony
cap, glaring petrifaction at her fellow-creatures’.26 In Hard Times the self-
styled aristocrat fallen on hard times, Mrs Sparsit, has a ‘Coriolanian style of
nose’, a ‘classical countenance’, and looks as though she is invoking ‘the infernal
gods’.27
In David Copperfield (1850), in which the hero’s talent at Latin may reflect
Dickens’ own childhood experiences (see below), the pawnbroker to whom
the boy takes Mr Micawber’s possessions used to get him ‘to decline a Latin
noun or adjective, or to conjugate a Latin verb’, since the presence of the ‘little
gent’ was a novelty.28 The most famous example of all occurs in ch. 17 during one
of David’s encounters with Uriah Heep, as illustrated in Figure 6.1 by Fred
Barnard (1870). In the complex class politics of this novel, the envious Uriah sees
David as a privileged young snob. Heep is studying law in order to try to better
his income and social position. Without knowledge of Latin, the mark of an
educated gentleman and much used in legal discourse, it is difficult for him
to achieve his dreams of self-improvement. David offers to teach him Latin.
Heep refuses:
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108 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
‘Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,’ he answered, shaking his head. ‘I am sure
it’s very kind of you to make the offer, but I am much too umble to accept it.’
‘What nonsense, Uriah!’
‘Oh, indeed you must excuse me, Master Copperfield! I am greatly
obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure you; but I am far too umble.
There are people enough to tread upon me in my lowly state, without my
doing outrage to their feelings by possessing learning. Learning ain’t for me.
A person like myself had better not aspire. If he is to get on in life, he must
get on umbly, Master Copperfield!’29
To sum up our findings so far: Dickens may have used classical myth occasionally
at a structural level, as mediated through an exciting theatrical performance, in
writing a human story. He certainly uses classical references occasionally in
order to define individuals’ class positions and class aspirations. But the classics
remain virtually invisible in Dickens relative to other prominent fiction writers
of his time, just as they are virtually invisible in the drama of his reformist friend
Douglas Jerrold. So what we need to do is try to explain the reasons for this.
One reason that has been proposed is Dickens’ own education. His schooling
was interrupted and he did not go to university. He did not get the chance to
Figure 6.1
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Dickens versus the Classics 109
learn Greek. But this will not do as an explanation: he was taught the rudiments
of Latin by his mother when at Chatham, where he lived from the age of five. He
learned more at William Giles’ school at Chatham,30 and later, at Wellington
House Academy, on the Hampstead Road, London, which he attended for two
years in his teens, he actually won the Latin Prize.31 This was unusual because the
prize was almost always given, cynically, to boys with younger brothers who
were prospective pupils. But Dickens had forged an intense relationship with
the Latin teacher, Mr Shier, who coached him for the prize; he even gave Shiers
a copy of the works of Horace to thank him.32 The idea, sometimes suggested,
that there were no avenues by which Dickens could have accessed the classics
is, therefore, simply not tenable. New avenues of access opened up in his
adulthood. He became close friends with Cornelius Felton, Professor of Greek at
Harvard (1832–60), during his first visit to America in 1842. He thereafter
consulted Virgil in the original, and read several other ancient authors, including
Plutarch, Cicero, and Horace. He had translations of Greek tragedy in his library
and had read Daniel Burgess’s 1729 study, A Short Account of the Roman Senate.33
He was a tourist at classical sites, learning a great deal in Rome, Pompeii and
Herculaneum;34 he was probably the author and certainly the commissioner of
an article entitled ‘Trèves, the Belgic Rome’, on the Roman ruins in the Rhineland,
which he published in the English periodical he edited, Bentley’s Miscellany.35
When it is appropriate to the subject matter, as in his Pictures from Italy, the
travelogue arising from his extended vacation in 1844–5, Dickens competently
discusses Horace, Tiberius, Septimius Severus, Constantine and the Etruscans,
demonstrates the detail in which he has read Bulwer’s Last Days of Pompeii, and
describes his responses to the murals of Pompeii and Herculaneum.36 His control
of ancient sources does also, occasionally, surface in his fiction. There is a subtle
comparison between Odysseus and Florence’s patient admirer Walter Gay, which
evolves during Dombey and Son. Despite being shipwrecked on his way to
Barbados, Gay survives to win the hand of his woman despite the machinations
of his dastardly rival Cawker. In one of Dickens’ most sophisticated novels, Our
Mutual Friend (1864–5), there are signs of an experiment in using ancient
history to illuminate a transhistorical vision of the rise – and inevitable fall – of
societies based on empty values. Boffin, the plutocrat and parvenu whose entire
life revolves around the accumulation of money, is studying what else but Edward
Gibbons’ The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?37
Angus Wilson patronizingly suggests, of Dickens’ studies at Wellington
House, that ‘their mediocre level is suggested by the triteness of Dickens’s classical
references’.38 But the idea that he was either too ignorant or too insecure to draw
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110 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
on more than a limited range is to underestimate the man. He was a voracious
reader quite capable of devouring any ancient author he wished in translation, at
any time. The more usual proposal is that Dickens was polemically opposed to
study of the classics. It has been suggested that his true attitude can be heard in
the addition he made, during his public readings of Nicholas Nickleby, to the
schoolmaster Squeers’ explanation of the meaning of the word quadruped. In the
text, he tells the pupils to whom he teaches English spelling and philosophy that
a horse is ‘a quadruped; and quadruped’s Latin’. But in the performance version,
Dickens added to this speech of Squeers a denunciation of training in the ancient
tongues ‘or Greek, or Hebrew, or some other language that’s dead and deserves
to be’.39 Yet, if he really believed that the study of Latin and Greek was obsolete,
why did he send his own oldest son to the ‘public school’, Eton? What Dickens
really objected to was the sort of education handed out in abysmal minor private
schools (on the distinction between these two types of institution, see further
Stray’s chapter in this volume). There are more schools in Dickens’ novels – fifty
– than in those of any other nineteenth-century novelist, and more than that
number of teachers.40 And it is true that he was violently opposed to grammar
and flogging as a substitute for a liberal education in a humane environment.
In 1825, he enrolled at Wellington House Classical and Commercial Academy,
run by the brutal William Jones, who meted out terrible scourgings. Although
Dickens himself, as a day boy, personally avoided such torture, he was traumatized
by what he witnessed. This regime informed his depiction of Dotheboy’s Hall in
Nicholas Nickleby, Dr Blimber’s in Dombey and Son, and Salem House in David
Copperfield: Mr Creakle is directly modelled on Jones, whose business, Dickens
still angrily recalled more than three decades later, was ‘to make as much out of
us and put as little into us as possible.’41 More extreme resurrections of the vile
Mr Jones appear in two of Dickens’ shorter stories. First is the vicious headmaster
in ‘Our School’ (1851). The Headmaster (known as ‘The Chief ’) is said to enjoy
ruling ciphering-books and ‘smiting the palms of offenders with the same
diabolical instrument’.42 But the most colourful example occurs in the fantasy of
Robin Redforth (aged nine), the narrator of part III of Charles Dickens’ 1868
novella Holiday Romance. The hero of this fantasy is a pirate named Captain
Boldheart, who embraced his criminal career out of loathing for the Latin master
who had ‘spited’ him. In the China seas, Boldheart encounters a ship flying
the flag of ancient Rome, and it turns out that its captain is the Latin master.
Boldheart orders his men ‘that the Latin-grammar master should be taken alive’,
and then defeats him in ‘a terrific cannonading’. The Latin master is then punished
for his perfidy and spite against little boys by being cast adrift in a small boat
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Dickens versus the Classics 111
with a few provisions and a Latin grammar. Later, the master is about to be
cooked by wildly dancing ‘savages’ on an island. He is being coated with flour and
has had his head shaved. Boldheart rescues him, but only on condition that ‘he
should never, under any circumstances, presume to teach any boy anything any
more’, and that he would spend the rest of his life voluntarily helping boys with
their Latin exercises.43
Incompetent and even sadistic teachers of the ancient languages like these
feature regularly in Dickens’ many lousy educational establishments, since bad
teaching of Latin had become, for him, a symbol of bad education. But the only
novel in which Dickens specifically attacks the coercion of children into classical
pursuits is Dombey and Son, in the first chapter, through the portrait of a woman,
the übersnob Cornelia Blimber; she loved dead languages, which she would dig
up ‘like a ghoul’, and worshipped Cicero.44 In David Copperfield, on the other
hand, Dr Strong the lexicographer is a brilliant scholar, and pathetic rather than
malevolent. Even in the semi-autobiographical Our School, the real problem is
not the scholarly Latin teacher himself but the vicious headmaster.
A third theory is that Dickens’ class consciousness and sympathy with
marginalized groups led him deliberately to avoid classical references as elitist.
It has been argued that his repudiation of the classics is a form of ‘alienation’
that ‘offers a means of understanding the nature and mechanisms of class
marginalization, the patterns of which, psychological and social, inscribe
themselves on Dickens’ texts.’45 But this explanation will not do, either. Dickens
was certainly insecure about his own status as a ‘gentleman’ and used that laden
term, as statistical analysts of his prose can inform us, nearly three times as often
as any other significant nineteenth-century novelist.46 He was also committed to
the creation of a populist literature accessible to all literate members of the
public at large. As the first advertisement for Household Words put it, everything
he wrote was suited to ‘the entertainment and instruction of all classes of
readers’.47 But there is no evidence that he opposed the humane study of the
classics in general, or indeed in principle, either in the original languages or in
modern-language translation.
Thinking in terms of literary genealogy may be more helpful. Dickens can be
understood as an heir, or at least a successor, to the Wordsworthian Romantic
tradition. In his rejection of regulated neoclassicism he was in a profound
sense a Romantic: besides loathing French neoclassical theatre, he claimed that
he had written the death of Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop in order to
‘substitute a garland of fresh flowers for the sculptured horrors which disgrace
the tomb’.48 But he also reacted massively against the Romantic poets’ disapproval
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112 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
of technology and civilization, their cult of the noble savage, and idealization of
the past as visited through travels conducted in the imagination. As he wrote to
Douglas Jerrold on 3 May 1843, ‘If I ever destroy myself, it will be in the bitterness
of hearing those infernal and damnably good old times extolled’.49 Classical
Italy did deserve to be remembered, he thought, but not because of any virtue
immanent to that civilization. The reason, rather, was that ‘in every fragment of
her fallen temples, and every stone of her deserted palaces and prisons, she helps
to inculcate the lesson that the wheel of Time is rolling for an end, and that the
world is, in all great essentials, better, gentler, more forbearing.’50
Fletcher concludes that Dickens’ lack of classical material is because ‘he always
wrote from the heart rather than the intellect’;51 although there is some truth
in this, it underplays how much Dickens had thought through his purpose in
writing his novels. What we are dealing with is not a rejection of the classics as
much as a positive embrace of the future possibilities of prose fiction – a conscious
vote for progress and for making new things in literature. He did not want to
‘make it new’ in the sense meant by Ezra Pound,52 who advocated reblending and
selecting from previous literary styles to produce a ‘new’, synthetic, modernist
aesthetic. Dickens wanted to make something wholly new in a form of permanent
aesthetic revolution against the inherited plot shape or word cluster.
Getting at Dickens’ own aesthetic views is notoriously difficult, since he wrote
so little about them. Some of the more important statements are actually to be
found in his remarks about the visual arts. Confusingly, for a man who despised
neoclassicism in literature, he liked Canova, but in general he expressed fairly
trenchant objections to conventionality in art and to the use of stereotyped
typologies. In a letter of 1845, on the reuse of the same model by artists in Rome,
Dickens deplored the fact that ‘students should go on copying these people
elaborately time after time out of mind, and find nothing fresh or suggestive in
the actual world around them’.53
When it comes to literature, his recorded views even on canonical authors
are not illuminating: he revered Chaucer, Shakespeare, the New Testament,
Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Tobias Smollett’s Humphrey Clinker and Walter Scott’s
The Bride of Lammermore. Richard Lettis has tried to reconstruct Dickens’
aesthetic tenets from his editorial work in Household Words and other journalistic
ventures.54 Dickens preferred any story to possess an inherently proper length, to
be realistic and probable, to use characterization to help along the action, and to
restrict the story sternly to what was needed for the plot as a whole. These tenets,
in a sense, could not be more classical, reproducing Aristotle’s categories in the
Poetics of mēkos, eikos, prepon, hen and holon. But they sit alongside a pervasive
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Dickens versus the Classics 113
and emphatic rejection of the trite, the ordinary, the clichéd and predictable.
Dickens encouraged all his writers to strive to create new plotlines and new
combinations of words. In the case of one story by Harriet Martineau, his high
praise showed the three virtues he most admired: it was ‘affecting’, it had ‘a fine
plain purpose’ and ‘a singular novelty’. His approving reactions to Wilkie Collins’
work reveal his admiration for avoidance of the obvious plot pattern and a
penchant for the striking and wild against an ordinary, everyday background.55
In his editorial work, Dickens particularly admired fictionalizations of real
human stories of the ‘here and now’ that he found in newspapers. Much that
appears far-fetched in his own work can also be proven to be inspired by real-life
human stories, drawn from his experience writing police reports for The Morning
Chronicle or data extracted from the report of the Poor Law Commission or the
Second Report on Children’s Employment in Mines and Factories. I used to be
tempted to see a Cyclopean reference in the vile Mr Squeers, the one-eyed
despotic headmaster of Dotheboys Hall, the Yorkshire School attended by
Nicholas Nickleby. But this turns out to be a detail inspired by his real-life
prototype, a schoolmaster named William Shaw, who was really one-eyed and
had been put on trial for gross neglect of the boys at his school in 1823.56
It is difficult for us to recreate a sense of how shockingly revolutionary
Dickens’ style seemed to his contemporaries.57 Trollope disliked it intensely:
Of Dickens’s style it is impossible to speak in praise. It is jerky, ungrammatical,
and created by himself in defiance of rules . . . To readers who have taught
themselves to regard language, it must therefore be unpleasant.58
The Professor of Rhetoric at Edinburgh, W. E. Aytoun, published a disguised
satirical attack on Dickens, in which he says, with faux-admiration, ‘You have . . .
undertaken to frame a new code of grammar and of construction for yourself;
and the light and airy effect of this happy innovation is conspicuous . . . There is
no slipslop here – only a fine, manly disregard of syntax’.59 These features –
rejection of strict rules of syntax and grammar, innovation and wordiness – also
appear in responses by authors more favourable to Dickens’ work, such as Horne,
who saw that Dickens ‘continually exhibits the most trifling and commonplace
things in a new and amusing light’.60
The main difficulty in our feeling the extreme newness of Dickens’ prose
style is that he contributed so much diction to the English language, besides all
those proper names that have become part of everyday locution (Gradgrind,
Micawber).61 A brilliant study by Sørensen has shown that he introduced well
over a thousand lexicographically demonstrable neologistic words and phrases,
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including dozens that are part of everyday speech – doormat, abolitionist, an
acquired taste, on the cards, casualty ward, flummox.62 The second difficulty in
hearing how innovative he was is that his adventures in style prefigure so many
of the tropes usually associated with modernist fiction that we, post-Woolf and
Joyce, are insensitive to the shock that they must originally have caused. The
chief novelistic innovations with which he has been credited are these: (1) his
experimental confusion between Free Indirect Discourse, direct speech, indirect
speech and focalizations; (2) his freedom with the confusion of tenses: in Bleak
House, for example, he experiments with the present tense in roughly half the
whole book in order to represent the interminable dragging out of the lawsuit
and to conjure up ‘the peculiar and sinister atmosphere’;63 (3) he is happy to write
non-sentences, lacking finite verbs. See, for example, ‘The time, an hour short of
midnight; the place, a French apartment . . .’64 But here there is a reason for the
lack of verbs, and this is that Dickens is reproducing the style of stage directions,
just as he elsewhere reproduces the definite and indefinite-article-free style of
newspaper headings and especially the newly invented telegraph, as in ‘Venerable
parent promptly resorts to anathematisation, and turns him out. Shocked and
terrified boy takes flight’.65 These three ‘dialects’ – stage directions, journalistic
compression and ‘telegraphese’ – show Dickens once again anticipating the
great modernists by replicating patterns of speech as they occur in the real
world rather than making them all conform to a preconceived model of a correct
novelistic koinē.66
It would be interesting to look for ancient equivalents – they are unlikely to
be models – for other distinctively Dickensian stylistic innovations. These
include the ascription of subjectivity to inanimate objects (‘The wooden leg
looked at him with a meditative eye’67), the premodification of nouns by strings
of parallel attributive adjectives (‘a bawling, splashing, link-lighted, umbrella-
struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking, muddy, miserable world’68)
and the attempt to imitate, through prose rhythm, the rhythms of the newly
technologized and mechanized world around him – another profoundly Joycean
trick. The most famous example is the breathtaking description of the train in
Dombey and Son, ‘away, with a shriek, and roar, and a rattle, through the fields,
through the woods, through the corn, through the hay, through the heath,
through the mould, through the clay, through the rock’.69
The argument I have been struggling to frame is about one author who
wanted to forge a new kind of prose fiction, one which engaged at every
level with immediate reality by listening intently to that reality rather than to
inherited texts. How we talk about Dickens’ relationship with classical texts
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Dickens versus the Classics 115
brings us into one of the most frustrating limitations on conventional aesthetic
theory. An antithesis – a Hegelian, dialectical reaction against established tastes
and norms – is just as closely indebted to its thesis as a simple-minded imitation.
When abstract art reacted against figurative art, or Dadaism against nineteenth-
century realism, it is easy enough to see how the antithetical, rejecting aesthetic
movement retains, immanently within it, the analytical categories it opposes. But
in the case of Dickens it is much easier to define what he wanted to do than what
he did not.
I began by entitling this chapter ‘Dickens versus the Classics’, but it has become
apparent to me that this is not an adequate account of the relationship between
the man and the cultural property. He wanted something real, and new, far more
than he wanted something that was not old. I think he would have agreed with
e.e. cummings, who once asked why T. S. Eliot ‘couldn’t write his own lines
instead of borrowing from dead poets.’70 Perhaps the title ‘Dickens regardless
of the classics’ would better get over what I mean. But I conclude with the
profound statement on Dickens’ anticlassicism of George Gissing, a classical
scholar from the North of England who himself became an outstanding writer
of realist fiction. It comes in Gissing’s essay on Dombey and Son. Although he
underestimates the extent of Dickens’ classical education, he sees the clear link
between Dickens’ conscious break with hoary literary precedent and his zeal for
social reform: Dickens, he says,
had a strong prejudice against the ‘classics’; their true value he was not
capable of appreciating, and his common sense told him that, as used in the
average middle-class school, they were worse than valueless . . . Great is the
achievement of a public man who supplies his audience with the picture that
abides, the catch-word unforgettable, and Dickens many a time did so. It is
the picture and the catch-word, not reason or rhetoric, that effect reform.71
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7
Classics and Social Closure
Christopher Stray
In the 1960s and 1970s a mutual disdain between classicists and sociologists was
widespread in Britain. In the wake of the abolition of compulsory Latin at Oxford
and Cambridge at the end of the 1950s, classical recruitment in schools was
declining fast. At the same time, social science was expanding in both schools
and universities. In the 1980s, however, the two subjects acquired a common
cause, since they were both airbrushed from official maps of knowledge.
Mrs Thatcher declared that society did not exist, and, though her attempt to
abolish the Social Science Research Council was thwarted, she had it renamed
the Economic and Social Research Council. Her government’s National
Curriculum of 1988 in effect declared that, at school level, Classics did not exist.
Recently we have heard from another Conservative prime minister, David
Cameron, that society both exists and is, or can be, a Big Society; and the latest
plans for the school curriculum involve a pool of ‘mainstream’ subjects which
appears to include Classics.1
Social closure
The issue in the current debates on curriculum is one of inclusion and exclusion,
and this is the topic I want to address via the notion of social closure. This refers
to the creation and maintenance of social boundaries which separate people into
insiders and outsiders (which, in many cases, also means superiors and inferiors),
but it can also be applied to curricular boundaries. I have chosen this focus
because it is useful in looking at class divisions, while putting them in a wider
context. Not all social divisions are class divisions; not all social boundaries are
erected on a class basis. Marx’s original analysis of class saw it as based on control
of the means of production; social differences, for him, were firmly rooted in the
economic realm. Since Marx’s time, race, gender and religion have also been
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explored as bases of social difference. The notion of social closure comes from
the work of a later thinker, the German sociologist Max Weber. Weber wanted to
look at status groups and elites rather than just at social classes; that is, he added
to Marx’s emphasis on the economic bases of social life an analysis of the role of
culture. In addition, in his work he developed a picture of social structure and
social change which was both historical and comparative. Here is Weber looking
for a middle path between Marx’s economic reductionism and a purely cultural
or idealistic analysis:
Not ideas, but material and ideal interests, directly govern conduct. Yet very
frequently the worldviews that have been created by ideas have, like
switchmen, determined the tracks along which action has been driven by
the dynamic of interest.2
This is from an American translation (slightly adapted) of Weber’s original
German; in British English the equivalent of ‘switchman’ would be ‘pointsman’.
What is at issue is a double tension: between the economic and the cultural
(material and ideal), and between determinism and freedom. The tracks are
determining, the points represent choices and alternatives. Economic and
material interests drive people forward, but their ideas of the world steer them
forward in one direction or another. One might say that, had Marx adopted the
railway metaphor, he would have envisaged a single-track route, or multiple
tracks becoming one, leading to a terminus, the socialist utopia. Points would be
needed in the Marxian railway system, but for convergence rather than
divergence. Weber, however, builds in the idea of alternatives, of an open future.
In his rail system, one line forks into (at least) two; hence the importance of the
switchman.3 Similarly, his idea of social closure, which includes tensions between
competing status groups, is more flexible and more dynamic than Marx’s more
monolithic economic/class analysis.
The discussion of social closure in recent decades was sparked off in the 1970s
by the work of Frank Parkin, who rebelled against the dominance of stratification
theory and Marxist analysis and used humour to undermine it. His 1971 book
Class Inequality and Political Order was described by a later writer on the topic
as ‘a humorous and loudly sarcastic exposé of the folly of contemporary Marxian
theory’, and Parkin himself as ‘the only comic writer in contemporary sociology’:
there were, admittedly, few contenders for the title.4 Parkin distinguished
between collectivist and individualist modes of closure. An example of collectivist
closure would be a prohibition on males joining a group; of individualist closure,
letting in only those who achieved a specified score in a test. This is clearly related
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118 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
to the long-standing distinction between ascribed and achieved status, familiar
to classicists in the contrast between the nobilis and the novus homo in the late
Roman Republic. Here status based on inherited position is analytically
contrasted with, and historically challenged by, status acquired by individual
effort.
The best-known visual image of British class distinction is a photograph
taken outside the Lords cricket ground in 1937 during the annual Eton–Harrow
match (Figure 7.1). This image has become a cliché, but, like most clichés, has
been misunderstood. The two boys on the left are not Eton nobs, as often claimed,
but Harrow nobs. The three working-class boys on the right are not gazing at
them with amazement or ridicule, as many have assumed: they had skipped
school and hoped to make a shilling carrying bags for the nobs, as local boys
commonly did, and the photographer persuaded them to move up close for his
picture.5
One of the many stories one could extract from this image is a story of
inclusion and exclusion: not about the two groups of boys, as one might think,
but about Eton and Harrow. In the nineteenth century, one of the main ways in
which public schools asserted their mutual solidarity was by playing each other
Figure 7.1
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Classics and Social Closure 119
at games.6 But who would play with whom? Eton, Harrow and Winchester played
no schools but each other. From the 1860s, the nine schools investigated by the
Royal Commission of 1864 (the ‘Clarendon Commission’) were seen as the elite.
But, though Westminster and Shrewsbury both belonged in this group, in 1866
an invitation to Westminster from the Shrewsbury cricket captain for a match
was turned down on the grounds that ‘Westminster plays no schools except
public schools.’7
Figure 7.2 is another picture of five boys, which might convince us of the
regimentation of schoolchildren except that (as some readers may remember)
they are different views of the same boy, showing the claimed progress from
Desperation through Pacification, Expectation and Acclamation to Realisation.
The product advertised, Fry’s Five Boys chocolate bar, was launched in the 1880s
and expired in the 1970s.8 The Edwardian sailor suit worn by the boy in the
picture is very much of its time, but over the lifetime of the chocolate bar a series
of Education Acts, notably the Butler Act of 1944, increased access to secondary
education. In 1902 there were 35,000 children in grammar schools; in 1932, half
a million. This history of access can be illustrated by looking at yet another five
boys, from successive generations of a South London family (Figure 7.3). In the
Figure 7.2
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120 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Figure 7.3
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Classics and Social Closure 121
early years of the century, one family member, born about 1848, worked on the
Deptford and Greenwich tramway, which was opened in 1891. He was claimed
to be a veterinary surgeon – the trams were drawn by horses – but he may have
been simply an ostler. His name was Christopher Stray. The boy on a horse is his
son Stanley; the man in the picture may be his father, but there is no documentary
evidence. Stanley, born in 1890, went to elementary school, then became a
jobbing painter and decorator. But he was also a self-taught pianist. In the
summer months he toured South Coast hotels in a Palm Court orchestra; at
other times, he played the Wurlitzer organ installed in the New Cross Kinema in
1929, rising into view on a hydraulic lift while the reels of the film were being
changed. While he was in view, a slide was projected showing his stage name,
Jack Stanley. At home, his basement held mouldering copies of self-improvement
books, including Harmsworth’s Self-Educator and (a glimpse of yet another
artistic talent) a six-foot-long cardboard model of the Queen Mary, alas never
finished. His son Peter, shown by his side in the head-and-shoulders portrait,
won a London County Council (LCC) scholarship to a minor public school and
became a civil servant. Although he learned some Latin, the Second World War
prevented Peter from going to university, but later in life he gained a degree at
Birkbeck College through evening study. His son Christopher, the fourth of the
five boys, gained an LCC scholarship to the same school, learned Latin, Greek
and ancient history, and went on to university in 1963: he and his sister were the
first generation of the family to do so.
This is the story of one family (my own); but its pattern of increasing access
to education and opportunity is fairly typical. In the 1960s, when this story ends,
compulsory Latin had just been abolished, and the public schools were
increasingly becoming the major stronghold of the subject at the secondary
level. If the family history I have outlined were continued to the current
generation – the fifth of the five boys, born in 1978 – it would tell of a schooling
without either Latin or Greek. In the same period, it would record the
abandonment of the conception of education as a public good, and its redefinition
as a commodity best left to market forces.
Classics and/or sociology
It is not surprising that Weber’s metaphor was drawn from railways, since they
formed a central part of the new industrialized world in which the founding
fathers of sociology, Marx, Durkheim and Weber, lived and died. It was after a
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122 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
journey from Liverpool to Manchester by rail in 1830, on the first passenger
train to travel the route, that Tennyson wrote his well-known lines:
Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range.
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change.9
Here the tracks are not determining but directing: an iron road to a different
future. (Tennyson did not realize that train wheels ran on rails, thinking they ran
in grooves, rather like tramlines.10)
The railways reappear in Marx’s meditation on antiquity and modernity in his
Grundrisse, the notebooks he filled in the 1850s. Here they stand in uncomfortable
contrast with the ideals Marx had imbibed as a student:
Is the view of nature and of social relations which lies at the basis of . . .
Greek mythology possible with self-acting mule spindles and railways and
locomotives and electric telegraphs? What becomes of Vulcan faced with
Roberts & Co.,11 Jupiter faced with the lightning-conductor, Hermes faced
with the Credit mobilier?12 What happens to Fama next to Printing House
Square?
. . . The difficulty is that [the Greeks] still give us artistic satisfaction and
in certain respects remain as norms and unattainable models . . . Why should
the historical childhood of mankind, where it blossoms most beautifully, not
exercise eternal charm as a stage that can never reappear? One finds bad-
mannered children and children old before their time. Most of the ancient
peoples belong in these categories. The Greeks were normal children.13
The passage reveals Marx’s reluctance to abandon the attachment to Greek
culture he had gained from a classical education.14 Marx had attended the
University of Berlin, where he went to Immanuel Bekker’s lectures on Aristotle.
As a student he translated Aristotle’s Rhetoric, Tacitus’ Germania and Ovid’s
Tristia, and later wrote a thesis contrasting the doctrines of Democritus and
Epicurus. The conception of ancient Greece as part of the childhood of humanity
makes it an unrecoverable paradise which possesses an eternal charm: the
Greeks are at once superseded and outside time. Marx’s interest in Greek art
helps to explain his friendship, in the 1880s, with the German-Jewish-American
Charles Waldstein, the first teacher of classical archaeology at Cambridge.15
Max Weber also had a classical education. At thirteen, he wrote a long essay
on the late Roman Empire for his parents; at fourteen, his letters home from
school were studded with classical references.16 Weber’s doctoral thesis of 1889
was entitled ‘The History of Commercial Societies in the Middle Ages’. One of
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his examiners was the great classical scholar Theodor Mommsen, who told him:
‘When I come to die, there is no one to whom I would rather say, Son, the spear
is too heavy for my hand, carry it on.’17 The imagery is Roman, Mommsen
imagining himself as the aging paterfamilias. Emile Durkheim learned Latin and
Greek at school before going in 1879 to the École Normale Supérieure, the peak
of the French educational system; in his first year he struggled with compulsory
Latin verse and Greek prose composition.18 One of his dissertations was written
in Latin, as the regulations demanded.19 Among his teachers was Fustel de
Coulanges, author of La Cité Antique, whose influence can be seen in Durkheim’s
work.20 I say little about Durkheim, since he thought in terms of social
membership rather than of class and status. All three founding fathers of
sociology had lifetimes which fell within a period of about one hundred years,
from Marx’s birth in 1818 to Weber’s death in 1920. In that century
industrialization reached its apogee and the social began to be theorized. The
works of Marx and Weber are now classics, but the founders of sociology were
both products of German liberal society and of its cultural heritage from the
classically oriented humanism of the eighteenth century.21
Class and classics in nineteenth-century England
In the second half of the eighteenth century, social and cultural change combined
to assemble what was in the following century often called ‘the classical system’.
The ideological opposition between the republican virtue of property-owning
citizens and the denigrated world of commerce was undercut by the growth of
middle-class groups whose fortunes came from manufacturing rather than land,
but whose profits enabled them to buy land. These nouveaux riches wanted status
as well as comfort, and adopted contemporary standards to get it, stocking their
houses with the trappings of gentility, including classical books and statues.
Many of them sent their sons to rural boarding schools, helping to provide the
means for their recovery from centuries of moribundity.
The revival of these schools in the late eighteenth century was the first stage
in the enormous expansion of the public-school sector, which by 1900 was firmly
established, and clearly segregated in two ways. First, the public schools were
joined by a cluster of preparatory schools set up to feed them. Second, the public
schools themselves were stratified. I have already mentioned the elite group of
nine Clarendon schools, one of which, Rugby, gave its name to a distinct version
of football. Below this elite, a larger group maintained status partly through
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124 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
mutual games-playing, partly by gaining the (mostly classical) scholarships
offered by Oxford and Cambridge colleges. Some of these schools had been
recently founded, or recently revived, by pupils of Arnold of Rugby, or by his
pupils’ pupils: schools like Sedbergh, Sherborne and Repton. A third group
consisted of proprietary schools, set up as limited companies by middle-class
parents. At the outer fringes were a host of small private schools aping public-
school style by adopting and advertising their attributes: a classical curriculum,
games, the old school tie.22 The question of which schools counted as public
schools had no simple answer, as it was essentially contested.23 The criteria of
judgement were at issue as well as the evidence. If these grand, not so grand and
ridiculously aspirant institutions formed a stratified world separate from the
thousands of small private schools and, in the later part of the century, the
elementary or board schools run by local authorities, they also provided a
stratified microcosm in given localities.
Most public schools were boarding institutions and recruited pupils nationally.
But location mattered. One reason was that a rural, or at least non-metropolitan,
location helped schools to create the isolated and transformative settings in which
savage boys were made into Christian men (as Thomas Arnold put it), or bourgeois
clods were shaped into gentlemen, and financial capital turned into cultural
capital (as the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu put it). Another reason was that
many schools retained founders’ provisions for the schooling of local residents;
and this led to families moving to their catchment areas in order to secure free
education for their sons. (The practice is not unknown today.) At Rugby they were
called sojourners, and started arriving in 1821; in 1830 a two-year residence rule
was introduced to control access. In the following decade the headmaster, Thomas
Arnold, fought a ruthless and successful campaign to close down the lower school,
installing ignorant and ineffective teachers. One knew no Latin; the other was a
Swiss whose pronunciation of Latin made him incomprehensible to his pupils.
Numbers soon dropped, and the lower school closed.
Contact between school and local community could be embarrassing unless
social hierarchies were strictly observed. Thus, in the case of Cheltenham
College, its honorary secretary remembered that
Had we admitted tradesmen . . . we should have had the sons of gentlemen
shaking hands perhaps with school-fellows behind the counter, and a fusion
of ranks taking place . . .24
Fees deterred those who were not well off. But, in addition to these barriers, the
domination of the curriculum by Latin and Greek meant that only those who
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had been prepared in the languages, by a private tutor or at a prep school, stood
any chance of access. As competition increased, standards rose, and so did the
length of prep-school schooling. A full gentleman’s school education might
stretch from six to eighteen. Some schools escaped such obligations by setting up
schools for local residents – for example, Alleyn’s school in Dulwich, named after
the founder of Dulwich College and originally its lower school.25 In this way,
schools which had been founded several centuries before to educate local
children became boarding schools with a national catchment area, in – but not
of – their local communities.
The eighteenth-century world of patronage began to be eroded in the middle
of the following century, when the written examination spread as a standard
mechanism for evaluation and institutional access.26 The best-known example is
the replacement of patronage by examination for civil service entry after the
Northcote–Trevelyan report of 1854. To a degree, however, the well-connected
continued to succeed, as they could afford training in the relevant areas. As
Gladstone remarked, it would be the public-school and university men who
scored highly in civil service examinations.27 The Indian Civil Service
examinations were constructed in a way which favoured the products of English
universities, notably Oxford, and were fine-tuned when necessary to keep out
those who knew most about India – the Indians.28 In any case, some departments
held out – the Board of Education used patronage for appointments till 1919. The
regulations allowed it for special consultants, and the Board’s mandarins claimed
that all their senior staff fell into this category. Similarly, the overseas civil service
relied heavily on interviews, to get the right sort of chap, into the 1940s.29
The idea that the vernacular and its speakers marked out a separate social and
cultural realm emerged in force during arguments over access in the nineteenth
century. In mid-century, middle-class schooling and English schooling were
seen as equivalent terms, denoting a world which had to be acknowledged and
catered for, but which was inferior to the world of the classically educated
gentleman. In the late Victorian period, newly respectable social groups went for
local schools with some Classics, aiming for social status. The lateness of state
intervention in schooling – elementary 1870, secondary schools 1902 – meant
that the classical system embedded itself for several decades. In some ways the
high noon of the mythicized public schools, with its novels and games cult, was
the period from the 1880s to the First World War.30
Knowledge was not available only in schools. Gentleman travelled to Italy
and (less often) to Greece, bought statues and vases and assembled them in their
houses, creating connoisseur environments within which they could socialize
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126 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
with friends and with which they could impress others.31 In the 1830s and 1840s,
with travel becoming easier, middle-class families began to visit Italy, using the
handbooks published by Murray and Baedeker.32 For the working classes, the
nearest they could come to this experience was visiting museums and galleries.
Let me take the British Museum as an example. In the 1760s, entrance was by
free ticket but there was often a backlog, with thousands of people waiting to be
given visiting appointments. The museum’s director complained that his officers,
men of liberal education, had to show round ‘the lower kind of people, who in
many instances had behaved improperly to them’.33 His successor liberalized
procedures, and numbers of visitors rose quickly.34 But the limited opening
hours of 10 am–4 pm effectively blocked access to working people. A
parliamentary select committee enquiry in 1835 was told by Sir Henry Ellis, the
director at the time, that opening in Easter week would be disastrous: ‘the most
mischievous portion of the population is abroad and about at such a time . . . the
more vulgar class would crowd into the Museum’; he suggested that sailors
might come from the dockyards and bring their girlfriends with them.35
The early nineteenth century saw a new world of mechanization, not just in
the railways, but before that in printing, with steam presses, stereotyping and
lithography. Although taxes on paper made it difficult, books were increasingly
produced for an expanding market of working-class readers and autodidacts. A
sense of this market can be gained from the classical editions assembled in the
1820s by T. W. C. Edwards. The title page of his edition of Euripides’ Orestes of
1823 claims both scholarship and accessibility, and the latter, at least, is further
demonstrated in his page layout. Text, literal and verse translation, metrical
analysis and notes offer the learner all he or she could want. Other books move
in this direction, but the eccentric and obscure Edwards takes accessible
multiplicity to its limits. As can be seen, he is happy for his individual voice to be
heard – ‘this pronunciation is horrible’.36
The great Greek scholar Richard Porson, to whose authority Edwards
appealed, had written in Latin; Edwards speaks directly to the reader in ordinary,
if somewhat naïve, English. His Alcestis was savaged by a Cambridge don, whose
text Edwards had used and criticized, but this is unlikely to have affected his
sales in his own chosen market.37 In the same period, interlinear translations
became popular in the market Edwards was aiming at. This was an age of
professors, self-promoting educators each with his own system: the Hamiltonian
system, Locke’s system, Ahn, Ollendorff, and so on.38 A little later on, the firms of
Cassell in London and Chambers in Edinburgh published large quantities of
self-educator books and magazines. Cassell’s serialized Popular Educator began
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Classics and Social Closure 127
in 1852, and consisted almost entirely of lessons, including a series on Latin by a
reforming Unitarian minister, Revd John Beard. Beard had already published a
book called Latin Made Easy (1849), and now reprised it. Lesson IV began with
first declension nouns, and noted that several case endings were identical. Beard
commented sympathetically: ‘This undoubtedly is a defect in the language.’39
Here the teacher is not just speaking directly to the learner; he is very much on
his or her side.
Such books were disapproved of not just by scholars, but by conservatives
who saw in them a dilution of literary value. Here is John Gibson Lockhart,
Walter Scott’s son-in-law and editor of the tory Quarterly Review, in 1827,
reviewing a group of contemporary memoirs:
The classics of the papier mâché age of our drama have taken up the salutary
belief that England expects every driveller to do his memorabilia . . . Cabin
boys and drummers are busy with their commentaries de bello Gallico . . .40
Papier mâché had been used for internal decoration since the early eighteenth
century as a cheaper and lighter substitute for wood and plaster: the equivalent
today would be plastics like expanded polyurethane. Lockhart’s predecessor as
editor, William Gifford, was no less right wing and even more savage, but had
been raised from poverty by kindly patrons who perceived his talents. The same
thing had happened to his contemporary Richard Porson; and it is worth
remembering that in the bad old days of the late eighteenth century, before the
foundation of local schools by the religious societies, patronage did sometimes
rescue and promote poor and talented individuals. But many mute inglorious
Porsons and Giffords must have languished unseen.
The Revd Beard, and before him T. W. C. Edwards, used English to explain
Latin or Greek. But, like Porson’s editions of Greek plays, most Latin and Greek
grammars of the early nineteenth century were written in Latin. They were thus
incomprehensible to the autodidact, and attracted increasing criticism for
expecting their readers to learn good Latin from books written in bad Latin. One
of Edwards’ productions was an English translation of the Eton Latin grammar;
and in the 1830s reforming schoolmasters like Benjamin Kennedy of Shrewsbury
started issuing textbooks in English. Charles Wordsworth, however, nephew of
the poet and author of the market-leading Greek grammar from the 1840s to the
1870s, clung resolutely to Latin.41
English was the common language, but also the language of the common
people, and many teachers and scholars were reluctant to use it. In 1843, in the
first edition of their Greek–English lexicon, Liddell and Scott felt obliged to
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128 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
defend themselves from the charge that using English rather than Latin was ‘an
unworthy condescension to the indolence of the age’. They went on to distinguish
lexical glosses, which should be in English, from critical notes to texts, for which
Latin should be retained. They were bolstered, perhaps, by the authority of the
Greek–German lexicon, of which their book was to begin with a translation.
Incidentally, the abridged edition of the lexicon was published simultaneously in
1843; this cheaper and thus more accessible book was clearly part of the original
plan. Liddell and Scott may thus be the first mother and child dictionary to be
published.42
1832 and All That
The 1832 Act is remembered in the popular imagination as a measure which
increased the numbers of eligible voters; but it still excluded the poor – in its
wake fewer than one in seven of the adult male population had the vote (and, for
the first time, women were explicitly excluded).43 The excitement caused by the
passage of the 1832 Bill was seen in some quarters as the cause of declining
interest in a contemporary classical journal. The Philological Museum was
founded in 1830 and closed down three years later. In October 1833 one of its
editors, Connop Thirlwall, later famous as a historian of Greece, wrote to his
friend Baron Bunsen suggesting that its decline was in part caused by ‘The
excitement produced in the public mind by the events of the day . . .’ He went on:
we are in danger of sinking into that state of general and confirmed
indifference to this branch of knowledge which the revolution and the
system of Napoleon have produced in France, where, I believe, a taste for it
is generally considered as a kind of fancy not much more respectable than
that of a bibliomaniac, and as an indication of a somewhat weak head . . . I
do not know whether in Germany it would be possible to meet with an
educated man capable of thinking and saying that the value attached to the
classical languages was a mere fraud practised on the credulous by those
who found it their interest to keep up the price of a worthless commodity
which they happened to possess. We sometimes hear such opinions in
England . . .44
The point of maintaining the value of classical knowledge was not just to inflate
the status of those who possessed it, but also to preserve this alliance of
status and learning by controlling access to it by social inferiors. Upper- and
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middle-class opinion was, however, divided on the question of working-class
education; some thought it was dangerous to provide the inferior classes with
any knowledge, while others believed that the right kind of education could
promote obedience and docility. Similarly, in the early years of the École Normale
in the 1800s, attempts to include Classics in the curriculum were blocked by
Napoleon, who thought it might give rise to radical thinking. He was eventually
persuaded that the inclusion of the right kind of classical literature would
encourage correct opinions.
The references to France and Germany remind us that, in early nineteenth-
century England, moral panics about the subversion of the social order often
looked abroad. France was the country of revolution, and also of an algebraic
mathematics full of arbitrary symbols and unknown quantities. This kind of
mathematics infiltrated Cambridge in the 1810s, a university already suspect for
being more liberal than Oxford, whose curriculum was firmly based on Classics.
Both universities demanded that its students swore allegiance to the thirty-nine
articles of the Church of England, but Oxford made them sign up on
matriculation, Cambridge only on graduation.
Germany was the home of a rational theology which English conservatives
saw as a threat to Christian faith. If Cambridge was suspect in conservative
quarters, Scotland was a veritable cultural fifth column. It was from there that
the attacks of the Edinburgh Review on Oxford had been launched in 1809,
denouncing its religious restrictions, its narrow curriculum and – unkindest cut
of all – the quality of its classical scholarship. The Scottish universities were
mostly urban and non-residential, and attracted large numbers of bright poor
boys – the ‘lads of parts’. This grand tradition was described in George Davie’s
eloquently patriotic book The Democratic Intellect.45 Subsequent writers have
cast considerable doubt on his claims for the tradition, seeing it as a mechanism
which, in promoting upwards movement, simultaneously reinforced class
hierarchies.46
The defence of Oxford against what he called the calumnies of the Edinburgh
Review was led by Edward Copleston. His finest rhetorical flourish came in this
striking metaphorical passage:
We want not men who are clipped and espaliered into any form which the
whim of the gardener may dictate, or the narrow limits of his parterre
require. Let our saplings take their full spread, and send forth their vigorous
shoots in all the boldness and variety of nature. Their luxuriance must be
pruned; their distortions rectified; the rust and canker and caterpillar of vice
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130 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
carefully kept from them: we must dig round them, and water them, and
replenish the exhaustion of the soil by continual dressing.47
Writing in Oxford, the home of Aristotelian study, Copleston denounces the
‘Platonic reverie’ of regimentation in favour of good old English freedom.
‘Espalier’ and ‘parterre’ both indicate interventionist restriction, the one vertical,
the other horizontal; and, though both words were naturalized in English, they
were, significantly, both of French origin. Copleston may have used the unfamiliar
word ‘espaliered’ deliberately – this is the first example of its English use noticed
by OED. In eulogizing English freedom, he is nevertheless aware of the limits of
personal aspiration: ‘There are but so many good places in the theatre of life; and
he who puts us in the way of procuring one of them, does us indeed a great
favour, but none to the whole assembly.’48
Copleston spoke only of ‘men’: what of girls and women? They had very few
schools before mid-century, though from the late 1850s the Oxford and
Cambridge local examinations, run by the universities in local centres throughout
the country, were opened up to them. From 1869 women’s colleges were founded
at the ancient universities.49 But many must have been taught at home – or taught
themselves. In 1887 the Girl’s Own Paper carried a short article by Evelyn Upton
entitled ‘How I taught myself to read the Greek Testament.’ She begins by
declaring that she has never been to school or college:
I am not a Girton girl. I have not graduated at Newnham . . . I have never
even been in for the Oxford and Cambridge Local Examinations . . . When I
was about sixteen, by way of letting off some of the mental steam, I began to
study Latin for my own amusement. Then a few years later, I determined to
attack the Greek tongue, in order that I might . . . read the New Testament in
the original.
Upton goes on to describe how she learned the language, recommending books
and pointing out some of the pitfalls of Greek. The dual is one of them, though
Upton helpfully explains that it does not occur in the New Testament. The
article is interesting in giving the pupil’s eye view of learning, a pupil – one might
think – excluded from knowledge commonly offered to boys. The truth is more
complicated.
At the beginning of her article, having explained that she attended no schools
or colleges, Upton tells us that she was educated at home by governesses, the last
of whom left when she was thirteen. Not so deprived as one might have thought,
then: so who was Evelyn Upton? Upton was her married name; she had been
born Lady Evelyn Georgiana Finch-Hatton, daughter of the 10th Earl of
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Winchilsea. Nor was her husband plain Mr Upton, but Henry Edward Montagu
Dorington Clotworthy Upton, 4th Viscount Templetown. When she sent her
article to the Girl’s Own Paper she was twenty-three; she died in 1932, a year after
her nephew Denys, Karen Blixen’s lover, who died in a plane crash in Africa.
None of this exotic and aristocratic context affects my liking for her article, but
it does remind us that one can be an outsider in some ways but an insider in
others.
In the second half of the nineteenth century, the expanded and firmly
established independent schools sector was joined by state educational provision:
elementary schools run by local school boards from 1870, at which attendance
was compulsory from the early 1880s, and municipal secondary schools aided
by central grants from 1902. Not surprisingly, a clear status hierarchy emerged,
and in the last quarter of the century aspirant middle-class parents usually tried
to find private schooling for their children. The Endowed Schools Commission,
appointed in 1864, investigated nearly 800 secondary schools. It found that many
parents were keen to support local schools which taught Classics, not because
they respected its educational value, but because they saw it (correctly) as a mark
of social status. The Commission’s report, published in 1868, recommended that
schools should be organized into three grades, according to two criteria: leaving
age and curriculum. The first grade kept children till eighteen and taught Latin
and Greek. Pupils at the second grade schools learned Latin, and left at sixteen.
In the third grade schools they left at fourteen, having learned neither language.
This scheme, which we may now find appalling or risible or both, was in fact no
more than a formal codification of contemporary practice. As with the public
schools, the better-off parents benefited; in this case, because they could afford to
keep their children at school through their teens, rather than needing their
earning power in a family business or in outside employment.
All this stands in contrast to the dominant ideological image of Classics
presented in the period by its cultured defenders: a standard of thought and
action which floats above the particularities of time and space, of social interest.
Invoked throughout the nineteenth century, it was asserted more stridently in its
final decades, as relativizing theories and practices began to gain in influence
and new subjects entered school and university curricula.50 We have already seen
Marx trying to reconcile the reality of historical and economic change with the
image of Greece as an eternally inspiring childhood of the human race. This
clinging to an exemplary standard can be seen not just in education but across
the intellectual world. An example is found in the utterance of the American
musician Louis T. Hardin, who declared in 1971 that ‘classicism is a constant, not
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132 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
subject to removal; it may be ignored and abhorred, but cannot be destroyed . . .
Classicism is neither old nor new, it just is.’
Hardin, who was better known as Moondog, prowled the streets of New York
for twenty-five years in a remarkable costume, which I show partly because it
provides a link, however specious, with the spear Mommsen offered to Max
Weber. To return to the ideology of eternity, what the history of English education
shows us is the linkage between the cult of the timeless and eternal and the
interests of specific social elites. Many of the members of the elite groups
educated at public schools and Oxbridge surely believed that the Greek and
Roman literature, in which they had been immersed, and which had made them
the cultured men they were, was the best of all possible thought-worlds.
The early twentieth century saw the development of educational psychology
and the rise of pupil-centred education. The curriculum, many thought, could
now be organized not according to the nature of school subjects – a difficult job
in any case, as more and more specialists were now clamouring for the inclusion
of their own subjects – but on the basis of the interests of the child. This view
might seem to promise a radical undermining of the established hierarchies of
knowledge. In fact, it was co-opted into a defence of those hierarchies. In 1941 a
committee was established to advise on curriculum and examination in
secondary schools. It was chaired by Sir Cyril Norwood, once a reformist
headmaster of Harrow but by then president of St John’s College, Oxford; its
report was published in 1943 (Board of Education 1943).
Norwood sought to clarify how the exigencies of school organization could
be reconciled with the variety of children’s individual capacity and interest, and
came up with a neat tripartite scheme legitimated by the historical evolution of
kinds of pupil through an immanent process:
The evolution of education has in fact thrown up certain groups, each of
which can and must be treated in a way appropriate to itself. Whether such
groupings are distinct on strictly psychological grounds, whether they
represent types of mind . . . these are questions which it is not necessary to
pursue. Our point is that rough groupings . . . have in fact established
themselves in general educational experience.
First:
English education has in practice recognized the pupil who is interested in
learning for its own sake, who can grasp an argument or follow a piece of
connected reasoning, who is interested in causes . . . He can take a long view
and hold his mind in suspense. He will have some capacity to enjoy, from an
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aesthetic point of view, the aptness of a phrase or the neatness of a proof.51
Such pupils, educated by the curriculum commonly associated with the
grammar school, have entered the learned professions or have taken up
higher administrative or business posts. Again, the history of technical
education has demonstrated the importance of recognising the needs of the
pupil whose interests and abilities lie markedly in the field of applied science
or applied art. The boy in this group . . . often has an uncanny insight into the
intricacies of mechanism whereas the subtleties of language construction
are too delicate for him.
And finally:
Again, there has been of late years recognition . . . of still another grouping
of pupils, and another grouping of occupations. The pupil in this group deals
more easily with concrete things than with ideas. . . . because he is interested
only in the moment he may be incapable of a long series of interconnected
steps.
Norwood went on to suggest that each kind of pupil needed a different kind of
curriculum. For the first group, there should be one which ‘treats the various
fields of knowledge as suitable for coherent and systematic study for their own
sake’. The second kind of curriculum would be ‘directed to the special data and
skills associated with a particular kind of occupation’. ‘It would’, he explains, ‘be
closely related to industry, trades and commerce.’ In the third kind, ‘a balanced
training of mind and body and correlated approach to humanities, Natural
Science and the arts would provide an equipment varied enough to enable pupils
to take up the work of life’.
This masterpiece of mandarin prose surely includes a self-portrait of its
authors, masters of ‘the aptness of a phrase’ and ‘the subtleties of language
construction’. The report seems to have been largely written by its chairman,
Cyril Norwood, and its secretary, R. H. Barrow. Norwood (1875–1956) had been
headmaster of three public schools, ending up at Harrow, before becoming
president of St Johns. His book The English Tradition of Education (1929) showed
the influence of Plato and advocated hierarchical educational provision and
separate schooling for girls (McCulloch 2007).
Reginald Barrow (1893–1984) had been appointed staff inspector for Classics
at the Board of Education in 1929, and in 1943 also became staff inspector for
grammar schools. He was the founding editor of Greece and Rome (1931) and
was later to write a Pelican paperback on The Romans (1949). Like Norwood, he
was a product of the Oxford Greats curriculum.52 The surviving internal
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134 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
correspondence makes it clear that Norwood saw his task as charting the scope
of the grammar schools, and includes such phrases as ‘secondary, i.e. grammar
schools’.53 Within the state school system, we might say that classics and the
grammar school were safe in their hands; we might even say the same thing
about class distinction. It is worth noting that the mandarin self-portrait painted
by Norwood and Barrow had disguised its ideological and hierarchical status in
a very English way – the way of implicitness and gradualism.
If we compare Norwood’s report with Copleston’s defence of Oxford in 1810,
the similarities are striking; and, in fact, Norwood’s thinking was infused by the
Platonic reverie Copleston had denounced. The report, indeed, is remarkable for
carrying a quotation from the Laws on its title page – perhaps the only British
official publication ever to have a classical quotation in such a prominent place.
The quotation consists of two sentences from Laws 644, followed by an English
translation:
Nowhere must we hold education in dishonour, for with the nobles of men
it ranks foremost among blessings. If ever it leaves its proper path and can be
restored to it again, to this end everyone should always labour throughout
life with all his powers.
The Greek text is as follows:
καὶ δεῖ δὴ τὴν παιδείαν μηδαμοῦ ἀτιμάζειν, ὡς πρῶτον τῶν καλλίστων τοῖς
ἀρίστοις ἀνδράσιν παραγιγνόμενον: καὶ εἴ ποτε ἐξέρχεται, δυνατὸν δ᾽ ἐστὶν
ἐπανορθοῦσθαι, τοῦτ᾽ ἀεὶ δραστέον διὰ βίου παντὶ κατὰ δύναμιν.
The translation Norwood gives below the Greek, presumably his own, is
questionable in one place. He renders παραγίγνομενον as ‘ranks with’, whereas
‘accrues to’ or the like would be more accurate.54 Thus translated, Plato is saying
not that the best men respect education, but that they gain it. The blurring of this
aspect of the quotation, I suggest, reflects the central thrust of Norwood’s
proposals, the continuation of educational hierarchy veiled as variety of needs.55
By the 1940s, the influence of the alliance of Hellenism, liberalism and self-
education led by Gilbert Murray, Alfred Zimmern and Richard Livingstone had
faded.56 The ideological invocation of classical antiquity as an eternal and
universal standard had shrunk to a rigid conception of Latin as a symbol of the
grammar school curriculum through which, in the words of Brian Jackson and
Dennis Marsden, some working-class children became middle-class citizens.57
The agonies and ecstasies of their struggles, both to climb the educational ladder
and to learn the new rules of middle-class life if they reached the top, have been
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explored in a literature which began in 1957 with Richard Hoggart’s The Uses of
Literacy.
Some of the struggle was with their parents. Tony Harrison was probably
drawing from personal experience when he made the father in his film-poem
Prometheus ask indignantly why his son’s schoolteachers expected him to read
Greek tragedy – ‘all that crap.’58 Latin was more acceptable to some parents –
everybody knew that doctors needed it to write prescriptions. But for Harrison,
as for thousands of others, it stood for the drudge of learning; as he writes in ‘The
School of Eloquence’,
On, on, on,
The foldaway card table, the green baize,
Caesar’s de bello Gallico and lexicon.
And the Latin prose to do while his friends had fun, and he had to spurn their
invitations to join them: ‘I can’t I’ve gorra Latin prose to do.’59 While many
children were trapped in this narrow conception of learning, classics itself was
narrowed and fossilized in what a government inspector of education privately
called ‘thoroughness and unreality’: Latin without the literature, without the
Romans, in fact without anything except the grind which promised to make the
learner disciplined and middle-class.60 The 1950s were the Indian summer of
this conjunction of classics and class, a summer brought to an end in 1960 by the
abolition of compulsory Latin at Oxford and Cambridge.
Closure in classics
Inclusion and exclusion operate also within the field of classics, which is itself
stratified, with its hierarchies of esteem, its centralities and marginalities.61 What
must be studied? What should be studied? What counts as classics? The answers
have changed over time and have often been contested. In Cambridge, the
dominance of mathematics from the early eighteenth century, and the influence
of the narrow Porsonian tradition of textual analysis in the nineteenth, meant
that ancient history was not taught seriously till the 1870s, classical archaeology
till the 1880s.62 In Oxford, Aristotle was central till the mid-nineteenth century
but was later overshadowed by Plato; from 1830, modern evidence was
encouraged in discussing ancient texts. These contrasting cases can be seen as
examples of differential reception, which, in turn, might remind us that reception
studies are an expanding field within classics – or are they without? A substantial
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136 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
research network (Classical Reception Studies Network, est. 2004) is in place in
Britain, and a dedicated journal (Classical Receptions Journal) has been founded,
so that the field now seems to be firmly established. A modern case study of
inclusions and exclusions in classics would do well to look at the reception of
reception.
One obvious distinction between the established centre and the contested
margin is that between original texts and translations. In a parodically simple
world, serious students would read only Oxford Classical Texts and Teubner
texts, while the masses would read translations. The Loeb Classical Library has
bridged that gulf since 1912. Since then, it has become a standard resource for
those whose education is insufficient or forgotten, and was, indeed, seen as a
symbol of the embedded bourgeoisie by the rebellious architectural critic Reyner
Banham, who declared that his work was aimed at ‘the Loeb-reading classes’.63
When it began, some were unhappy with the juxtaposition of original and
translation on facing pages. In the 1880s, Jebb’s editions of Sophocles (1883–96)
had been criticized for the same reason: they provided too much help to learners.
The delegates of Oxford University Press maintained an almost absolute ban on
publishing translations throughout the nineteenth century. Thus, for example,
three proposals for translations of the pioneering work by Durkheim’s teacher
Fustel de Coulanges, La Cité Antique, were sent to the Press in the last quarter of
the century, and all were rejected.64 Since the Second World War a new market
for translations has been catered for, notably the Penguin Classics.65 Social
divisions and hierarchies cannot be mapped directly onto the differential status
of texts and translations, but issues of access to and status of classical texts
deserve to be explored in relation to social and institutional differences.
Conclusion
Social closure operates in both society and curricula. The Whig history of
increasing individualism and widened social access to knowledge is, in great
part, accurate. But we can also see a history of changes from explicit to implicit
exclusion, in which mechanisms like examination have functioned both as
routes into knowledge and as processes which favour some entrants. The central
insight of the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, giving Marxism a cultural
twist, was that cultural capital enables its possessors to buy cultural goods.66
Those whose families and schooling give them the right knowledge and
techniques will always do better in assessment procedures which are formally
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Classics and Social Closure 137
neutral.67 The nineteenth-century examination reforms led to the triumph of
middle-class candidates educated at Oxbridge. Similarly, the focus on individuals
rather than classes can lead, as with Norwood, both to appreciation of individual
differences and to the legitimation of a hierarchy of provision disguised as the
satisfaction of a variety of needs.
Recent evidence shows that class is alive and well, and that life chances and
educational success are still strongly linked to income and status. In schools,
classics is in danger of being preserved within public schools, where annual fees
can easily be twice as much as a poorly paid person’s salary. In universities, the
recession and the campaign to stress impact as an evaluating criterion for
financial support threaten all humanistic provision. In this situation, Classics for
All, the Iris Project, Greek in the Park and similar campaigns are to be welcomed
and supported.
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8
Hercules as a Symbol of Labour:
A Nineteenth-Century Class-Conflicted Hero
Paula James
The focal point of this chapter is the 1889 Dockers’ Union Banner (Export
Branch), which features the stark image of a muscleman entwined with a serpent
(Figure 8.1). The natural identification of the heroic champion is with Hercules,
at first glance an apt image for representing the worker who wrestles with the
evils of exploitation. The banner is heralding the struggle for social reform and
improved conditions for workers enslaved by poverty and starvation. The anti-
capitalist message – delivered explicitly in terms of a holy war – calls for all
prostitution and destitution to be swept away; this figure therefore also embodies
the Christian colouring Hercules had acquired over the centuries in his
convoluted cultural trajectory.1
I shall show that this image – so simple in form – is complex in content, in
terms of both its cultural referencing and its ideological import. A key text in the
following interpretation is the analysis of this emblem (to which I contributed),
found in the 2013 volume of essays, The Art and Ideology of the Trade Union
Emblem 1850–1925, a substantial and significant work by Ravenhill-Johnson.
Several of the thought-provoking papers at the 2013 Leeds conference Hercules:
a Hero for All Ages have prompted me to reflect upon and refine my response to
the dockers’ banner. I am grateful for the feedback on my presentation at this
event. The conference confirmed and complicated the multifaceted nature of
Hercules and his labours; whenever and wherever the hero appears as an artistic
symbol, he brings a whole set of conflicting allusions which cannot be fully
suppressed.
This chapter has benefited from the framework set out in an article by Henry
Stead which views Hercules, transformed into the gentleman–bodybuilder, and
his labours as a metaphor for the reactionary and progressive roles classics and
classicists have played in the reception of ancient culture in the era under
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 139
Figure 8.1
scrutiny.2 In this volume, Lorna Hardwick’s approach to the agency of texts and
images and the class configurations of those accessing popular media has been
crucial to my understanding of the ‘labour-movement’ Hercules in his infinite
cultural variety.
Classical and post-classical configurations of this high-profile mythical
character invite the critical viewer to revisit him as a ready-made repository of
ancient tropes and topoi. Thus, Stafford, who details his ‘extensive portfolio of
exploits’, demonstrates Hercules’ destructive and divine aspects along with his
tragic and comic characteristics in classical imagery.3 Linebaugh and Rediker, in
their wide-ranging work The Many-headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners
and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic, place Hercules and his
labours at the centre of the iconography of mercantilism and of the land-
grabbing imperative of European states from the sixteenth century onwards.4
Defeating the many-headed hydra, one of Hercules’ first victories, became a
symbol for the putting down of recalcitrant slaves and organized urban labourers
who dared to strike and so disturb the equilibrium of their ‘rightful’ masters.
Hercules was the hero who would destroy the rebels and the unruly ‘mob’ and
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140 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
save the day for the oppressors. If needs be, he was also the ethnic cleanser. The
term Holy War was employed to justify the genocide of Native Americans (the
first nation of the New World), and Hercules was enlisted as a universal Christian
soldier in this process.5
The Continental Hercules
It was in revolutionary France at the end of the eighteenth century that Hercules
as an ideological symbol ‘changed sides’ in a significant way. He became a
champion of the downtrodden, the impoverished and the dispossessed, after
centuries as the hero of kings and autocratic monarchies throughout Europe and
beyond. The figure of Hercules had been embedded for centuries in royal insignia
on the continent. In Italy and Spain, the imagery of the hero and his labours
adorned the palaces of the Medici and the town halls of Seville and Tarrazona.
In 1682, Charles II of Spain was celebrated in literary works on Hercules as the
descendant of the hero.6 The Herculean narrative was most meticulously worked
out at the French court, where his legends formed part of an elaborate theatrical
pageantry during the reign of Louis XIV. Joan Landes explains that Hercules’
representation (along with the Greek god Apollo) at Louis’ court was designed
‘to make tangible the mystique of kingship at the heart of absolutism, to lift the
monarch from mere humanity to supernatural myth’.7 For this very reason, it was
always going to be a challenge to convert Hercules into a revolutionary icon
during the turbulence in France at the end of the eighteenth century. It was a
challenge, however, from which the French revolutionaries did not shy away.
The colossus which so impressed the crowds at the Festival of Unity and
Indivisibility of the Republic (Versailles, August 1793) took the form of a huge
Hercules, vanquishing a half woman, half serpent. The female snake represented
the hydra of federalism, alluding to reactionary dissent spawned from the
recently defeated tyrannical ruling class. These same radicals, namely the
Montagnards, accused the Gerondist faction of being federalists and thus a
threat to the unity of the new French Republic. The revolutionary Hercules
therefore not only wields his club on behalf of the revolutionary masses, but
directs its force specifically against the new republic’s perceived enemy within.
The hydra, as representation of the enemies of revolutionary unity, writhes at the
hero’s feet. The feminine hydra, however – as emblem of the class enemy – also
carried overtones of the conflict between genders.8 Hercules as the monumental
male had been promoted in the revolutionary iconography to put women back
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 141
in their place. The hero was a rebuttal to female revolutionaries who threatened
to take Marianne as a metaphor for their own participation in the overthrow of
the monarchy.9 So, even at his most revolutionary, the classical hero was capable
of delivering a reactionary message.
Lynn Hunt writes that Hercules was, in any case, a contested and problematic
symbol of the sans culottes, not least because he was imposed upon the
revolutionary masses by a leadership that was culturally distanced from them:
‘Hercules was not a popular figure; he did not appear in the woodcuts or imagerie
populaire. Hercules in spite of an iconographical metamorphosis was strongly
associated with kingly power’.10 This is not necessarily the whole truth of the
matter. Alastair Blanshard argues that Hercules was indeed embraced as a hero
for the revolution by the masses in 1790s France.11 The people adopted and
adapted him on their own terms, but he would become a wild card out of tune
with the political discourse favoured by their leaders in the less militant period
following the so-called Reign of Terror. For instance, a rougher, tougher Hercules
began to appear in French street theatre in the form of an iconoclast smashing
mannequins of the Pope and the Nobility.12 The former hero of kings and princes
was sending out a message of indiscriminate violence and wanton destruction
against hierarchical structures.
The portrayal of Hercules as a violent iconoclast (a lord of misrule more fitted
for the carnival than for responsible government) alerted the revolutionary
leadership to unintended outcomes when such a malleable mythical hero was
part of their aesthetic and ideological armour. It was precisely this kind of image
(lack of restraint and anarchy) that the hydra (a female monster and Hercules’
sworn enemy) had come to signify. No political movement wished to blur the
boundaries between the hero and his monstrous foe.
British cultural contexts
In the UK, throughout the long nineteenth century, Hercules’ exploits were
already part of popular consciousness. The British fairground, deserving of a
study in itself, frequently foregrounded a Herculean strongman. Carnival
imagery came ready equipped with allusions from the ancient world, and the
regalia of Hercules became the standard uniform of the circus strongman.
Blanshard gives a brief summary of circus acts and the frequency of classical
topics for daredevil performances and exotic shows.13 Trips to the circus and
days out at the fair meant that the masses were familiar with re-enactments of
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142 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
mythical moments and historical disasters from the ancient world. Edith Hall
notes the popularity of plays on classical themes, among them the enactments of
the labours of Hercules by circus performers.14 John Gorman features fascias
from the 1898 St Giles’s fair in which a boxer is punching an opponent dressed
in a lionskin costume.15
Stead also traces the importance of Eugene Sandow, the bodybuilder who
identified with Hercules, posed in animal skins and, complete with club, set up
physical culture academies in British and European cities and became a personal
trainer at European courts.16 Perhaps puny princes might hope that their bodies
would be transformed into kingly physiques with the help of a flesh and blood
Hercules. The symbol or the statue of royalty had come to life. Blanshard and
Stead refer to a largely fictional autobiography in which Sandow claims that
classical statuary inspired him to develop his muscles.17
Sandow also drew a picture of himself as an exceedingly delicate child
who became a modern colossus,18 and yet he liked to present himself as a
reincarnation or vivification of the Farnese Hercules, an ancient sculpture from
the Baths of Caracalla at Rome, which was hugely influential ‘on the popular
conceptions of the Hercules look’.19 Sandow’s appeal was certainly not confined
to aristocratic circles. The exhibition of the classical body beautiful in so-called
high-art displays of male musculature may have been accompanied by an
aristocratic discourse, but it would be sociologically simplistic to imagine that
they were not in cultural negotiation. Maria Wyke introduced her article on
‘Herculean Muscle’ with the observation that the classical body in mass culture
comes with a context of exchange between social classes, and that this process
began in earnest during the Victorian era.20
Linebaugh and Rediker note that the strength and stamina of Hercules,
and not least his right to destroy allegedly monstrous enemies, gave him
considerable cachet as a fighter for privilege and profit through the centuries, so
portraying his adversaries as the many-headed hydra became crucial to the
ideological framework of this reconfigured hero.21 By the early Victorian period,
however, Hercules was being enlisted as a defender of the downtrodden – the
very people that the ruling classes and merchant capitalists liked to portray as
his demonic and disfigured opponents (the hydra heads attached to a single
serpentine body) were claiming the heroic fighter as their champion. The
iconographic traditions of the French Revolution had perhaps transferred to
radical and reformist movements in Britain, even if the goal was social change
through parliamentary means rather than the violent overthrow of monarchy
and government.
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 143
One of the first general organizations of labour in Britain in the early
nineteenth century was named The Philanthropic Hercules. It was an association
of journeymen with a distinctly radical edge, which was formed in London at the
end of 1818 with the shipwrights’ leader, John Gast (1772–1837), as its president.
Historically, journeymen were waged workers who had completed their
apprenticeship, and this badge of skill gained them admission to their trade
guild.22 The formation of the Philanthropic Hercules was inspired by the
Lancashire-based Philanthropic Society that assisted strike action and defended
workers against oppression and ill use.
The choice of Hercules as a figurehead for this first national organization of
workers is significant. Malcolm Chase points out that ‘the ultra radical Thomas
Spence had published The Giant Killer with reference to “the philanthropic giant
killers, the deliverers of mankind” ’.23 In popular literature of the time, Hercules
was often portrayed killing giants, linking him to biblical and fairy-tale
characters. He was a hero who could capture the imagination of the masses and
represent the underdog and the dispossessed as readily as the privileged and
propertied. The hero had become bound up with a movement for radical
reform. The industrial unrest that was occurring in 1818 was developing into
just such a movement. During that year, the Lancashire strikes against wage
fixing in the textile industries had started with the spinners but radiated out
to power and hand-loom weavers, dyers, bricksetters and their labourers,
carpenters and joiners, glassworkers and colliers.24 The action was significant for
its political consciousness. It was also well co-ordinated and clearly not as
spontaneous as the machine-breaking of 1816–17. According to Chase, there is
no up-to-the-minute, in-depth study of these strikes, but they took place as part
of the general unrest in a period of severe economic depression and when the
textile industry was in crisis.
The industrial disputes were part of a general movement in favour of and
lobbying for constitutional reform. For this reason, Gast’s choice of title – the
Philanthropic Hercules – for the union of journeymen was a significant one
in the history of Hercules as a class act. His name gave out a message of
strength and heroism as well as one of solidarity and charitable altruism. Gast
clearly had a vision of a parliament of working men and aspirations for
the advance of general unionism, but the Philanthropic Hercules union also
attracted artisans whose goal was the preservation of their reputation and
respectability.25
Linebaugh and Rediker describe the way in which the suppression of the
spinners’ strike at Staleybridge in Yorkshire was celebrated as the defeat of the
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144 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
hydra of anarchy and misrule.26 For the owners of the means of production,
Hercules was the man or myth of the hour, as he also represented the advance
of technology (the introduction of machinery was disastrous for the workforce
in the cotton industry). It was, after all, Hercules who had liberated Prometheus,
giver of fire and technological know-how to the human race. Gast’s Philanthropic
Hercules turned the tables in the ideological warfare between employers
supported by the government and the toilers in the factories. Hercules was now
a symbol and spearhead of the struggle for protection against the plundering of
decent working men’s livelihood by greedy employers (who were now, by
implication, the many-headed hydra with a single deadly purpose, profit-
making). The appropriation of Hercules, one of the ‘good guys’ in ancient
mythology and a hero forced to sell his labour power to others, in defence of the
working classes was an apt one in the early part of the nineteenth century. The
skilled workers, in particular, could unite around such a heroic name in their
lobbying for a parliamentary reform that would liberalize labour laws.
The Philanthropic Hercules association was part of a campaign to ensure that
the skilled wage-earner, a decent and valuable member of society, gained a fair
price for his labour – labour power being his property and an inalienable right.
The concept of a Philanthropic Hercules in the context of working-class struggle
found its visual expression in the later nineteenth century, when the Herculean
figure in the central panel of the Dockers’ Banner (Export Branch) became a
symbol for striking men at the London waterfront. What is interesting is that
both militant movements were willing to embrace the classical hero, or a figure
akin to the classical hero, as their champion. Hercules is both particular and
general in the typology of the hero, embodying bravery and moral righteousness
and acting as a beacon for a better future.27
Cultural locations: the Dockers’ Banner (Export Branch)
This banner (Figure 8.1) was born out of a bitter struggle between capital
and labour in the late nineteenth century, at a time when thousands of casual
workers were starving in the London dockside slums of Poplar, East Ham
and Rotherhithe. In 1889, Ben Tillett, also discussed in Hall’s chapter on women
of the Independent Labour Party in this volume, led a strike for a minimum
hourly wage (the Dockers’ Tanner) and a minimum shift of four hours. Tillett
documents the strike in Memories and Reflections (1931). Skilled, semi-skilled
and unskilled workers banded together, and the action gained wide support with
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 145
substantial donations from the Australian wharf side. For this reason – and
in spite of the fact that the strike committee banned socialist banners from
their protest marches and expressed their loyalty to empire and its industry –
Engels viewed the conflict as a new phase in international solidarity and a
break with Guild mentality.28 The support given to the London Dockside by
the Australian unions did herald a new spirit of internationalism. The city of
Victoria sent £20,000 to the strike fund, the gratitude for which was emblazoned
across the certificate of the ‘Dock, Wharf, Riverside and General Labourers’
Union of Great Britain and Ireland’. The spirit of international alliance can
be seen in the new union’s certificate (Figure 8.2), in the centre of the top
panel of which is a blue globe surrounded by the coats of arms and flags of
Britain and Australia. Just beyond these national insignia are two labourers
accompanied by their respective national animals – the lion and the wallaby.
The lettering at the top of the certificate (and beneath the handshake) reads ‘The
Grip of Brotherhood the World Over’.29 The demands of the dockers were
conceded in a settlement brokered by the head of the Roman Catholic Church,
Cardinal Manning.
Figure 8.2
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146 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
The Export Branch banner can be dated to the late 1880s, when the strike was
in full swing, and there were wider demands for an end to the parlous plight of
so many forced to live a life of despair and deprivation under capitalism. The
similarity between the showground strongman and the muscular champion on
the dockers’ banner is striking. This is a Hercules of and for the working people
in their struggle for a regular and minimum wage and for a dignity of labour.
The single snake is not the many-headed hydra of Lerna but still embodies the
multiple evils of exploitation, destitution and prostitution prolonged by the
profit-making capitalists. The champion of the workers in their just cause might
be meant to represent the coal-heavers of the Dockyards, as they were regarded
as super-strong (though usually ‘spent by 45’).30 They were known for quaffing
beer in great quantities, so, like Hercules, they were larger-than-life figures. The
coal-heavers, like the stevedores, were better paid, an aristocracy of muscle, but
they had joined the strike with nothing to gain for themselves. Such men could
be characterized collectively as the philanthropic Hercules, ready to take up the
cudgel for their suffering fellows.31
It is obvious that the dockers’ banner breaks with traditions and has apparently
used a classical hero in a much starker and confrontational way, suggesting not
simply that the worker is a powerhouse of energy and strength in service to
mining, manufacture and shipbuilding, but that he can use his might as a warrior
against the exploiting classes. Nevertheless, the banner cannot be entirely
divorced from the iconographic traditions of the skilled workers and their
associations. Heroic workers were featured in the emblems from the early days
of union organization. They did not, however, occupy the whole space of a
banner or certificate (the dockers’ Hercules really is centre stage) but were
regularly placed upon classically composed structures.
The designer of the dockers’ banner has given his Herculean worker a frame
in the style of a roundel. The roundels or cameos included in many certificates
conventionally depicted key inventors of new technology, captains of particular
industries or union officials, but also biblical founding fathers of the trade.
Cameos of this type are featured in the very influential 1852 certificate by
blacksmith James Sharples (Figure 8.3). Sharples won the competition run by
the Amalgamated Society of Engineers (ASE), a newly emergent composite
association in need of an emblem that would harmonize the interests of all its
members. His elegant and accomplished design may look utterly different from
the dockers’ banner, but it did proclaim the presence and power of the working
man. He set the tone of future emblems with his use of the ziggurat or crepidoma
(a three-level pyramid supporting a Greek temple) as an architectural frame.
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 147
Figure 8.3
The worker is elevated on this flattened pyramid structure, occupying the place
that the gods would normally take up. Indeed, the blacksmith is portrayed as a
Vulcan or Hephaestus figure.32 There is no Hercules in the ASE emblem – in
which classical figures and the Graeco-Roman pantheon play an aesthetic and
ideological role – but the celebration of the forge-workers as divine archetypes
was a bold statement from the emergent organizations of skilled labour.
The message of skill and strength may have been tempered by the reassuring
and non-confrontational text and the peaceable intentions, conveyed in the
refusal of the blacksmith to mend the sword of Mars. But Sharples clearly
champions the heroic stature of the worker, showing him as the lynchpin in
capitalist production and a key contributor to Britain’s position as the
industrial powerhouse of the world. It is significant that the 1891 certificate of
Ben Tillett’s Dock, Wharf, Riverside and General Labourers’ Union of Great
Britain and Ireland (formed in the aftermath of the strike and mentioned above)
followed the (by then well established) principles of classical plinths and
pedestals, with the addition of the flamboyance and fussiness that characterized
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148 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
much earlier emblems from Freemasonry and friendly societies. The difference
is this:
it celebrates the unity between all the various types of work, unskilled or
semiskilled, listed on the pedestals, and with not only Australian counterparts
but internationally – the lettered strapwork at the top of the certificate, just
beneath the image of the handshake, reads, ‘The Grip of Brotherhood the
World Over’.33
John James Chant’s 1857 membership certificate for the Friendly Society of Iron
Founders (engraved by John Saddler) could be viewed as occupying an
intermediary position between the Sharples design and the dockers’ banner
(Figure 8.4). The Chant emblem has a partially naked worker at the centre of the
certificate. Chant was most certainly influenced by Sharples’ structural design
for the ASE membership certificate, but he has chosen to make a muscle-bound
miner wielding the pickaxe the compositional fulcrum of the piece. The snake in
this emblem is purely representational and far from threatening. On the contrary,
it has positive associations; the coiled serpent to the left of the miner is a
Figure 8.4
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 149
mathematical symbol for eternity. It is located close to Justice, an abstract woman
of some importance who herself is immortal.34
However, the most direct influence upon the composition of strong worker
and adversarial snake in the dockers’ banner can be ascribed to a piece of elite
art. Ravenhill-Johnson has noted that the heroic pose in the dockers’ banner is
modelled upon Frederic Leighton’s Athlete struggling with a python, exhibited in
1877.35 The Leighton work was much admired and discussed by the Victorian
critics and displayed by the Royal Academy for a very different kind of audience
from the strikers and their supporters. Aesthetic hierarchies are subject to
seepage, however; Walter Crane clearly appropriated the athlete and python
sculpture for the illustration ‘The Man and the Snake’ in his 1886 book Baby’s
Own Aesop.36 Critics of Leighton’s sculpture expressed concern that the
athlete was not necessarily winning the wrestling match with the python; but the
banner hero could be imitating a circus or snake-charmer act. He is almost using
the creature to flex his own muscles and test his strength, a Sandow moment
perhaps, as this bodybuilder preferred to strike a static pose rather than simulate
a fight.
The unknown banner artist may not have needed the image mediated in this
way. It would seem that he has gone directly to the ‘high art’ source and modelled
the male worker upon Leighton’s aristocratic notion of the body beautiful:
In this battle for power and supremacy, rather than the body of an athlete
representing the middle- or upper-class man, it now represents the working-
class man, and it is the evil serpent of capitalism that symbolizes the middle
and upper classes.37
The dockers’ Hercules is a celebration of strength and sinewy limbs that honest
toil has produced, a labouring hero in a whole new sense.38
Whose Hercules, which labour?
In 2013 I dubbed the drawing in the banner as relatively crude and naïve, but, on
reflection and closer inspection, this is, in fact, a skilfully executed picture with
plenty of scope for compositional analysis. What follows is not a technical
critique, however, but a closer look at the Hercules narratives suggested by this
iconic work.39 There is no question that the Hercules figure has right on his side
in wrestling and disabling the serpent, and this is reinforced by the words on the
strapwork below: ‘This is a holy war and shall not cease until all destitution,
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150 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
prostitution and exploitation is swept away.’ The ‘Be sure you are right, then full
speed ahead’ lettering on the lifebuoy above the picture is yet another subtext for
moral certitude, referring to a journey on the sea and a pilgrimage against evil.
The legends from left to right respectively take up the motto of the Industrial
Workers of the World, ‘an injury to one is an injury to all’, and borrow the
sentiments of soldiery about fighting and dying but never surrendering. There is
a cosmopolitan and global thrust to this banner that befits the export branch of
the newly formed union.
Ravenhill-Johnson states that ‘the artist has used vivid complementary
colours of red and green to add to this sense of drama and conflict’.40 The setting
for the scene is quite apocalyptic, in the manner, perhaps, of a painting by the
Romantic artist John Martin (1789–1854, famous for his bleak landscapes,
apocalyptic biblical scenes and dystopian visions), with just a hint of foliage
peeping out over the rocks in the background. Hercules himself could be hewn
from the boulder on which he kneels, and he is anchored among the crags in an
impasse with the serpent, which is coiled about his body. The bright green
tendrils and leaves that frame the struggle suggest something more optimistic
and ordered when the workers prevail in their just cause. On the other hand, the
winding foliage picks up the colour of the insinuating snake, as if it might have
emerged from the surrounding greenery. The biblical resonances of this scene
cannot be ignored, and the subtext of the wily serpent in the Garden of Eden
would complement the clearly Christian message at the bottom of the banner.
The background is like a tapestry and evokes the patterns of William Morris’s
Arts and Crafts movement. Morris had high hopes for a future of fulfilment and
creativity with the dignity of labour restored.41
Walter Crane’s influence could be at work here (the similarity of the banner
picture to his ‘Man and the Snake’ illustration has already been mentioned).
Crane was a close friend of Morris and shared in utopian and romantic views of
pre-capitalist economic and social formations.42 It would seem, then, that there
is a strand of artistic eclecticism detectable in the framing design. On a cautionary
note, the aesthetic of the patterns and colours in this composition may have been
the major motivation for the design, rather than the symbolic implications of
such features. Even so, both the designer and the viewer familiar with the
traditions of trade union art and its use of symbolism would be sensitive to the
statements implicit in the artistic arrangements of the banner.
Not surprisingly, the Hercules in the banner quickly emerges as a complex
and problematic symbol for the dockers’ strike and their broader aspirations. We
have to bear in mind that, while these workers were challenging the injustice of
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 151
the system that was impoverishing, even strangling, them, they were expecting
to share in the benefits of an empire that ruthlessly exploited subjugated peoples.
Elsewhere I have suggested that there is a strong and continuous contradiction
in the British workforce that tends towards anti-capitalism while remaining pro-
imperialist. In classical myth Hercules represents the drive towards colonization
(one of his epithets is oikistes, ‘founder’) as well as being a liberator, able to free
communities of monsters and monstrous tyrants.43
It was, perhaps, fanciful of me to argue in 2013, in the context of a discussion
of this 1890s banner, that Hercules’ huge appetite (as attested in classical legend)
could – counter-intuitively in this particular emblem – symbolize the greed
of global capitalism as readily as the snake he is squeezing so tightly.44 The
dockers’ champion is much more closely identified with the morally upright and
Christian Hercules than the heavy-drinking, womanizing and flawed hero of the
Graeco-Roman world, but he might be recognizing aspects of himself in the
monster he has to defeat. In this brave new world, temptation is held at bay and
the strong-minded man is cautious and circumspect about making eye contact
with the evil enemy, the devil incarnate.45 This interpretation does have some
credence if we revisit the earlier discussion about how interchangeable Hercules
and the hydra proved to be as paradigms for positive and negative attributions.
If the snake represents the profit-hungry employers, supplanting Hercules as
their god-like protector, then the dockers’ hero is tussling with and defeating the
demon that had been used through the centuries to symbolize the workers
themselves.46
Another visual reference that had percolated through the artistic traditions
was the marble statue (Roman, second century CE), housed in the Capitoline
museum, of a baby Hercules holding a snake as if he had just acquired a new toy
rather than performed the miraculous feat of vanquishing the two serpents sent
by Juno to dispatch him.47 This classical sculpture shows a fearless, indeed
playful, infant hero holding the slippery assassin at arm’s length and looking
rather fascinated by its form. Both the baby and the banner Hercules (one needs
recourse to a magnifying glass for the latter) have nicely coiffured heads; the
curls and whorls could be regarded as snaky locks, which would then function as
a signifier for the hero’s first labour and other serpent-related conquests to come.
When it comes to the Herculean connections, it is distinctly possible that there
is more to the banner hero than meets the eye.
Let us look at some examples. Given the employment of the many-headed
hydra in the art and artefacts of the French Revolution, it may be that the
proliferation and the multifaceted nature of capital is a ‘hydra’ subtext in the
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152 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
banner,48 but the reference to ‘sweeping away’ also suggests the cleansing of
the Augean stables by the hero who diverts a river to expel the filth. This is a
Hercules for workers at the waterfront, those who had been forced to live in
squalor at the London Dockside.49 Another challenging serpentine enemy was
Achelous, the centaur, who was able to metamorphose into various animals
before Hercules defeated him in the form of a bull. One of his guises was that of
a serpent, and in Francois J. Bosio’s 1824 sculpture (the Louvre, Paris) a macho
and active Hercules is throttling the snake and poised ready to smash it down.50
Achelous’ powers of transformation make him a shape-shifting challenge, not
quite on the scale of the many-headed hydra but yet another hybrid monster
that goes beyond a single body.51 This labour is also located in water.
The last single serpent associated with Hercules is the guardian of the golden
apples of the Hesperides.52 The setting of the struggle on the banner looks no
more promising as a locus for an earthly paradise than the Garden of Eden
association already discussed. On the other hand, the image of the dockers’
champion wresting the fruits of their labour from an acquisitive creature (the
employer as a python squeezing the life out of the workforce) would be a graphic
reminder of what the struggle and strike were for. While we can assume an
educated viewer would be familiar with this labour, it may not have been so
frequently staged in popular theatre.
The question of reception
It seems highly likely that the snake in the dockers’ banner is aligned with Crane’s
conception of the coils of capitalist constriction and would be seen as such by
some spectators and those who displayed it and carried it aloft on marches.53
However, the symbolism is slippery, particularly the ideological registers of the
Herculean adversary. It could be a class-collaborative symbol, as Victorians had
shared perceptions of the snake, especially when it was set up as the foe of the
classical strongman, a cross-cultural icon by the later nineteenth century. In the
press and in popular entertainment the snake was generally an evil presence,
something exotic and oriental, while the athlete with his rippling muscles and
physical fitness was a force for good, a civilizing presence.
Even so, it is difficult to avoid the phallic connotations of the snake, and yet
again to think in terms of the enemy entwined with the hero and an externalization
of an inner demon to be fought by the hero, who has been reinvented to defeat
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Hercules as a Symbol of Labour 153
unbridled sexuality as well as exploitative greed. The thought-provoking 1990
chapter by Nicole Loraux on the fluid boundaries between the super-male and
the feminine aspects of the classical Hercules focused on those ‘convulsive
moments’ in literary traditions when ‘the virility of the hero quakes’.54 In her
examination of this most popular Greek hero, Loraux explores his role as seducer,
slave, husband and harrier of monsters, many with female attributes. She
suggests that not only does his suffering allow him to experience the agonies of
femininity in his own body, but also his mythical narrative is peppered with
disruptions of gender roles and of the distribution of male and female
characteristics.
Hercules has physically intimate relationships with snakes – single and
multiple – and the question of their sexuality is at least as problematic as that
of the hero’s. The ambiguity is embedded in classical and post-classical
representations of the labours. Although the banner snake is closely connected
with the many tentacles of capitalist exploitation in Crane’s posters for socialism
and socialist reconstruction, the image of the Irish Sea Serpent was regularly
employed by the establishment press as a negative symbol of a pagan past, of the
folklore and nationalist aspirations of a colonized country. Since St Patrick rid
Ireland of snakes – or so the legend goes – this choice of negative icon for Ireland
seems eccentric and insulting in equal parts. Many of the unskilled dock
labourers were Irish émigrés – hence the involvement of the Catholic Church in
negotiating a triumphant, if temporary, victory for the strikers – so it may be
counter-intuitive to wonder whether the snake entwined about the muscular
man was intended as an allusion to Ireland as a place of superstition and
subversion.
In the absence of any minutes of meetings about the design and designer of
the banner, it would be difficult to prove that there was such a subtext, namely
that the dockers’ champion is wrestling with the ‘worm’ of feminizing and sinuous
sexuality, set to subvert a bright future of British technology, industry, prosperity
and expansion. It is, nevertheless, intriguing to speculate that an upper-class
viewer might infer a reassuring message from the banner, namely that the
workers themselves were on side in promoting a powerful athleticism for the
purposes of ‘progress’ on an industrial, entrepreneurial and global scale. Other
banners and emblems of this period were anxious to display patriotism and
loyalty to the empire. Socialist placards and flags were considered out of place in
the large-scale demonstrations during the strike and, indeed, were banned by the
strike committee from these ‘respectable’ protests on the streets of London.55
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154 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Afterword
The dockers’ union banner (Export Branch) is described by John Gorman as an
example of the militancy of the ‘new unionism’.56 He talks in terms of ‘forceful
slogans representing a break with the conciliatory mottoes of the old craft
unions’. Gorman also cites the evidence of old glass negatives which show that
the design was later copied. It is, of course, confrontational in its affirmation of
the need for a holy war against the conditions of the dock-workers. It proudly
proclaims the motto of universal brotherhood between workers and is a
singularly effective and agitational expression of their right to form associations
for fair pay and a share of the profits they created. The choice of a classical hero
to represent the labour force and the victory they believed was in their grasp
demonstrates that the designers and manufacturers of the banner understood
the power of the past to portray the hopes of the future.
However, the figures and motifs of the Graeco-Roman world are by no means
straightforward signifiers. A proletarian Hercules exercising his uncompromised
masculinity and taking on the employer and the economic system that exploited
his class could never entirely shed the skins of his many-layered reception in
ancient and modern times. The hero in the banner is embarking upon a new
labour, but cannot escape the typology that goes with the territory whenever the
strongman-versus-snake myth is evoked. This chapter has attempted to tease out
just some of the ideological and cultural complexities that the image of the
Dockers’ Union Banner presents to the scholar of reception, not least the
potential of a classical symbol to compromise a radical message from working
men and women. It could be that this 1890s Hercules was ultimately more of a
shared than an appropriated figure, in both a classical and a class context.
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9
Vulcan – a ‘Working-Class’ God?
Annie Ravenhill-Johnson
Towering over the city of Birmingham, Alabama, on the top of Red Mountain, is
a colossal statue, Vulcan, the largest cast-iron statue in the world.1 It is the second
largest statue in the United States after the Statue of Liberty, properly known as
Liberty Enlightening the World, (1886) by Frederic Auguste Bartholdi. The Roman
god of the Alabama forge is fifty-six feet in height from his sandals to his
extended fingers. He stands beside his anvil, bearing in his left hand a hammer
and holding on high in his right a huge spear, signifying an example of his
completed work, perhaps even one of Zeus’ thunderbolts, of which he was the
traditional manufacturer. The work of Giuseppe Moretti, an Italian immigrant, it
was commissioned by the businessmen of Birmingham’s Commercial Club in
1904 as a symbol of Birmingham, Alabama’s status as producer of iron, cast-iron
pipe and rail steel. Vulcan was cast in twenty-one pieces by Alabama’s Birmingham
Steel and Iron Company, requiring a huge team of workers, and taken to the
World’s Fair of 1904 in St Louis, Missouri, where he was assembled. He was
dedicated on 7 June 1904 in the Palace of Mines and Metallurgy – a grand
statement advertising the city of Birmingham and the state of Alabama to the
world. The statue won the World’s Fair Grand Prize, as well as medals which were
awarded to the sculptor and the foundry. Vulcan today has been restored and
still dominates the city on his own ‘Mount Olympus’.2
Moretti may have relished the opportunity to create a colossal statue with
classical antecedents. Behind all such statuary lies the cultural memory of the
enormous statue of Helios the Sun-God, the Colossus of Rhodes, built to
welcome ships to that island in 290 bc. Colossal statues were commissioned
by both Nero and Constantine, and the idea was revived in the nineteenth
century, when neoclassical colossi representing national identities were favoured:
L. M. Schwanthaler’s bronze Bavaria in Munich (1850), Jean M. Bonnassieux’s
bronze Notre Dame de France (1860) and Ernst Von Bandel’s Hermannsdenkmal
on a hill outside Düsseldorf, which commemorated the German warrior
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156 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Hermann (‘Arminius’ in Latin) over the Roman Army (1875). But a colossal
Vulcan, a neoclassical statue representing industrial labour, was something quite
new and remarkable. The god’s posture and physiognomy are reminiscent of
Roman imperial architecture – the contraposto pose, arm lifted as if he were
declaiming, and a facial expression of impassive authority. But the sense of
movement and the musculature draw more on Hellenistic Greek traditions of
sculpture.3
The class politics here is complicated. The capitalist forge-owners subsidized
the statue, but their wealth came directly from the labour of the ironworkers.
It is, perhaps, appropriate that Vulcan as a hero has often been problematic.
After all, he obeyed the instructions of the tyrannical Zeus in the Aeschylean
tragedy Prometheus Bound, and in so doing gruesomely fastened his fellow Titan
Prometheus to the hard rock of the Caucasus (Aeschylus, PV 1–81). Since
Prometheus, as fire-god and the hero of much Abolitionist art and literature, had
since the 1770s so often been identified as a hero of labour and advocate of the
oppressed,4 his imprisoner Vulcan sometimes appears as a personification of
oppressive capital, for example in the socialist John Wheelwright’s poem ‘Titanic
Litany’: Prometheus is ‘tortured by the tyrant vulture / whom Vulcan riveted as
firmly as machines / can rivet laborers to capital’.5 This view of the relationship
between Prometheus and Vulcan, infused with the class politics of industrial
capitalism, meant that traditional artistic representations of Vulcan chaining
Prometheus, such as Dirck van Baburen’s Prometheus Chained by Vulcan (1623),6
became capable of very different, politicized readings in the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries. The tension between Vulcan as worker-hero and Vulcan as
oppressor can also be read into the Alabama statue. Does it really glorify the act
of labour? Is it primarily an Alabaman nationalist monument rather than a
statement about the valuable role of the working class? Is it just evidence of
businessmen looking for capital investment in Alabama from wealthy
industrialists elsewhere? Maybe. Yet, in the southern states, industrialization was
perceived as a progressive force because it was replacing slave-based agriculture.
Vulcan’s presence in a place of honour overlooking the city of Birmingham,
Alabama, as an icon of the city reveals his enduring importance as a
personification of heavy industry and the city’s industrial workers.
Regardless of the complexity of the messages he emits, the Vulcan of
Alabama is just the biggest and most famous of a whole category of Vulcans
used in publicly visible art which celebrate heavy industry, especially in the
factory towns of Britain from the early days of the Industrial Revolution. The
Alabama industrialists looked to Europe for their sculptor, and it was from
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Vulcan – a ‘Working-Class’ God? 157
Europe – specifically the British metal industry – that they derived their desire
for a statue of Vulcan. This chapter discusses some important appearances of
Vulcan in art, mostly in Britain during the ‘Age of Reform’ between the late
eighteenth and early twentieth centuries, but with comparative material drawn
from earlier eras and our contemporary world in order to clarify the discussion.
The intention is to show how representations of the metalworker deity subtly
changed as the role of industrial production in the British economy increased,
and how these representations crystallized the tension between celebrating the
labour of the working class and the pride of their employers – the factory-owners
– in their wealth and prominent role in the civic community.
There is no doubt that workers with metal and fire identified personally with
Vulcan, or his Greek equivalent Hephaestus, in ancient times. Hephaestus was
the divine and archetypal craftsman of the forge, the lame son of Hera and Zeus,
addressed in the ancient ‘Orphic’ Hymn to Hephaestus as the ‘strong-handed,
deathless’ and ‘all-taming artist’, who possessed supreme power over material
substances.7 His magical forgings include, among others, a chair with inbuilt
fetters to bind his mother, the axe which split Zeus’ head so that Athena could
leap forth, the thunderbolts of Zeus, the arrows of Eros, the doors of the Palace
of the Sun, the first woman (Pandora), his own beautiful maidservants – golden
robots within whom he had implanted speech8 – and the great shields of Achilles
and Aeneas described in the Iliad book 18 and the Aeneid book 8. When his
caught his wife Aphrodite in bed with Ares, the god of war, he famously avenged
himself by capturing them in chains and displaying them to the other gods, who
burst into laughter (Odyssey 8.266–343). He was worshipped by ancient working
men in guilds of smiths all over the Greek world, although the cult centred on
the suitably volcanic island of Lemnos in the north-eastern Aegean.9
There does seem to have been an identifiable ‘lower-class’ aspect to this god’s
appearance and status, relative to the other Olympians. First, Homer recounts
how, as a child, his father Zeus seized his little son by the foot and threw him
from Olympus, home of the gods, to the world of humans below. He fell all day
and at sunset landed on Lemnos with little life left in him (Iliad 18.394–404).
This rejection by his father and ejection from the home of the gods, together
with his childhood on Lemnos, where he was brought up by the Nereids and
taught metalworking skills, imply that, although born a god, he was considered
inferior, both physically and socially. He was taught the blacksmith’s trade as
though he were a mere mortal. Second, he is often portrayed comically, in both
ancient literature and art, in company with slave-like Cyclopes, his fellow
foundry-workers, or drinking with riotous satyrs, riding a donkey rather than a
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158 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
horse, and clutching the tools of his trade.10 Third, his disability may have been
typical enough of smiths in the ancient Greek world, where metalworking was
one of the few professions available to the lame. His upper body became
disproportionately developed, and he spent his days sweating (Iliad 18.372) in
the heat and dirt of his subterranean forge, manufacturing magical artefacts at
the whim of other gods. Fourth, in Roman statuary Vulcan is frequently depicted
wearing the pileus, the conical cap which was bestowed on a slave when he was
emancipated in order to indicate that he had become a freedman,11 which
differentiated him from the slaves of the lower levels of the artisan class. This
headgear marks him out as a manual worker, but a superior one.
Excitement about Vulcan was aroused by the evocative Orphic Hymn to
Hephaestus, which was unknown outside Byzantium until its first manuscript
reached Venice in 1423. It was first printed in Florence in 1500. By 1600, five
more editions, including the Aldine edition of 1517, had been published. Parts of
it may date from as early as the sixth century bc, when it was probably developed
and circulated orally; the final form in which we can read it may date from as late
as the fourth century ad. Composed in flawless dactylic hexameters, the Orphic
Hymns were used by mystic initiates who, through prayer, libation, sacrifice and
secret ceremonies, invoked a deity and asked their blessing. It is possible that the
Hymn, while originating in workmen’s guilds, also has Stoic associations, since
the Stoic philosophers identified God both with an intelligent eternal ‘reason’ or
logos and with fire.12 The Orphic Hymn to Hephaestus celebrates Vulcan as the
divine, anthropomorphic representative of the cosmic element of fire which
dwells in human bodies, sometimes as the bringer of light to mortals, and as an
eternal artisan and worker.
The forge-working ancient god fascinated the alchemists of the Renaissance
and Early Modern Europe. He also appears in seventeenth-century emblem
collections as a symbol of friendship. Through Plato’s description of Vulcan
welding together people who love one another (Symposium 192d–e), Vulcan
came to be associated with marriage, and the symbols of his anvil and
hammer begin to appear in the iconography of British cartoons in relation to
marriages conducted at Gretna Green.13 In this same century, the story of
Vulcan’s revenge on Mars and Venus was staged in several guises in popular
musical theatre, which ensured he became familiar to a wide public, through
Ebenezer Forrest’s (1729) Momus Turn’d Fabulist: or, Vulcan’s Wedding. An Opera
(1729) and especially Charles Dibdin’s wildly successful Poor Vulcan: A Burletta
(1775, and many times revived). An early poem by Robert Burns is addressed
to the smiths he wants to shoe his horse (named ‘Pegasus’, for the purposes of the
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Vulcan – a ‘Working-Class’ God? 159
poem), whom he invokes, pretending to be Apollo, as ‘Vulcan’s sons of
Wanlockhead’.14
Burns may have been drawing on the traditional configurations of Vulcan and
other figures in festive shows and street pageants organized by local guilds since
medieval times. A Christmas play in Ireland as early as 1528 featured a play
about Ceres performed by bakers, and another Vulcan performed by smiths.15 By
the eighteenth century, the procession staged annually at the Shrewsbury
Show included comically dressed figures with outsize heads leading the members
of each guild – the masters, followed by their journeymen and apprentices –
through the streets. At Shrewsbury, shoemakers were represented by Crispin and
Crispianus, tailors by Cupid, skinners by a stag, and hairdressers by Elizabeth I.
The smiths were led by the figure of Vulcan. In another street pageant, held in
Dublin in 1725, there was a well-publicized controversy between the smiths and
the tailors – Vulcan and Cupid – as to which guild should take precedence in the
procession.16 But it was undoubtedly the Industrial Revolution that brought a
heroically glamourized figure of Vulcan to the centre of public art and architecture.
A fascinating early instance is the thirty-shilling cheque issued by the Dowlais
Ironworks in South Wales in 1813. On the right stands Britannia, but on the left
a near-naked, muscular Vulcan stands with his anvil and hammer in front of the
works, leaning on one foot and clearly informed by the famous ‘Farnese Hercules’.17
By 1825, the Liverpool Mechanics’ Institute had adopted Vulcan on its
membership tokens, in an industrial triad of Olympian deities (Figure 9.1).
Seated centre is a helmeted Minerva, representing wisdom and education,
holding written treatises, but she is flanked on one side by Mercury (god of trade,
Figure 9.1
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160 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
communications and banking) and on the other by Vulcan, with the tools of his
trade, a representative of all mechanics.18 This personal connection between
Vulcan and individual workers in metal – from the manufacturers of cutlery and
expensive pewter art objects in Sheffield to the producers of the heaviest
engineering – remained strong throughout the nineteenth century. Vulcan’s
image still appears on trade union certificates of the Associated Society of
Locomotive Engineers and Firemen (ASLEF) in the version of 1916. Designed
and engraved by Goodall & Suddick of Leeds, this certificate pictures Vulcan on
the right in his forge. According to the ‘key’, issued with the certificate and which
explains the iconography, he is ‘more usefully employed in forging couple chains
than thunderbolts’. The ‘key’ also states the purpose of the certificate:
The possessor of this Certificate is therefore reminded by it of the important
part which he, as a member of the ‘Associated Society of Locomotive
Engineers and Firemen’ individually plays in the vast chain of intercourse
between man and man the wide world over, and upon which all progress in
Art, Science and Literature, and the diffusion of the advantages of civilization,
largely depends; as well as in the multitudinous exchanges of commerce, the
source of commercial prosperity and well-being of our nation, and lacking
which, life itself in our communities could not be sustained.19
The idealism of this pronouncement echoes at a distance of two and a half
millennia the emphasis on the civilizing influence of manufacture and its
resulting prosperity in the archaic, Homeric Hymn to Hephaestus, which is
probably even older than the Orphic Hymn: ‘Sing, clear-voiced Muse, of
Hephaestus famed for inventions. With bright-eyed Athene he taught men
glorious crafts throughout the world – men who before used to dwell in caves in
the mountains like wild beasts. But now that they have learned crafts through
Hephaestus the famed worker, easily they live a peaceful life in their own houses
the whole year round. Be gracious, Hephaestus, and grant me success and
prosperity!’ But the peaceful imagery of the Locomotive Engineers’ certificate
sits ill at ease with the date of its production in 1916, when heavy industry in
Britain was deeply involved in producing the equipment needed to sustain the
war effort on the Continent.
If individual working men identified at some level with Vulcan, he held just as
great an appeal to the rich industrialists who employed them. In 1830 Charles
Tayleur founded the Vulcan Works, to manufacture locomotives, halfway
between Liverpool and Manchester. The works produced engines for the local
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Vulcan – a ‘Working-Class’ God? 161
railway lines and also for export to America, including southern states such as
Carolina; they were renamed ‘the Vulcan Foundry’ in 1847. In Yorkshire, the
successful metal entrepreneur Henry Hoole wanted to memorialize his own
election as mayor of Sheffield in 1842. In 1850 he hired an ambitious young
designer, Alfred Stevens, to embellish the buildings housing his Green Lane
metalwork business, H.E. Hoole & Co. The company manufactured ornamental
stove grates and fenders and won international acclaim with their exhibits at the
Great Exhibition of 1851. Stevens was the son of a poor Dorset joiner, but,
through the generosity of the local vicar, had been enabled to study art in Italy.
On his return in 1845 he took up a post in the School of Design at Somerset
House in London. But, when Hoole commissioned him, Stevens drew on his
experience of Roman imperial architecture to design a great triumphal arch for
the Green Lane Works, one of the most spectacular examples of factory
architecture in the north of England.20
The Green Lane Works entrance arch was flanked by two bronze relief
panels, with near life-size figures staring proudly out from bronze plaques at the
viewer – factory-worker, factory-owner or the public. One is Vulcan, god of
forges and heavy industry; he stands with a hoplite helmet and ornamental
shield, perhaps intended to suggest the arms of Achilles or the armour of Athena
Parthenos. The other figure, sometimes said to be Athena/Minerva, holds a
palette and stands in front of both an ornamental vase and a statuary bust: she is
more likely to be a personification of Art. Stevens was a major influence on other
artists and architects in Sheffield, especially Godfrey Sykes, through whose work
a whole panoply of metalworking ‘sons of Vulcan’ appeared on another famous
piece of Sheffield iconography. In 1854, Sykes was commissioned to design a
frieze by the Sheffield Mechanics’ Institute, and he produced an engaging
adaptation of the Parthenon frieze to a Sheffield context, substituting artisans,
labourers, miners and steelworkers for Pheidias’ procession of Athenian
horsemen. Headed by Minerva/Athena and other gods, in Sykes’ vision the
workers of Sheffield proudly wield their tools and push their trucks around the
whole thirteen painted panels, extending to sixty feet, of the frieze.21
The question of which class – metalworker or industrialist – ‘owned’ Vulcan is
difficult to answer. In a sense, images such as the Green Lane bronze relief
sculpture or the Mechanics’ Institute frieze provide a hero who can be shared by
both classes, mutually benefiting from the industrial production he symbolizes.
If he could be made to stand equally for the interests of workers and philanthropic
industrialists, he can connote progress through technology and thus be aligned
with reform. But Vulcan was also used in less benign and idealizing depictions of
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162 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
heavy industry, where he sometimes clearly personifies the labouring rather
than the factory-owning classes.
It must also be borne in mind that, although Vulcan was often the deity
chosen to represent metal industries – iron, steel, copper, foundries and
blacksmiths – by association he could come to symbolize almost any heavy
industry at all. This is particularly clear from a cartoon published in Punch on
23 September 1893, in which Vulcan is a miner, opposed to Mars, who represents
British soldiers. A months-long conflict had been waged in the coalfields in
protest against severe proposed pay cuts. Not only the police force but also the
army were regularly being sent into mining communities to quell protesters.
Several protesters had been killed by soldiers, who, at Doncaster, had actually
opened fire into the crowd. But the situation was complicated because the miners
were themselves divided. Some districts (e.g. County Durham) had agreed to
submit to arbitration, while others (especially in Yorkshire, Lancashire and
Derbyshire) were adamantly opposed to it. In some coalfields, non-striking
miners who had agreed to arbitration were protected by the militiamen and
formed close bonds with them.
In the cartoon, the chaotic alliances and divisions are simplified by using
classical allegory.22 Mars signifies the complex alliance of the military with the
less militant miners who were prepared to enter arbitration. Vulcan represents
the militant miners who were absolutely opposed to any wage cuts and therefore
could not agree to arbitration. The conciliatory Mars says to the defiant Vulcan:
‘LOOK HERE, BROTHER VULCAN! – WHEN EVEN I HAVE KNOCKED
UNDER TO “ARBITRATION,” SURELY YOU MIGHT TRY IT?’ The two gods
meet beside a mineshaft. The areas around mines all over England and Wales had
been turned into battlefields where different elements of the working class fought
throughout the long summer of conflict. The editor of this issue of Punch,
Sir Francis Burnand, had been a famous writer of classical burlesques. The
cartoon is accompanied by his poem ‘A LESSON FOR LABOUR’. Although very
sympathetic to the poverty of the miners, it implies that they, rather than the
government, are responsible for the escalation of violence, and patronizingly
advises the militant wing to come to heel and agree to arbitration.
To return from the coalfields to Sheffield, the unofficial capital of the British
steel industry, the immediate predecessor of the monumental Vulcan of Alabama
was surely Mario Raggi’s bronze Vulcan of 1897. Commissioned by Sheffield
Town Council, it stands atop Sheffield’s Town Hall. The statue weighs eighteen
hundredweight; its precise height is not known, but is estimated to be between
seven feet and eleven and half feet. Nude, Vulcan rests his right foot on his anvil
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Vulcan – a ‘Working-Class’ God? 163
and holds his hammer in his right hand, and is often said to hold aloft arrows
in his left; they may, however, be interpreted as thunderbolts, which Vulcan
frequently holds in Roman statuary. For the official opening of the Town Hall by
Queen Victoria on 21 May 1897, a searchlight was attached to Vulcan’s raised
hand. On 16 December 1940, following the second extensive German air raid on
the city, the local newspaper, The Star, featured a drawing of the statue on its
front page together with the word ‘DEFIANT’.23
The Sheffield Vulcans continued nostalgically into the later twentieth century,
even as the steel industry began its desperate decline. Boris Tietze’s Vulcan, a
figure, eight feet in height, made of glass fibre on metal armature, was
commissioned in 1962 by Horne Brothers, to dignify the outside of their head
office building at 1 King Street, Sheffield. The figure holds metal rods in his right
hand. Ian Cooper’s Vulcan, 1989, a carving on the upper part of a twenty-foot-
high tree stump located in Graves Park, was commissioned by Sheffield
Recreation Department. This Vulcan holds a bird aloft with his right hand, the
artist having been inspired by the sight of a flight of starlings around Raggi’s
Vulcan on the Town Hall, when one perched on the thunderbolts.
Even today, with the demise of the British steel industry, Vulcan has not
disappeared from public art. Yet nowadays he rarely symbolizes directly the
labour of the working man himself. For Sir Eduardo Paolozzi, one of our greatest
sculptors, Vulcan is an artist rather than a labourer. When Paolozzi was
commissioned by the London and Paris Property Group to sculpt his own life-
size self-portrait in bronze for the front facade of their new offices at 34–36 High
High olborn, London, he chose to represent himself as Vulcan (The Artist as
Hephaestus, 1987). Two preliminary works, both in bronze, were Self-portrait
with a Strange Machine (purchased by the National Portrait Gallery in 1987) and
Portrait of the Artist as Vulcan (sold at Christie’s, London, in 2006), both exhibited
at the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition in 1987.24
In two other sculptures by Paolozzi, dating from 1999, the complex and
increasingly nostalgic relationships between Vulcan and progress and between
Vulcan, business owners and workers are ambiguously expressed. The Tyneside
property developer Peter Millican commissioned Paolozzi to create a sculpture,
Vulcan, for Central Square North, Forth Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, built by
Millican’s company, Parabola Estates, in a previously rundown area behind the
railway station which was undergoing large-scale urban renewal. Vulcan was
chosen to personify Newcastle upon Tyne as the din of Vulcan’s smithy and the
heat of his mighty furnaces evoked memories of the heavy industry of the
region’s industrial past. The seven-metre high bronze, cast in eight pieces, was
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164 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
installed in April 2000. Appearing as though constructed of bolts, girders and
machine parts, Vulcan resembles one of his own robotic manufactures.25
Arguably Paolozzi’s finest Vulcan, however, is the colossal fifteen-foot-high
Vulcan of 1999 in shining welded steel which dominates Modern Art Two in the
Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh, specifically made for its
setting. As with the Newcastle commission, Paolozzi endowed Vulcan with an
oversize left foot; he is again conceived as an automaton – part god and part
machine. But, unlike Paolozzi’s Newcastle Vulcan, which was static, this Vulcan
is in motion, striding out across the Great Hall, his massive bulk reaching from
the ground floor to the ceiling. The gallery was created from a former orphanage,
Thomas Hamilton’s Dean Orphan Hospital of 1833, a fitting place for a god who
had been rejected by his parents.
Vulcan’s name has been adopted by countless manufacturers of commercial
goods connected with speed, power, heat, metal, artefacts and construction:
aircraft, motorbikes, guns and sewing machines. Yet he also still stands proud
and tall today over great industrial cities such as Sheffield and Birmingham,
Alabama, and sculptures of him are still being commissioned for public spaces,
reminders of both the toil and the achievements of the working classes. He is one
of the most powerful of the gods; without the thunderbolts he manufactures
Zeus’s supreme power would be jeopardized, and there would be no love without
the arrows he forges for Cupid. Despite his disability, this mighty craftsman
defeated the great god of war. He embodies not only the technological
achievements of mankind, the intellect guiding the strength of the arm, but also
the reality of hard and sweaty labour. Vulcan stands for the power of artistic
creation to speak from the past to the present, and from the present to the future,
and for the ideal of a world reformed, remade, through technological progress.
He is the embodiment of man’s desire to investigate, enlighten and conquer his
environment through the civilizing powers of science, technology and art. But
he also challenges the oppressive hierarchies maintained by the class structures
of the industrial revolution. Above all, he is the personification of sweated labour.
In the pantheon of the gods, Vulcan stands alone, if not quite a ‘working-class’
god, then surely as a god with a unique relationship with the working
classes?Figure 9.1
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10
Nature versus Nurture:
Population Decline and Lessons from
the Ancient World
Sarah Butler
In 1900 the British Medical Journal (BMJ) reported that ‘Continental opinion’,
including that of the Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso (1835–1909) and
the influential German historian Theodor Mommsen (1817–1903), believed
modern Britons to be inferior to their ancestors.1 This appeared to confirm what
many in Britain feared: that the urban masses were physically, mentally and
morally in decline at just the time when the nation needed a productive
workforce and a strong army to sustain its Empire and secure its status as a world
power. This was blamed on the rural to urban societal shift and the unhealthy
industrial cities where disease spread rapidly and the stresses of modern living
played havoc with the physical and mental health of their working-class
inhabitants. The American political economist Henry George (1839–97)
summed up the failings of industrialization: ‘At the beginning of this marvellous
era it was natural to expect . . . that labour-saving inventions would lighten the
toil and improve the condition of the labourer.’ To George, nothing could have
been further from the truth: the ‘sturdy breed’ that triumphed at ‘Crecy, and
Poitiers, and Agincourt’ had been wiped out, leaving Britain staring at the same
fate as ancient Rome.2
Comparing the urban masses to the proletariat of ancient Rome had become
commonplace in the debate on degeneration by the close of the nineteenth
century. Histories of Rome’s decline were scrutinized for precedents for modern
Britain’s rural depopulation, unemployment and poverty. Social commentator
and novelist Henry Rider Haggard (1856–1925) could not see Britain thriving
with a predominantly urban population, since in comparable circumstances,
he claimed, Rome’s prosperity had waned.3 The working-class socialist writer
C. Allen Clarke (1863–1935) wrote in The Effects of the Factory System on Health
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166 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
(1899) that, just as ‘a mark’ was ‘impressed’ upon slaves who toiled in Rome’s
‘factory system’ to prevent them from absconding, so, too, were Britain’s industrial
workers being ‘branded’, because who could not make out a ‘factory face’?4 The
modern system, he declared, was ‘unhealthy, dangerous, bad for mind and morals
. . .’ Furthermore, he continued, ‘[it] unfits women for motherhood, curses the
children, and is causing the population of Lancashire to deteriorate’.5 Clarke
provocatively asked what children born to ‘factory’ parents were ‘worth’ and
appeared to echo Horace’s famous pronunciation on the decline of the Roman
race (Odes 3.6), when explaining that Britain’s workers failed to reach the stature
of their forefathers.6
As we might expect, contemporary scientists and medics responded differently
from their non-scientific counterparts concerned with increasingly worrying
signs of degeneration in the urban masses who were forced to live and work in
atrocious conditions for low wages in the newly industrialized towns. They
understandably tended to prefer the application of logic, reason and observation
to the free extrapolation from ancient history when debating the problem. That
said, some, whether advocating a biological solution or preferring a programme
of social and urban reform to rejuvenate the urban masses, were by no means
averse to drawing on the historical record of Greece and Rome as they tackled
an acutely modern problem. The aim of this chapter is to show the extent to
which the different views and theories of the scientific community were infused,
supported and given public resonance by reference to the classical, as the need to
reverse degeneration became ever more urgent towards the end of the nineteenth
century and into the twentieth.
I have concentrated, in the main, on the pronunciations and writings of
influential scientists and medics of either national (sometimes international) or
local repute that often appeared or were commentated on in respected medical
journals and newspapers. It is through these that we learn how ‘experts’ in
relatively new branches of science engaged with the ancient world and used the
work of the renowned figures of antiquity to add weight to their arguments.
Causes of decline
By the end of the nineteenth century, Britain’s healthy economy was seen by the
ruling elite to be threatened by an unhealthy urban workforce and the Empire’s
safety by an army comprised of the physically unfit. One major concern of the
scientific community was that cities facilitated the spread of epidemics. Ancient
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Nature versus Nurture 167
historians described how plague contributed to the destruction of Greece and
Rome. The celebrated Irish classicist J. B. Bury (1861–1927), for example, wrote
of outbreaks during Roman times in his History of the Roman Empire (1893),
including the one responsible for the death of Marcus Aurelius. Rome, Bury
argued, ‘presents many points of comparison with a large modern capital’.7 But
historians were not alone in investigating the impact of plague on ancient
societies or drawing comparisons between the past and present. Surgeon Henry
Potter wrote a history of ‘The Oriental Plague’ (1880) for the Journal of the
Statistical Society (JSS). In his essay, he detailed historical periods in which
plague had been rife, noting the devastation inflicted on Athenians in the fifth
century bce and the population of the Roman Empire during the second and
third centuries ce by the plague.8 This devastating disease, Potter declared, was
more destructive than conflicts, since it brought ‘poverty’ and ‘desolation’ and
claimed more victims.9 The anonymous author of ‘Pandemic Plague’ (1900) drew
a direct comparison between the sixth-century epidemic that raged across
Rome’s Empire and the plague that had recently swept across India and was now
endangering Europe and the Americas.10
More destructive than the plague, though, according to American scholar
William Jones (1876–1963), was malaria. In 1907, Jones published Malaria, A
Neglected Factor in the History of Greece and Rome. In the Introduction to Jones’
book, Major Ronald Ross (1857–1932) – an expert in tropical medicine –
criticized historians for making little effort to explore the ‘biological’ reasons for
a nation’s ‘success or failure’. As it was ‘endemic disease’, he argued, in populations
that were economically and militarily ‘dominant’ that brought down ancient
civilizations, it was essential that serious attention be paid to the spread of disease
(which he characterized as an enemy that struck from ‘within’) in Britain and the
Empire. For Ross, it was neither the Macedonians nor the Romans who
conquered Greece, but malaria.11 Moreover, Ross continued, the spread of the
disease from Greece to Italy changed Romans from ‘hardy’ peasants and ‘vigorous
soldiers’ to an idle population, and evidence of this change in character (according
to a note added by Jones) could be found in Juvenal’s Satire 3.60ff.12
In his book, Jones expanded on Ross’s introduction and told a tale of Greek
decline (in morals, patriotism and ambition) caused by malaria.13 That the
disease spread to Italy was confirmed for Jones, at least, by references to
febrile diseases in Roman literature, such as Terence’s mention of ‘fever’ in Hecyra
(Act III, Scene 4) and the Elder Pliny’s observation that Q. Fabius Maximus
contracted it (Natural Histories, 7:50). Indeed, Jones continued, from Cicero’s
time onwards the majority of writers referred to ‘malaria in unmistakable
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168 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
language’. Indeed, he regarded Celsus’ ‘discussion of fevers’ in On Medicine (3:3)
as almost identical to the fevers induced by malaria.14 In his creative – if not
always entirely scientific – thesis, he also blamed the disease for the decline of
Greece as well as the demise of the Roman Republic and the eventual break-up
of the Empire, since it lowered ‘vitality’ in both the ‘fit and unfit’. In this respect,
malaria was unique: other diseases strengthened a race ‘by weeding out the
unfit’.15 In trying to bring the threat of disease closer to his modern audience,
Jones warned that influenza was a disease equally detrimental to national well-
being. Modern Britons with their stress-filled lives and poor diet were especially
susceptible to influenza, which left victims unhealthy and immoral, and no
country could ‘prosper economically’ when morals declined.16 What Jones
omitted to mention was the exploitation of the majority of urban dwellers (the
working class) by the few (the industrial and ruling elite). It was the latter, who
were responsible for keeping wages low and living conditions poor for those on
whom Britain depended, who guaranteed that disease would thrive in the cities.
The nation was in dire need of reform.
Articles appeared in the BMJ and the national press describing the ravages
caused by influenza. For instance, in January 1890, the BMJ reported that there had
been a substantial rise in deaths that month.17 The Times also reported on the
outbreak, which had spread across London and beyond.18 Responsible for laying
off thousands of workers, influenza was threatening the economy. Military leaders,
too, expressed concern over the effect it would have on soldiers stationed around
the capital.19 Other outbreaks occurred in May 1891 and the winter of 1892 and,
like malaria, doctors claimed that influenza attacked both the healthy and the
unhealthy.20 According to Canterbury surgeon Brian Rigden, writing in The Times
in January 1892, the current influenza outbreak was, in terms of severity and
spread, the worst ever seen.21 Yet another serious outbreak occurred in 1908 in
Manchester, and another during the 1918 Spanish flu epidemic that killed between
fifty and a hundred million people worldwide. According to The Times in July 1918,
one London textile house recorded that a quarter of its workforce were absent as a
result. Other industries reported similar absences.22 Naval doctor Oliver H. Gotch
(1889–1974) and Harold E. Whittingham (1887–1983), at the time a captain in the
Royal Army Medical Corps, advised the BMJ that influenza must be considered
not only from ‘a medical’ point of view but also from ‘an economic’ and a ‘military
standpoint’.23 The recurrent pairing of concern for the economy and the military
was evidence of just how integral the working classes were to Britain and its Empire.
Unlike influenza, however, other infectious diseases prevalent in Britain,
such as typhus and tuberculosis, specifically targeted unhealthy working-class
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Nature versus Nurture 169
urbanites. According to renowned neuropathologist Frederick Mott (1853–
1926), autopsies performed on the dead of London’s asylums proved that almost
half had the ‘active tubercle’.24 Dr William Lauder, speaking at a public lecture in
Manchester in 1887, listed some of the reasons urbanites were prone to
contracting infections: overcrowded and damp living conditions, insufficient air
flow and breathing in ‘dust’ in certain industries.25 Public Health Administrator
James Niven (1851–1925) also blamed the urban environment for the spread of
diarrhoea.26 He informed attendees at a British Medical Association (BMA)
meeting in 1910 that diarrhoea was ‘most fatal’ in towns during the summer –
‘the fly season’.27 For Yale scholar and eugenicist Ellsworth Huntington (1876–
1947), if climate change provided the right conditions for the ‘mosquito’ to thrive
and malaria to spread in ancient times, it was the change from breathing the
pure air of the countryside to the stifling air of cities that hastened the spread of
disease in Britain.28
But, it was not just infectious diseases that were blamed for degeneration.
More detrimental economically were diseases of the mind and nerves. Although
unlikely to be fatal, these left victims unable to work, unfit for military service
and confined in institutions that drained the public purse. In 1887, Dr Richard
Crean of the Manchester and Salford Sanitary Association, investigating the
relationship between temperament and disease, presented his findings at a public
meeting. Crean’s research had led him to study the Roman physician Galen, who
had identified ‘nine’ different types of temperament in man. This contrasted with
the ‘modern classification’ that gave only ‘three principal types – the sanguine,
nervous and lymphatic’, or so Crean claimed.29
A man of the first type showed loyalty and imagination but lacked depth and
was prone to ill health and overindulgence. An example of this type was Mark
Antony. A ‘sub-variety’ of the sanguine was the athletic type, and examples
included Hercules, Homer’s Ajax and Roman gladiators, who were physically but
not mentally strong. The third category, the lymphatic, was ‘a degenerate type’.
However, despite the negative connotations of being classified as ‘degenerate’,
Crean argued that people who fell into this category were capable of ‘neatly’
defining ‘ideas’, and their cautiousness made them worthy of esteem.
For Crean, though, it was the second category – the nervous – into which
most Britons fell. Persons of this type were tenacious and valiant under pressure.
Examples from the ancient world included Hannibal and Julius Caesar, while
Wellington was a modern type.30 Worrying, though, for Crean was a subcategory
of the nervous type, with persons displaying signs of ‘nervelessness, nervousness,
or nerve debility’. As this subtype was not described by the ancients, Crean
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170 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
assumed this was because it was unknown in ancient times. Consequently,
he surmised, this subtype was a creation of the modern world with its new
methods of communication and production and new ways of living, all elements
unknown to hard-working country-dwellers in the past. It was this rural
existence that had fortified the ancients and produced robust races. Although
Greece and Rome had declined, Crean believed that neither race had suffered
from the ‘mental friction’ of the present day, because the Greeks were not
‘enervating’ characters and the Romans remained ‘free from the worry, wear, and
tear’ of modern life.31
Dr James Russell, superintendent of the Hamilton Asylum in Canada, also
blamed modernity for the rise in the number of people judged insane. Writing in
the BMJ in 1897, he argued that mass production led to high unemployment,
which in turn led to a reliance on charity; this was, in his opinion, the beginning
of ‘physical and mental degeneration’.32 Rather than charity, Russell recommended
money be spent on ‘adding to the earning power’ of paupers, as this would give
them a more equal share in the wealth of the nation and preserve their health. He
told readers that ‘equality of opportunity’ was lacking in Britain, but that he
hoped social and economic reform would allow a return to Macaulay’s ‘mythical
period’ in Roman history when the land and wealth were divided between rich
and poor.33 But Russell’s hopes for an equal society and a fall, therefore, in the
number of the poor declared insane failed to materialize, according to Anna
Kirby, secretary of the National Association for the Feeble-Minded. By 1913,
with the population saturated with feeble-minded persons, she warned that this
‘form of degeneracy’ was likely to have a greater impact on society than any
other type.34
Scientists also continued to investigate other forms of degeneracy, including
drunkenness, which was something the Spartans wisely steered their sons away
from, according to Westminster cleric (later Dean of Canterbury) Frederic
Farrar (1831–1903).35 Frederick Mott enquired into the effect of drink on
individuals with an unbalanced ‘nervous system’, finding that alcohol acted as a
‘poison’ to those with epilepsy and the ‘potentially insane’.36 Additionally,
excessive drinking led to other antisocial tendencies. One of these, also on the
rise by the late nineteenth century, was prostitution and a disease that was spread
by it – syphilis – which Russell considered would destroy more lives than
‘pestilence or the sword’.37 Another antisocial tendency was criminality. The BMJ
reviewer of an address to the American Medical Society by Dr Daniel Brower of
Chicago (1899) drew readers’ attention to Brower’s observation that the law,
which Brower qualified as ‘largely Roman’, was inadequate when dealing with
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modern criminals. Whereas the ‘legal code’ had suited Rome because ‘the death
penalty’ ensured that ‘a good deal of criminal material was cut off [at source]’,
this was no longer the case in America.38
Of greatest concern, though, to scientists was the growing belief that physical,
mental and moral traits were passed from parent to child. Investigating the issue
was ‘the father of eugenics’, Francis Galton (1822–1911), who in 1869 published
Hereditary Genius.39 According to Galton, historical inquiry proved that the
Greeks were the most able race in history, with Athens producing no fewer than
fourteen ‘illustrious persons’ over a hundred-year period from 530 bce. Galton’s
list consisted of Themistocles, Militiades, Aristeides, Cimon and Pericles,
Thucydides, Socrates, Xenophon and Plato, the four famous poets, Euripides,
Aeschylus, Sophocles and Aristophanes, and Phidias.40 Moreover, having
compared Athenians with modern Britons, Galton estimated that the former
were superior by ‘nearly two grades’ to the latter.41 Although the Athenians
declined due to a drop in moral standards, a disinclination to marry and
prostitution resulting in infertility, Galton proved that ‘genius’ was inherited by
listing the descendants of eminent Greeks.42 For instance, Aeschylus’ kin were all
‘distinguished for bravery’, while Aristophanes’ sons inherited his literary skills.43
Another notable ancient ‘genius’ who both inherited and passed on his talents
was the Roman Scipio Africanus. The son of a heroic military leader, Scipio was
father to Publius Cornelius, physically ‘weak’ but praised by Cicero for his mental
capabilities, and the erudite Cornelia. She, in turn, was mother to Tiberius and
Caius Gracchus, brave guardians of the masses and noted for their oratorical
skills and ‘virtues’.44 Other Romans with distinguished ancestors and/or
descendants included Pliny the Younger, Seneca the Younger and Vespasian,
whose son, Titus, was ‘able and virtuous’.45
Galton’s work was widely lauded. Among those who praised him was his
cousin, the evolutionary scientist Charles Darwin (1809–82), who wrote that he
had never ‘read anything more interesting and original’. Likewise, lawyer and
anthropologist George Harris, who reviewed Galton’s work for the Journal of
Anthropology in 1870, believed Galton deserved gratitude from all those
‘interested in the study of man’.46 But, if healthy genes could be passed down the
generations, so too, Galton continued, could degenerate ones, and, this being the
case, the chances of avoiding racial and, therefore, national decline were slim.
This was because the urban masses, which ‘contain[ed] an undue proportion of
the weak, the idle and the improvident’, were contributing more to future
generations than their rural hearty equivalent.47 Again, Galton was praised. The
reviewer of Inquiries into Human Faculty and Development (1883) commended
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172 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
him for educating humanity about the importance of breeding to ensure that ‘its
best stock’ survived and ‘its worst’ would be wiped out. Galton, the reviewer
concluded, had ‘suggested, more definitely than Plato . . . that there ought to be,
and some day may be, a real art of eugenics, which may be of practical importance
for mankind’.48
Other scientists took up Galton’s theories. Dr Frederic Mouat (1816–97),
president of the Royal Statistical Society, warned that, as poverty and diseases
arising from it were hereditary, future generations would see institutions filled
‘with the halt, the blind, the epileptic, and the imbecile.’49 Richard Crean, although
acknowledging that the environment must be a factor in physical and mental
development, nonetheless insisted that inherited traits were important.50 Russell,
too, despite his sympathy for the poor, believed that the unemployed who
resorted to drink and criminality must produce mentally inferior offspring who
would only be fit for ‘the most primitive form of citizenship’.51 Mott also argued
that the propensity to drink was passed from parent to child. But, for him, the
hereditary theory was a theory ‘familiar’ to the ancients and ‘foreshadowed by
Lucretius’. To prove this, Mott included a quote from De Rerum Natura (DRN) in
his discussion of the ‘Relationship of Heredity to Disease’: ‘Sometimes, too, the
children may spring up like their grandfathers, and often resemble the forms of
their grandfathers’ fathers, because . . . from the original stock, one father hands
down to the next father’ (DRN, 4:1218ff).52
But realizing that unhealthy urbanites contributed more to future generations
than rural workers was not the only issue. It was exacerbated by another troubling
tendency; that of the middle class to defer marriage and produce fewer children.
Essayist and industrialist William Rathbone Greg (1809–81) had noted in ‘On
the Failure of ‘Natural Selection” ’ (1868) that the progressive strata of society
were not breeding to the same extent as those ‘damaged by indulgence’ and
‘weakened by privation’.53 Nor had the situation improved by 1910, according to
Conservative politician and Medical Officer of Health for Hertfordshire, Francis
Fremantle (1872–1943), as church records revealed that the middle class and
other ‘useful’ people, tradespeople and the like, had smaller families.54 For
Edinburgh physician John William Ballantyne (1861–1923), one factor that
explained the reluctance to propagate was a ‘love of personal ease’ and ‘material
comforts’, and these were traits Britons shared with Romans.55 Thus, by the turn
of the century, a combination of disturbing factors contributed to the fears of the
elite that Britain would soon be overpopulated by the offspring of the ‘degenerate’
urban masses. The ramifications were clear. Like its ancient predecessors, Britain
was in danger of losing its status as a world power.
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Nature versus Nurture 173
Rejuvenating the urban masses
Those investigating the problem of degeneration largely agreed on the cause –
industrialization and urbanization. Opinion, however, was divided on its
solution. Some insisted a back-to-the-land policy would revive the urban masses.
It would also ensure that those recruited into the army would match the
robustness of their rural counterparts, according to a member of the BMA,
William Coates (1860–1962), who addressed a Medical Society gathering in
Manchester in 1909.56 Others, recognizing that the nation’s economy and
global position were dependent on the industrial output of cities, believed urban
reform was the answer. In fact, President of the Royal College of Physicians,
William Selby Church (1837–1928), criticized back-to-the-landers, arguing that
individuals should be employed to prevent what he termed ‘nuisances’ and
remove ‘refuse’ in cities. After all, in his opinion, such duties were ‘the most
important’ performed by Roman ‘Aediles’.57
Educating the people about sanitation was also vital, Church insisted, now
that the benefits of cleanliness had been ‘scientifically’ proven.58 Conservative
politician and chairman of the Manchester Ship Canal from 1887 to 1894, Earl
Egerton (1832–1909), agreed, suggesting children should be taught about
‘hygiene’ and ‘health’.59 Others urged setting up fitness programmes.60 Coates
believed these would reduce the number of unhealthy recruits rejected by the
army and, as the number of men enlisting had fallen recently, this was imperative.
Coates blamed public lethargy for the disinclination to enlist. Rome, he declared,
had faced a similar situation as its population declined.61 A letter to The Times in
1903 also drew attention to the lack of recruits and noted that enlisting men in
‘quantity’ and ‘quality’ had been a ‘crucial problem’ for Rome from the Augustan
era. The signatory – ‘Veritas’ – asked whether Britain would also ‘fall’.62 But, for
Manchester and Salford’s Public Health Officer, Arthur Ransome (1834–1922),63
and Dr Henry Simpson, author of ‘Climate in the Treatment of Disease’ (1887),
the rejuvenation of the masses would only be achieved by a combination of
reforms: in air quality, living and working conditions, hygiene, education, fitness,
and the quantity and quality of food.64
However, for those who accepted Galton’s hereditary arguments, any
interference with nature’s way of eliminating degenerates would override the
efforts made to revitalize the population. One perceived ‘interference’ was
philanthropy. Even the celebrated author and supporter of social reform, Charles
Kingsley (1819–75), observed in ‘The Science of Health’ (1872) that aiding
unfortunates was merely saving ‘weakly persons’ who ‘must produce weaklier
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174 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
children’.65 Just over a decade later, journalist and author of The Problems of a
Great City, Arnold White (1848–1925), although portraying himself as the
people’s ‘tribune’,66 wrote that it made no sense to give the poor small amounts of
money that would leave them neither ‘better nor worse’ off. The only outcome
would be to saddle future generations with an unwelcome financial burden.67
Improvements in sanitation and housing, jails and workhouses, in fact anything
that made, in Kingsley’s words, life ‘more easy to live’, were also condemned.68
Moreover, as the industrialization of other nations further threatened Britain’s
economy and as the poor condition of soldiers was partly blamed for Britain’s
second-rate performance in the Second Anglo-South African War (often referred
to as the Second Boer War, 1899–1902), Galton’s theories on heredity became
more popular.69
In 1904 Galton reiterated his ideas in ‘Eugenics: Its Definition, Scope and
Aim’, which was published in The American Journal of Sociology. While conceding
that not everyone need resemble ‘Marcus Aurelius’, Galton still believed that
‘inquiry into the rates with which the various classes . . . contributed to the
population at various times’ would aid eugenicists.70 Published alongside this
article in the BMJ were a number of celebrity endorsements, including one from
fellow eugenicist Karl Pearson (1857–1936), who commented that Galton’s
approach could help find a solution to a critical ‘national’ problem.71 The famous
author H. G. Wells (1866–1946) declared Galton’s article ‘admirable’,72 while the
socialist, playwright and Fabian George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950) argued that
only a ‘eugenic religion’ would prevent Britain going the way of ‘all previous
civilizations’.73
Simultaneously, antipathy to measures intended to save the unfit persisted.
Galton himself expressed his opposition to ‘sentimental charity’ that would harm
‘the race’.74 Shaw, drawing on the well-known expression coined by Juvenal
Satires 10.81, believed Britain was witnessing ‘the Roman decadent phase of
panem et circenses’, and called it an act of cowardice that nature was defeated
‘under cover of philanthropy’ while ‘artificial selection’ was disregarded ‘under
cover of delicacy and morality’.75 Pearson imagined a bleak future if individuals
were saved by artificial means. By this he meant charity and better working
conditions, which, together, were responsible for ‘our gravest present difficulties’.
‘After 60 years of philanthropic effort unparalleled in any European country’, he
claimed, ‘we find ourselves as a race confronted with race suicide; we watch with
concern the loss of our former racial stability and national stamina.’76 For
Pearson, any ‘sympathy and charity’ must be structured towards improving the
race rather than leading Britain ‘towards national shipwreck’.77
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American eugenicist Edward Manson, reporting on the 1st International
Eugenics Congress held in London in 1912, also criticized the humanitarian
urge. He claimed it was not the way of the ancient world. Even though exposing
children or neglecting poverty was abhorrent to Manson, he was opposed to
replacing ‘hardness and indifference’ with ‘sympathy and tenderness’. Plato, the
‘first’ eugenicist, as Manson called him, was adamant that Greeks put the state
first when contemplating marriage in order to produce the strongest offspring.78
Oxford scholar Allen Roper, author of Ancient Eugenics, the Arnold Prize Essay
in 1913, suggested that humanitarianism had created a modern problem because,
according to Plato (Laws, 11.936c), in the event a beggar appeared in Athens, he
would be forced from the city rather than be kept by the state.79
Harry Campbell, a physician at the West End Hospital for Nervous Diseases,
in contributing to a discussion on eugenics in 1913, criticized the ongoing
preoccupation with sanitary reforms on the grounds that poor sanitation
strengthened a race by ‘eliminating weaklings’.80 Yet advances in medicine were
of greater concern to him. According to Campbell, since man first lived in cities
he had been subject to attacks from ‘pathogenic microbes’ and, even if he
possessed Apollo’s ‘beauty’ or Socrates’s ‘wisdom’, should he be incapable of
resisting these ‘foes’ he would not survive. Thus, since he believed that individuals
who fell ‘short’ of the standard needed to maintain efficiency should be wiped
out, Campbell censured doctors who saved ‘defective types’. At the very least, if
people with hernias, appendicitis and other fatal ailments were saved, this should
be on condition that they did not procreate.81 Edgar Schuster, Galton Research
Fellow in National Eugenics at the University of London from 1905, referred to
the growing enmity between medics and eugenicists, an enmity, he claimed, that
had also afflicted Greece. Yet again, Plato’s authority was called upon as evidence.
Whereas ‘the older school of medicine’ worked on ‘eugenic lines’, refusing to treat
disease-ridden individuals so as not to save useless lives or have feeble individuals
produce even more feeble sons, doctors in Plato’s time (or so Schuster claimed)
tried to preserve lives regardless of an individual’s value to the state. In Schuster’s
opinion, if doctors enabled weak parents to pass on defective genes, they could
be accused of ‘being dysgenic’.82 Eugenicist and president of the BMA in 1912,
Sir James Barr (1849–1938), also accused doctors of disregarding ‘the future’,
unlike the Spartans who instigated ‘measures’ to improve a man’s physical state.83
It was the Spartans, according to Roper’s Ancient Eugenics, who first devised a
‘system of practical Eugenics’, although ‘the first formulation in theory’ belonged
to Plato.84 In discussing moral degenerates, such as criminals, Roper compared
what he termed ‘the Platonic’ way of dealing with them with the modern way,
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176 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
finding the latter’s methods more humane, although still lacking in ‘humanity’.
This was because, Roper argued, moral degenerates were as much victims of
heredity as physical degenerates and should not, therefore, be punished for their
crimes.85 Others, though, were less sympathetic. In 1870 William Rathbone Greg
had complained about the ‘fanatic tenderness’ towards criminals that prevented
setting up a constructive ‘system of criminal management and repression’.86 Karl
Pearson agreed. Whereas in the past criminals had been executed or transported,
‘sympathy’ had ‘developed’ to such an extent that he feared the nation could be
overrun by the criminal element.87 He cited from Plato’s Laws (5.735d–e) to
show how the Greeks dealt with the worst criminals: ‘The best kind of purification
is painful, like similar cures in medicine, involving righteous punishment or
inflicting death or exile in the last resort. For in this way we commonly dispose
of great sinners who are incurable, and are the greatest injury to the whole state.’
Can we not, Pearson asked, ‘claim Plato as a precursor of the modern Eugenics
movement?’88
Various strategies were suggested to prevent degenerate births and spare the
fit from supporting the unfit. President of the Law Society and former prime
minister, Lord Rosebery (1847–1929), hinted that legislation was the answer
when he referred to the marriage restrictions placed on ‘epileptics and feeble-
minded persons’ in America. ‘We smile at such regulations’, he stated, but:
If the success of the enacting in Michigan is great, if it is found that hereditary
incurable defects are thereby checked, that a better and purer race is being
produced, a race more competent to people the ideal State which we are
always aiming at, are we sure that we shall always smile? Now it seems
legislation more worthy of Plato’s Republic than of practical Parliaments.89
Another proposed method, a method Arnold White favoured, was involuntary
sterilization.90 In 1906, Robert Reid Rentoul of the Royal College of Surgeons
presented a paper – ‘Proposed Sterilization of Certain Mental Degenerates’ – at
the annual meeting of the BMA because he could not see what else would
prevent future generations inheriting unhealthy genes.91 On his list of persons
who should face ‘compulsory sterilization’ were ‘lunatics, epileptics, idiots’,
offenders, drunkards and beggars. He dismissed, however, alternative solutions
including ‘murder’, arguing that Britons should not adopt the ways of savages or
Spartans.92 Middlesbrough physician Robert Howat also saw sterilization as the
only option for habitual drunks.93 Schuster, in a chapter devoted to ancient
eugenics in Eugenics (1910), again used Plato (Laws, 775d) to prove the ancients
knew of the dangers of drink and warned of its consequences: ‘the drunken man
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is bad and unsteady in sowing the seed of increase, and is likely to beget offspring
who will be unstable and untrustworthy’.94 Sterilizing prostitutes, however, was
unnecessary, Mott believed, because prostitution led to syphilis, and as syphilis
caused sterility it acted as ‘an eliminator of the unfit’.95
The idea of limiting the number of children born, albeit to degenerates, clashed,
however, with concern over the economic and military consequences of a falling
birth rate. Francis Fremantle warned that this had been responsible for Greece’s
decline and the fall of Rome and had, in fact, caused the downfall of ‘all extinct
races’.96 William Coates, who estimated that the birth rate in Manchester and
Nottingham had decreased by about a third in two decades, drew attention to
practices employed in ancient Rome and modern Britain to restrict the number
of children by quoting from Gibbon’s Decline and Fall and a report on health by
James Niven (1907). While the former wrote: ‘The horrid practice so familiar to
the ancients of exposing or murdering their newborn infants was becoming every
day more frequent in the provinces, and especially in Italy’, the latter reported
there was ‘little doubt that the continual descent of the birth-rate is due not merely
to the prevention of conception, but also in no small degree to destruction of its
fruits’. Coates observed that only two factors separated ancient and modern
methods. Whereas Roman men courageously and openly killed their offspring, in
Britain ‘the gruesome deed’ was hidden and men allowed women to do it. The
nation, Coates believed, was being robbed of children. This, however, did not
prevent him discouraging degenerates from breeding, as otherwise Britain would
be ‘swamped’ by infants who without medical intervention would have died.97
Ideally, then, Britain needed to remain fully populated, but only by the ‘right’
kind of people. Various methods were proposed for encouraging what Galton
called ‘the useful class’ (i.e. those that contributed to society) to add ‘more than
their proportion to the next generation’.98 John Ballantyne, who believed
Augustus was right to introduce laws to offset the disinclination to marry among
the superior Roman population, recommended in the BMJ that the British
government should offer ‘legislative and fiscal bribes’ to encourage large families,
but feared Britons, like Romans, would not be persuaded by such incentives.99
Indeed, Fremantle accused the government of shortsightedness in discouraging
the middle class from marrying so that employees concentrated on work when,
in his opinion, a man’s ‘greater value’ lay in producing ‘good stock’.100 Coates, too,
believed the government needed to encourage breeding by making it appealing
to middle-class women and the ‘better working class’, who might be persuaded
by tax breaks, employment in the ‘public services’ and adequate provisions, the
implication being that provisions were at present inadequate.101 Pearson wanted
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178 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
the government to overturn laws which – he claimed – punished ‘the better
parentage’ while limiting charitable aid to ‘degenerate parents’. As nature had
been hampered from reducing ‘social wastage’, circumstances now favoured ‘the
multiplication of this degeneracy’.102
Yet, not all had been persuaded by the heredity argument. In 1870, George
Harris, in reviewing Hereditary Genius, had pointed out a flaw in Galton’s thesis
in that the offspring of illustrious men were often inferior to their sires, while
distinguished men could be born to parents of little intellect or of a dissolute
nature.103 Galton himself had noted that Lucius Cornelius Scipio Africanus was
‘a degenerate son of his illustrious sire’.104 The author of ‘Eugenics’ (1913),
although accusing pleasure-seekers of perpetrating ‘racial suicide’, also expressed
opposition to eugenics. Having compared moral decline in Britain with that in
Rome’s Empire, the author asked whether Britons had not moved past Horace’s
‘Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis’ (‘The brave are born from the brave and good’
– Odes, 4. 4105), which even the ancients knew was not always true, as the offspring
of renowned Romans could be inferior to their sires. Medical men were, therefore,
correct in opposing the legalizing of involuntary sterilization.106
Others remained convinced that environmental change would rejuvenate the
population. Despite being convinced that insanity was inherited, Wilhelm König
of Berlin’s Dalldorf Asylum informed the BMJ in 1904 that if the children of
alcoholics were transferred to the ‘healthy and moral atmosphere’ of the country
this would prevent many following in their parents’ footsteps.107 This was also
true for the offspring of criminals, according to Dr Alfred Schofield, who – in
commenting on König’s article – referred to an experiment being conducted at
Addlestone, Surrey. Here the children of female offenders were observed in order
to ensure that any criminal tendencies were ‘directed into good channels’ so
children would grow into ‘moral’ adults.108
Embryologist John Beard (1858–1924) called the belief in ‘natural selection’ ‘a
superstition’ which caused followers to disregard the environmental culprits,
namely, poor nutrition and the urban environment.109 Even Edgar Schuster
advised scientists not to ignore the environment when investigating ill health,
claiming that the Greeks took it into account when planning a family. This time
Aristotle (Politics, 7) came to Schuster’s aid, because he told of the expertise of
ancient ‘physicians and natural philosophers’. While the former knew ‘the
occasions suitable to their physical condition’ for procreation, the latter
maintained that a ‘northerly wind’ provided the best chance of an infant
surviving. It was Aristotle, too, who wrote of the benefits to expectant mothers of
adequate food, a stress-free existence and daily exercise.110
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During the interwar years the problem of population decline continued to
vex intellectuals. American banker Frank Vanderlip, in What Happened to Europe
(1919), claimed that England had maintained its global dominance until the
Great War but, having recently visited manufacturing centres, he feared
industrialization had left northern Britain at least with an ‘undersized, underfed,
underdeveloped and undereducated’ race. Supporting his findings were records
that showed a third of men were still unfit for military duty. He called the
‘domestic situation’ of workers a ‘national scandal’ and blamed the consistently
low wages that meant many had been unable to provide a home for their
families.111 With evidence, then, that matters had not improved, some members
of the scientific community carried on arguing for measures to prevent
degenerate births.
Frederick Mott returned to the subject in ‘Mental Hygiene’ (1923). After
restating his belief in Lucretius’ observation that ‘the mind is begotten with the
body, grows up with it and grows old with it’ (DRN, 3:49), Mott argued that
controlling breeding was even more urgent following the Great War that had
seen the able population decimated while the less able survived – a novel
situation, as in the past, he claimed, it had been the fittest that survived.112
Another advocate was the German-born, Oxford-educated philosopher
Ferdinand Schiller (1864–1937). Delivering the Galton lecture in 1925 on ‘The
Ruins of Rome and Its Lessons to Us’, Schiller claimed that many of the reasons
for Rome’s ‘decay’ were evident in modern society. The only notable difference
was ‘the pernicious contra-selection of the biologically less fit’, which he regarded
as a greater threat in modern times. This was because, unlike the Roman Empire,
Britain was not encircled by dynamic, if barbaric, races from which new strength
could be drawn at a time when the intelligent class was shrinking, resulting in
the employment of ‘unemployables’. Condemning the Conservatives for being
controlled by industrialists wanting ‘cheap labour’, the Liberals for ‘false
humanitarianism’ and the Labour Party for supporting ‘wastrels and parasites’
because the party saw ‘limitation of output as a legitimate way of raising the
social value of any product’, he suggested writing off all parties and founding the
‘party of eugenical reform.’113
Pre-war solutions were reiterated by, for instance, psychiatrist and supporter
of eugenics Alfred Tredgold (1870–1952), who advised that segregating
the mentally ill from the rest would help.114 Surgeon at Leicester Royal Infirmary
C. J. Bond, delivering the Galton lecture in 1928, called for a ‘national stocktaking’
to ascertain the ‘mental qualities’ of the population because the masses were not
improving. He, too, suggested keeping ‘mentally defective groups’ apart from the
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rest, along with the poor, drunks and criminals.115 For sociologist and author
of The Population Problem, Alexander Carr-Saunders (1886–1966), artificial
selection was important, and this was something that had been apparent to the
Greek poet Theognis and the Spartan Lycurgus, who attempted to legally
‘promote desirable marriage and to discourage undesirable unions’.116 With
many new workers each year ‘unprepared’ to participate fully in society, Carr-
Saunders failed to understand objections to the science of eugenics.117
Continuing to come under attack were philanthropists, reformers and
doctors. A letter to the BMJ in 1921, from F. J. Allen of Cambridge, again blamed
sanitary conditions and medicine for the rise in degeneracy.118 Biologist Ernest
MacBride (1866–1940) claimed the old idea of forbidding workhouse inmates
the right to breed should be extended, or ‘sickly sentimentalism’ would see
America become commercially dominant.119 President of the Eugenics Education
Society, Leonard Darwin (1850–1943), son of Charles, agreed, arguing that, if
persuading paupers to restrict family size proved unsuccessful, it would in some
instances be fair to segregate them and deny them the opportunity to be
parents.120 Claiming it was well known that ancient societies declined, Darwin
asked, why should Britain not tread the same path when one vital cause of
decline in Greece and Rome – the high birthrate among the ‘less efficient social
strata’ – was also happening in Britain?121 Egyptologist William Flinders Petrie
(1853–1942) also compared Britain to Rome, maintaining it was supporting
idlers that contributed to Rome’s decline.122 It was not, however, only handouts
that Petrie opposed. He was against economic equality per se and, like his
contemporaries, he highlighted the dangers of equality – for the rich – with an
example from the past. It was Diocletian’s ‘socialist decree’ which fixed ‘prices and
wages’, he claimed, that ensured Rome’s best citizens gained nothing from ‘their
superior ability’ and suffered most when financial losses could not be offset by
raising prices.123 Consequently, in any proposal to regenerate Britons there must
be ‘no Socialistic constraint’ on the fit.124
Yet, by the 1920s, the eugenic movement had lost impetus. Dean of St. Paul’s
Ralph Inge (1860–1954) blamed the public’s preference for environmental
solutions, and categorized anyone who stressed that nature trumped nurture
as ‘an enemy of the working man’.125 An article in the BMJ reported that,
although the 1929 Wood Committee (investigating feeble-mindedness) found
that eight in every thousand schoolchildren were ‘mentally defective’, the Board
of Control for Lunacy and Mental Deficiency recognized that any neutral
investigation would be hampered ‘by the atmosphere which sterilization excites’
and the inflated assertions of those who promoted it.126 In any case, even
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Nature versus Nurture 181
prominent members of the Eugenics Society, for instance geneticist Ronald
Fisher (1890–1962), denied that sterilization ‘would completely eradicate mental
defectiveness’.127
One outspoken opponent of eugenics was the novelist and philosopher G. K.
Chesterton (1874–1936), who censured individuals in Eugenics and other Evils
(1922) for believing that breeding men ‘like a cart-horse’ would result in a ‘higher
civilisation’.128 In fact, according to Arthur Newsholme (1857–1943), Chief
Medical Officer of Health from 1908–1919 and son of a wool-worker from
Yorkshire, as eugenicists had not adequately proved the importance of heredity
they should not make any proposals for combating degeneration.129 Rather,
providing medical care, food, sanitary accommodation and fresh air would keep
mothers and infants healthy, as would education in domestic and ‘health
matters’.130 Scottish-born naturalist J. Arthur Thomson (1861–1933) agreed,
although arguing it was education in history, not domesticity, that would create
responsible parents. As one reason for the decline of ancient civilizations was
falling racial standards, he recommended teaching ‘heredity’, ‘evolution’ and ‘sex-
instruction’ alongside ‘the history of the race’.131 A strong supporter of women’s
rights, Mary Scharlieb (1845–1930), suggested a balance, with women taught
history, domesticity and other ‘matters’ necessary for ‘health and national
prosperity’.132
Other factors also undermined eugenic ideas during the interwar years. First,
the contribution of the masses to the defeat of Germany was clear.133 Second, and
despite some opposition to birth control, the use of contraception became more
popular and widely available. In 1921 the first birth-control clinic was founded
and the Society for Constructive Birth Control and Racial Progress was formed,
albeit under the control of two supporters of eugenics, Marie Stopes (1880–1958)
and Australian doctor Norman Haire (1892–1952).134 Third, legislation to
improve working conditions as well as urban and suburban reform had, by the
post-war period, made some difference. The Garden City movement held out
hope for the future, and the successful relocation of urbanites to Letchworth
caused work to begin on Welwyn Garden City in 1919.135 Perhaps, though, of
greatest significance was the passing of the Representation of the People Act in
1918 and the growing popularity of the Labour Party. Giving the working classes
a political voice and control over their own destiny, Richard Soloway claims,
‘precluded eugenics playing much of a role in planning for the future’.136
Nonetheless, during a period when concern over the condition of the urban
masses peaked, the members of the scientific community who feared that Britain
would share the fate of Greece and Rome often looked to the ancient past, not
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182 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
only to warn of the consequences of degeneration and national decline but also
to suggest ways to overcome it. The texts of revered ancient writers were utilized
on both sides of the argument, by those who preferred a biological solution to
the problem and by those who favoured environmental change and recommended
implementing social and urban reform to improve the lives of Britain’s workers.
Classical modes of thinking – whether conscious or unconscious – were deeply
ingrained in the minds of Victorian and Edwardian scientists.
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11
The Space of Politics:
Classics, Utopia and the Defence of Order
Richard Alston
A consensus on cities
On 24 September 2013, Ed Miliband, current leader of the Labour Party,
announced a radical new initiative. In response to a crisis in the provision of
housing, and perhaps to the widespread angst that followed the urban rioting of
2011, he called for the building of garden cities. The idea appealed to the political
classes, and on 16 March 2014 George Osborne, the chancellor of the Exchequer,
announced plans for a new garden city at Ebbsfleet. From somewhere in the
shallow recesses of political memory, the ideas of Ebenezer Howard are
resonating with the centre left and the ideological right of British politics. The
ghost of Howard himself, however, was not summoned to the banquet; there was
no celebration of a ‘Great British Reformer’.
There are parallels with a century ago, both in the political flexibility of the
idea of the garden city and in forgetting Howard. In 1898, Howard published
To-morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform, to what appears to have been
minimal acclaim. The Garden Cities Association was formed, and membership
reached 325 by 1900. Two years later, the volume was reissued and repackaged as
Garden Cities of Tomorrow, and Howard was in the process of becoming a
visionary.1 Garden cities launched a transformation of the British urban
landscape. With remarkable speed, the ideas were adopted and modified and,
astonishingly, implemented across a range of sites in the UK. Perhaps equally
remarkably, the idea travelled, being taken up in the United States, France and
Germany, but in forms unrecognizable from Howard’s original plan. Almost as
quickly, Howard and his original radicalism were sidelined, sidestepped by
history, as town planning moved from its anarchistic and revolutionary roots to
become a technocratic and governmental intervention.
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184 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
The Garden City movement may seem an unpromising place to start to think
about classics, class, politics and city. As I have pointed out elsewhere, Howard’s
utopia and the real ‘cities’ that followed were often distinctly non-classical in
form.2 Furthermore, the garden city idea looks to be an ‘empty frame’ in cultural
and political terms. The garden city has an extraordinary aesthetic history that
takes it from the workers’ cottage of Letchworth, low-tech, cheap, vernacular
designs, to the neo-Georgian splendours of Poundbury, Dorchester, and the ‘new
urbanism’ movement in the United States responsible for the villas of Seaside,
Florida and the Disney-constructed utopia of Celebration, Florida, with their
neo-Palladian and classicizing echoes.3 But, if the architectural journey is
bewildering, the political journey is more extreme, from the communitarian
anarchism of Peter Kropotkin (and its terroristic fellow-travellers), to the
traditionalism and paternalism of HRH the Prince of Wales, to the arch-
conservatism of Disney.
Such transitions raise fundamental questions about the relationship between
politics, ideology and architecture (aesthetics). In what follows, I outline the
architectural and political journey of ‘new cities’ from nineteenth-century
neoclassicism, through the anarchist and neo-medievalist roots of the Garden
City movement, to a form of political classicism in communitarian thought and
a weaker classical form in architectural representations. To understand the
Garden City movement and what has happened to it, we need to look deeper
into the nineteenth century, to the industrial cities of the North (especially) and
to how they were themselves reshaped and remodelled in neoclassical clothing.
These cities were, it seems to me, anti-cities, cities that broke from what a city was
in the nineteenth century to create mirages of a different form of urbanism. I
argue that the ‘new towns’ of the early and mid-twentieth century and
contemporary ‘new urbanism’ define themselves by their opposition to the
industrial city, and it is this primary negativity that allows them to have such a
range of aesthetic and political forms, forms which see a return to the classical in
a considerably watered-down form. In the extended conclusion, I consider the
political meaning of neoclassical urban architecture, arguing that classicism
operates as a discourse of utopianism. I suggest that the more radical
manifestations of the Garden City movement offered a non-city, a Nowhere,
which turned away from urbanism, both Victorian and classical. It is in the
classical form that the anti-city of the modern era finds itself. The neoclassical is
a city which builds an oneiric non-reality. I finish by suggesting that neoclassicism,
primarily in architectural form but also in political theory (on which I only
touch for reasons of space), functions to limit the utopian social imaginary and
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The Space of Politics 185
to turn attention away from the city of class in ways that make social reform and
fundamental social change more difficult.
Creating communities, constructing cities
The problems of rapid urbanization in the UK were perhaps the key social,
economic and political issues of the nineteenth century onwards. The conditions
of the working class scandalized liberal opinion, while the politics of the working
class, emerging first through Chartist and then socialist groups, threatened the
hegemony of old elites. It was evident to all that the industrial city was a new
world, and a world which many did not like. To an extent, architecture is always
about the remaking and reimagining of a world. A building is an intervention in
a city that changes the urban landscape, and, whether the building is modernist
or classical, it offers a vision of a city as it might be. In the nineteenth century,
architectural debate raged around the ‘two styles’, the classical and the Gothic,
with Ruskin being the most influential and polemical champion of the Gothic.4
Nevertheless, the architectural argument was principally about whether the
alternative to the present would reference a classical past or a medieval and
Christian past: the two-styles debate can be reduced to a vision of which
alternative society was more favoured. Nevertheless, both visions were in their
fundamentals anti-modern and fantastic.
In fact, the classical style was heavily, though not universally, deployed in the
eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British city. The neo-Palladianism and the
Greek revival of the late eighteenth century offered new versions of elite identity
in a mercantile and industrializing economy.5 The new style never enjoyed a
monopoly on country house architecture, with Italianate styles and Gothic
revivalism challenging various versions of classicism, and architects of the
period tended to work within a variety of styles. Dobson, who (in conjunction
with Grainger) laid out the neoclassical centre of Newcastle, also built numerous
Gothic-style churches and country houses.6 William Wilkins, who was a major
figure in Greek revivalism (notable for University College London, Haileybury
College, and the north end of Trafalgar Square), built houses in Gothic style.
Charles Barry designed the Greek revivalist Manchester Art Gallery, but used a
more Italianate style for the Manchester Athenaeum, and Gothic styles for
various ecclesiastical commissions.
Yet, there were ideological differences. For Dobson, for instance, classicism
was a particularly urban form, and he used it for the middle-class housing of
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186 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Eden Square and other places. Gothic was for country houses and ecclesiastical
projects. Newcastle’s commercially driven redevelopment showed the way for
local governmental interventions in the urban landscape, and the classical style
came to dominate the central townscapes of many of the newly wealthy industrial
towns (notably Edinburgh, Newcastle, Halifax, Manchester, Liverpool, Bradford,
Birmingham, Leeds, Glasgow and Bolton). Although there were significant local
variations, the prevalence of neoclassicism shows the importance of the classical
tradition within the political imaginary of the time, but also the utopian desire
for different cities and different communities.
The centre of Liverpool, for example, was reshaped over two generations with
the development of the neoclassical St George’s Hall (built by Harvey Elmes after
he won the competition of 1839), Lime Street Station (c. 1836), Wellington’s
Column (1856), Liverpool Museum and Library (originally the William Brown
Library and Museum 1860), the rotunda of the Picton Reading Room (1875), the
Walker Art Gallery (1877) and the County Sessions House (1882).7 This was an
enormous and sustained investment in the urban infrastructure of Liverpool
which provided the city with what is a stylistically uniform monumental centre,
now the William Brown Street Conservation Area. The investment was an act of
power made possible by the wealth of the city elders, but it also represented a
consistent vision of how the city might be. It was, therefore, ideological.
In reforming their city, the city elders adopted what was almost a universal
architecture of power and advertised their aspirations for Liverpool to be a
world city, comparable with the great cities of the modern and classical worlds.
The city centre advertised a mercantile classicism different from the neoclassicism
of the landed elite, not so much in style as in its grandeur and civic origins. The
resulting vision was of a community dominated by its mercantile elite, a
perception difficult to deny in the presence of its architectural manifestation. It
also references a timelessness and a cultural transcendence that represent the
ambition of this particular social order to maintain its power through history, an
ambition that works against the novelty of the centre of the city that was built
over two generations and of wealth that was little more than a century old.
The rebuilding of the city asserted a particular identity for the community
and presented the citizens with an image of a new society. The classicizing centre
offered the middle classes spaces for socialization (museums, libraries, theatres,
concert halls), and the period saw a proliferation of local societies. In giving
respectable society a spatial form, it allowed the bourgeoisie to recognize itself,
important in a city of immigrants and rapid economic and social change. Yet, the
choice of the classical came at a cost. It risked seeming ‘kitsch’, an accusation of
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The Space of Politics 187
inauthenticity (of which more below), of putting on airs and graces that did not
suit an industrial port. It delocated Liverpool from its Lancashire hinterland
through an association with the Mediterranean cities of Rome and Athens and
the mercantile centres of the Renaissance. It risked not belonging to the
immigrant communities, the Chinese, Irish and Black populations, and, more
generally, to the working classes, whose spaces of work and socialization were
different. The project did not affect many of the working-class areas that made
up the city, demolishing the one area it did touch. In its difference, the
monumental centre offered a vision of city which was and was not contemporary
Liverpool, for Liverpool was a city of classical aspirations and industrial realities.
Moreover, one of the peculiarities of architecture as an art form is that its
monumentality almost always transcends the generation of its creation. The
architecture of the Victorian city was destined to be received by future generations
as it was in itself a reception of the classical. But in such receptions there were
associations with various political ideas, both classical and Victorian, and with
past structures of social domination. If the new city centres were iconic of the
utopian desires for a new city, a generation later they were heritage, a
representation of an old political and economic order, with its associated
inequalities and conflicts. In spite of the communitarian intentions of the
founders, the classical heart of the city functioned as a monument to and a
celebration of the city’s mercantile elite, and consequently reinforced the class
structure of the city. Although there was no inherent class value in neoclassicism,
such architecture came to be identified with certain modes of urbanism and
class politics.
Almost inevitably, those who saw the Victorian city as a failure and envisioned
new forms of community and class structure came to construct those new
communities in a rejection of the classical form. Yet, the men and women who
came together in the Garden City movement were not defined by ideological
commonality. They were clearer about what they were against (the industrial
city) than what they were for.8 Some, mostly but not exclusively anarchists and
utopianists, turned away from the city entirely, opting for a communal non-city.
For them, the industrial was beyond repair. Others were reformers, looking to
build better cities, but shying away from revolutionary ideologies.9 It was among
the latter that classicism remained a force.
This eclecticism can be seen in the intellectual engagements and associations
of Ebenezer Howard, the man around whom the urban question coalesced.10
Howard was born in London but spent time in the 1870s in Chicago, a city that
shaped modern thought on urbanism. Chicago was a city of only 29,963 in 1850,
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188 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
but underwent an extraordinarily rapid growth to 298,977 in 1870, 1,099,850 in
1890 and 1,698,575 in 1900. Hence, it experienced urban problems aplenty, and
was something of a test-bed for solutions to these problems.11 For instance,
Olmstead’s railway settlement at Riverside, which Howard must have seen, offered
a model of a parkland town in which the only straight line was the railway itself.12
Chicago was later home to the City Beautiful movement (which was both socially
reforming and architecturally innovative) and to the plasterboard grandeur of the
great exhibition of 1893, in which a mock vision of a new classicizing Chicago was
offered to the world by Daniel Burnham.13 It was also the scene of political
turmoil: the anarchist-terrorist Haymarket bomb in Chicago in 1886 (and
associated shootings) caused the deaths of seven police officers and four protesters
and resulted in the controversial trial and hangings of four supposed conspirators;
the vicious Pullman strike of 1894 damaged the reputation of single-company
towns.14 Howard’s interest in American urbanism and political thought can be
seen in his bringing to the attention of a British audience the writings of the best-
selling American socialist Edward Bellamy. Howard sponsored the publication of
Looking Backwards, a novel that presented a suburban utopia,15 and campaigned
for a Bellamyite settlement outside London to mirror the experiment of
Topolobampo in North Mexico, which was to fail in 1894.16
Perhaps the strongest influence on Howard was Peter Kropotkin’s anarchist
communitarianism. Kropotkin envisioned a new world of small communities in
which factories and farms would be topographically integrated so that the
workers could enjoy the benefits of a country life and the fields would be
managed by a new class of industrial worker-smallholders.17 The ruralization of
the urban proletariat and industrialization of the rural peasantry offered
practical means of improving the lives of the urban poor, providing better, less
crowded living conditions, and also resolving the great political divide between
the urban and rural poor.18 Kropotkin’s industrial villages were the direct
precursors of Howard’s garden cities.19
Utopianist movements were very much part of late-nineteenth-century
intellectual life, from Benjamin Richardson’s city of Hygeia with its block-like
houses and its complex communal engineering to William Morris’s post-urban,
post-industrial, delapidated London, through Tolstoyan communes and Edward
Carpenter’s post-civilizational mysticism.20 The movement also drew on diverse
socialist traditions, such as the settlement movement, led by Arnold Toynbee,
Olivia Hill, and the Barnetts, Henrietta and Samuel,21 and Owenite paternalism.
Howard had neither prestige nor connections, but he caught the attention of
Ralph Neville, a leading London barrister, who was able to obtain powerful
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The Space of Politics 189
backers such as the Cadbury, Rowntree and Lever families. This enabled the
movement to hold major conferences at Bourneville (1901) and Port Sunlight
(1902) and gave the movement the financial power and commercial influence
that were instrumental in making Howard’s plan a reality.22
Howard himself was sidelined, perhaps partly because of his class or partly
because of the continued radicalism of his views. By 1905, membership of the
Garden City Association stood at 2,500, and it was a more glittering array of
intellectuals and reformers that captured attention; newspapers consistently
gave more space to the contributions of Neville, Shaw, Earl Grey and Cadbury
than to Howard.23 In 1902 the Garden City Pioneer Company had been founded
to buy land, and in 1903 First Garden City Ltd was established to develop a new
community. Work began at Letchworth under the guidance of influential
architects Robert Parker and Raymond Unwin, and the site was opened by Earl
Grey in 1903.24
Henrietta Barnett also announced her intention to build a garden suburb at
Hampstead, though a ‘suburb’ was a very different notion from the self-contained
communities envisaged by Howard. By 1904, she had retained Unwin to work on
the design and had deployed her considerable influence to secure an Act of
Parliament to exempt the new suburb from municipal planning legislation.25 By
this time, plans for suburban and new settlements were springing up all over the
country, from Rowntree’s early settlement at new Earswick and the ‘garden city’
at Welwyn to suburbs in Glyn Cory, Hereford, Hull, Ilford, Romford and
Wolverhampton.26
If the intellectual interests of the garden city reformers were eclectic, the
architectural style through which these ideas were developed was, by and large,
wedded to various forms of the vernacular. Letchworth, for instance, was
developed in a cottage style.27 Unwin’s plans for Barnett’s Hampstead Garden
Suburb also largely adopted a vernacular style, influenced by the ‘arts and crafts’
movement.28 But in 1907 Unwin’s work was supplemented by a commission for
Edward Lutyens, one of the leading architects of the Empire. Lutyens was asked
to design the churches at the centre of the suburb. His initial plan for a Palladian
structure was rejected, and instead St Jude’s Church has a central Gothic spire
celebrating a grand neo-vernacular Englishness, while the Free Church looks to
Byzantine designs (the Byzantine being a style of which William Morris had
approved).29 Lutyens had not understood the ideological significance of the
choice of style.
But there was an increasing diversity in the style of the new settlements.
Welwyn Garden City was built by Count Louis de Soissons (from 1920), again
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190 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
mostly in arts and crafts fashion, but with more than a dash of neo-Georgian
classicism in the central areas. Yet, it was as garden cities became an international
movement that the stylistic openness of the original conception became
obvious. In the United States, garden cities were constructed at Radburn
(designed by Wright and Stein) and Yorkship in New Jersey, referencing grand
colonial style.30 In France, where the garden city model was publicized by
Georges Benoît-Lévy, a small garden city/suburb was built at Stains, north of
Paris, from 1921, which paved the way for several other Parisian suburban
settlements.31 The architectural style was a kind of French version of arts and
crafts, ornate and colourful, though toned down in later developments. Even
Le Corbusier, before he became the high priest of ultramodernism, tried his
hand at a garden city, resulting in an extraordinary marriage of the concept with
modernism in the Quartiers Modernes Frugès.32 In Germany, Falkenburg (outside
Berlin) was in planning from 1910 and, Bruno Taut produced the startling
and wonderful Tuschkastensiedlung (paintbox estate) and the Hufeisensiedlung
(horseshoe estate) as part of a drive for low-rise workers’ housing. Looking
unlike anything else, the estate was clearly influenced by contemporary
developments in English architecture (as much by Morris as Parker and Unwin),
but also by the more local Bauhaus style. Taut went on to build in modernist
style, especially at the Carl Legien estate in Berlin, and garden cities were later
taken up by the influential, modernist Congrès Internationaux d’Architecture
Moderne (CIAM) movement.33
Although, apart from in the United States, the architectural variations did not
encompass a return of the classical (that had to wait for contemporary iterations),
the garden city had moved some distance from the low-tech communitarianism
of Letchworth with its smallholder-worker model to suburban settlements and
workers’ estates. In large part, this was due to the loss of political radicalism at
the heart of the movement. Garden Cities of Tomorrow is a work of practical
application (supposedly), a schematic plan of how a new community might
work (much of the text is taken up with an assessment of economic viability). It
has a technocratic appeal which obscured its political-theoretical origins. The
debt to Kropotkin’s anarchism was acknowledged, but by the turn of the century
anarchism was on the wane, after the Haymarket bomb and the Greenwich
bombing of 1894, the latter inspiring Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent.34 In the
absence of any ideological coherence, the way was open for a technocratic
adoption of the ideal and for political theorists (who very soon became a separate
constituency) to take the idea where they willed. It was with the latter groups
that the classical found its way back into the discourse of urban practice.
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The Space of Politics 191
Without doubt, the intellectual guru behind the development of British and
American urban studies was Patrick Geddes. Trained as botanist in Edinburgh,
Geddes assembled an intellectual circle in London, including the Branfords
(Sybella and Victor) and the young Lewis Mumford.35 Geddes and the Branfords
pioneered the use of regional survey to understand and plan settlement patterns,
the representative result of which is the endlessly reproduced schematic of the
Thames Valley.36 Geddes drew on a geographical tradition that saw the city as an
evolution from a particular regional environment.37 The imposition of the
classical city on the British landscape would seem artificial, and one would
expect Geddes to have been drawn to the environmentally friendly models of
Kropotkin and Howard, but his formative years in Edinburgh were a significant
influence. For Geddes, Edinburgh was an ideal city, and he made the link from
Edinburgh to the Greek city, notably Athens. If (Victorian) Rome had failed, the
polis offered a different utopian classicism, an ideal that Hannah Arendt, John
Rawls and Leo Strauss were to adopt, seeing in the Greek city community an
alternative to the industrial city in which rationalist, non-ideological, classless
politics might be possible. The stage was set for a return of classical polis into
British and American politics through Daniel Bell and new communitarianism,
an ideal that influenced Tony Blair and Bill Clinton (‘the third way’) and David
Cameron (‘the big society’).38
Yet, such idealism was far from the reality of the urban forms that were being
constructed in the UK. The post-1918 planning movement came under the
leadership of Patrick Abercrombie, the Lever Chair of Civic Design in Liverpool
University from 1915.39 He developed numerous city plans for civic improvement
or reconstruction, notably Dublin (1922), London (1944), Hull (1944), Plymouth
(1943), Bath (1945), Bournemouth (1946), Edinburgh (1949) and Coventry
(1945/1946),40 and advised on the construction of Wythenshawe (Manchester),
which saw the acquisition of 5,000 acres for social housing of up to 100,000
people (Howard envisaged 30,000 as the maximum size of the garden city).
These designs preserved something of the garden city model, often locating the
poorer citizens in suburban sites with low-rise design, but the issues were
technical rather than political, to do with transport networks, with the working
classes supposedly being better off at one remove from the centre.
The growing distinction between the urban centre and the suburban periphery
reflected commercial suburban development for the middle classes, which was
such a feature of the growth of the major cities. These schemes were similar to
those developed in London during the interwar period: the County Council
rehoused the poor at Becontree, Bellingham, Castelnau and Roehampton, vast
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192 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
estates which, while considerable improvements on the East End streets, were
without churches, shops, employment or public spaces (or often public houses).
In many ways, what we see in these communities is a perversion of the reforming
ideals of the original movement. Instead of building for a new society, these were
buildings for no society, building to contain an urban problem rather than
resolve that problem. There appears to have been no desire to build a new society
and no assumption that such a society would simply develop in the new
environment. Real community, stable values and Englishness were to be found
away from the city, and Patrick Abercrombie’s other major contribution to
English life was his foundation of the Council for the Preservation of Rural
England.41
The subsequent story of large-scale housing projects in the UK is an unhappy
one. Social housing estates created centres of deprivation on the outskirts of
many British cities, which were often shoddily designed, badly built, poverty-
stricken and without commercial or social provision. Such areas often became
isolated, impoverished communities whose physical relocation disconnected
individuals from their employment and social institutions. As these new estates
did not resolve social problems, and, indeed, further concentrated deprivation,
‘the planners’ fell into disrepute, with ‘the market’ driving urban development in
the last decades of the twentieth century.
Yet, garden cities were not finished. In 1989, HRH Charles, Prince of Wales,
having intervened in various architectural and planning issues, committed
himself to print in favour of a garden city model. A Vision of Britain: A Personal
View of Architecture offers a vision of architecture which is also a view of
Britishness, of identity and of order.42 Charles’ key ‘Principles’ are of respect for
landscape, hierarchy, scale, harmony, enclosure and community. His preferred
style is neo-Georgian and his preferred architect is Léon Krier, one of whose
major contributions to architectural history is an attempt to resurrect the
architectural reputation of Albert Speer (see below). Charles employed Krier to
develop the neo-Georgian Poundbury suburb of Dorchester. Through Krier,
classicism returns fully to the garden suburb, though its architectural form is the
received classicism of the Georgian form. Yet, Charles’ ideas and his sponsorship
reunite the political and the architectural, and, in so doing, also appear to return
to classicizing ideas about the nature of the political community (though political
theorists are not explicitly referenced within his writings).
Charles’ British revivalism found echoes across the Atlantic, and Charles has
sponsored and published the work of Andrès Duany and his firm (DPZ). These
architects and urban planners are associated with the development of ‘new
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The Space of Politics 193
urbanism’, most notably enacted in their building of the villa resort of Seaside,
Florida.43 The architecture of Seaside is varied, making extensive use of white-
painted woods, airy and light architectural forms that reference classical, neo-
Palladian and colonial styles. It is the same limited repertoire that informs the
Disney town of Celebration, Florida, in an uneasy combination of Victorian,
neoclassical and colonial domestic architecture, and in the classicism of public
buildings, such as Philip Johnson’s town hall (Johnson being another [former]
admirer of Speer).44 Yet, equally significant is the referencing of 1950s small-
town America, as seen in the Venturi-designed SunTrust Bank (1996), which the
architects describe as ‘flush Neo-Classical’ to recall a ‘traditional building’.45
The new urbanism movement is reactionary and conservative, seeking to
build new communities by rejecting contemporary urbanisms.46 Although its
self-presentation remains technical, proclaiming the need for ‘common sense’
and better buildings, the model is utopianist and political: the offer is of a return
to older values (as if they worked) and to the unification of community and land,
or to a less dangerous and timeless historical model, discovered, ironically
enough, in classicism, Victoriana and Georgiana, all of which can be linked with
the industrializing city and its class structures.
Conclusions: Classics, codes and class
Architecture is an unusual art. It works through codes, which send a message
like any other artistic/textual genre; it provides a physical landscape for the
everyday; and it locates the individual in space in a manner which constrains
the individual into particular social roles and allows the recognition (and thus
the establishing) of identities. These functions are not separate, but operate at
one and the same time. A society is made in recognition, in the everyday of
praxis and in representation. Of necessity, the workings of the everyday influence
recognition and the reception of representation through architectural design,
shifting its meaning over time and thereby generating a gap between architectural
intent and contemporary political interpretations.47 Architectural design and the
nature of buildings can never escape from the framing of the socio-political
contexts that produce them.48
The Edwardian problem with neoclassicism is the same as the post-1945
German problem with the reception of Speer’s classicizing architecture. Once
the form has been extensively employed, it comes to be associated with the
particular economic and political regime. Lèon Krier is undoubtedly right that
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194 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
the style of a lamp post has little intrinsic political value, but it is also naïve to
assume that the aesthetics employed by a regime can be dissociated from its
politics: the process by which meaning accretes to an architectural form means
that there are inevitably layers of associations that drive the interpretation of
architecture.49 Although the classical cannot in itself support the intrinsic
political values of Nazism (except to the extent that all monumental architecture
is a representation of power), the choice of the form cannot ever be ideologically
neutral.50 The choice references particular ideological values and imposes those
values on an urban community. A totalitarian regime might choose to express its
power through high modernism (in early Soviet styles), the vernacular (in
Chinese communism), Islamic traditionalism (in Ba’athist totalitarianism) or
neoclassicism, but classicism carries within it a set of associations particularly
attractive for Western totalitarianism.51
Speer’s use of the classical form referenced the transcendent qualities of
Greece and Rome and, as much as the monumentalization of Liverpool, staked a
claim to the historical significance of the Nazi regime. It also referenced the
oneiric qualities of Germanic new classicism, from Schinkel’s use of the classical
for the Altes Museum in Berlin (and elsewhere) to Leo von Klenze’s Bavarian
Walhalla, buildings whose monumental unreality connects them to the traditions
of Goethean classics. This aesthetic alternative to the modern (often both
Romantic and classical) is effectively a sleight of hand, an anti-modern stance
deeply embedded in a modern aesthetic. The architecture plays on its own
oneiric quality, which is picked up in the imagined classical landscapes of Lèon
Krier,52 to emphasize the unreality of an ‘impossible’ city or ‘the city as it is not’.
The aesthetic of modernity imagines and builds into itself its own negation, an
anti-city, and thereby excludes other alternatives, the socialist city, for example.53
The power of utopian visions lies in the way in which the discourses determine
the social aesthetic and, as Jacques Rancière argues, aesthetic systems determine
what we can see, which, in turn, determines the political imagination.54 Even if
we could envisage the aesthetic of a socialist city, it is the classical model that is
the hegemonic anti-city of modernity, a city that is ordered and hierarchical and
rooted in a particular discourse of Western civilization.
In such visionary architectures, (past) culture is commodified, the conditions
of its production hidden behind the apparel of a different cultural form. This
cultural form was available through the productive capacities of modernity, both
intellectual and material, almost as an ‘off-the-shelf ’ product. Yet, such buildings
simultaneously deny modernity. It is because of this paradox that the neoclassical
(and other forms of anti-city) can generate discomfort. The unease relates partly
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The Space of Politics 195
to the oddity of living in someone else’s dream, and perhaps also to the strange
uniformity of the world that is being created, but also to a sense of alienation.55
Such anti-cities generate a sense of the inauthentic, which is so often seen in
their reception.56 Tour the Internet for impressions of ‘Celebration’, and words
signifying the uncanny and spectral feature frequently. The clash between the
architectural coding and the experience of the everyday is such that the new
settlement runs the risk of being kitsch. If cultural referential within architecture
is seen as empty or paradoxical, the building risks being seen as transmitting the
very opposite meaning to that intended: alienation rather than the embrace of a
unitary community. This emerges from the complexities of identity politics and
place; the utopian city threatens identity, since it attempts to change the spatial
relations in which we are socialized and familiar. We do not walk the city freely,
but according to the learned rules of place and identity, rules that mean we know
where we should and should not be, what spaces are hostile and what spaces safe,
a relationship to space that is gendered and class-specific. These rules make the
space of the city into a careful choreography of passing people.57 Our experience
of urban places is of social complexity, but the anti-city inevitably reduces that
complexity to a more planned model of social interaction. In the anti-city, these
features are denied, since the choreography is imposed by an act of political
power. There is also a denial of the socio-economic systems that allow the city to
be built in the first instance. In this obfuscation, there is a paradox that alienates
those who cannot afford or do not want to be part of the social mirage with
which they are presented, and for whom the world is not as it is being presented.
Be it the classical dreams of nineteenth-century Liverpool, the nostalgic
hierarchies of Poundbury or the small-town America of Celebration, all are
building the world as it is not, in the manifest and deliberate ignorance of the
structures of economy and power that make the world as it is. They are exercises
in ideological blindness, the very false consciousness which Hannah Arendt and
the Marxist tradition (in their different ways) wish to escape.
Good buildings make life better, but the identification of the problems of the
industrial age, and, indeed, of our modern societies, as ‘urban’ or architectural
obscures the rather obvious point that cities exist within particular structures of
economy and social power. Social and economic inequality, poverty and social
exclusion drive ‘urban’ problems. Building a classical city at Ebbsfleet might
momentarily distract attention, and one can see why it has an appeal, since
constructing such illusions is far easier than resolving socio-economic
inequalities: the offer is still, as Le Corbusier surmised, architecture as an
alternative to revolution.58 The contribution of classical urbanism to the utopian
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196 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
dreams of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was made easier by a long
history of the idealization of Greek culture, rationality, architecture and
urbanism.59 This myth of the unitary society remains central to the appeal of
Greek classical urbanism, as opposed to the more disordered and uncomfortable
paradigms of republican Rome.60 But, in the focus on the polis utopia, there was
a requirement to look away, not to see political violence, class structures,
imperialism and ideological repression. In such disregard, it became possible to
imagine modern cities in which such class did not matter in a unified and
ordered community. The engagement with the classical model worked as a
distraction from the task of understanding cities with all their virtues and sins,
from seeing those cities in their socio-economic context, and of imagining new
utopias through which we might make our cities better.
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12
Classically Educated Women in the Early
Independent Labour Party
Edith Hall
The heroine of Mona Caird’s 1894 novel The Daughters of Danaus is the sardonic
Scottish heroine Hadria Fullerton. She is a ‘New Woman’ of outspoken views
and advanced education, whose name may allude to the Philhellene Roman
emperor Hadrian, or to the wall named after him in the British borders. She
points out that the Greeks regarded ‘their respectable women as simple
reproductive agents of inferior human quality’. But she is keenly aware that
contemporary young women are still, bafflingly, content to embrace ‘the ideas
of the old Greeks. They don’t mind playing the part of cows so long as one
doesn’t mention it.’1 Hadria herself wants to be a composer, but expends all
her energies on the demands made by her parents, her husband and her
children, like the angry Danaids constantly trying to fill a leaking vessel with
water. This is an apt image for the endless drains on the creative energies of
women in a society where men are exempted from responsibilities for domestic
and familial care.
The ancient Greeks were everywhere in late Victorian and Edwardian culture,
the era of the ‘New Woman’.2 The sensual recreations of ancient Mediterranean
life in the paintings of Frederic Leighton and Lawrence Alma-Tadema were at
the height of their popularity. Philhellenism was fashionable; there was a craze
for Greek plays in girls’ schools and colleges as well as boys’.3 Both aesthetes and
those new ‘New Women’ who advocated dress reform wore flowing ‘Grecian-
style’ robes. The new dance recommended by François Delsarte, popularized in
the internationally bestselling handbook The Delsarte System of Expression
(1885), encouraged women to study Greek artworks in order to observe the
relationship between bodily posture and emotional expression. Delsartism not
only launched the career of Isadora Duncan but was also an impetus behind
middle-class feminism in both North America and Europe.4 When the rich,
largely self-educated Caird gave her narrative its Greek mythical resonance
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198 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
through its title, and peopled it with New Women discussing the ancient Greeks,
she was reflecting a trend in contemporary middle-class culture. Some of her
women discuss the historical contingency of their status, drawing overt parallels
between classical Greece and Victorian Britain. These are far from atypical for
feminists (and socialists, of whom Caird was not one) of the time. Such women
recited the Euripidean Medea’s oration on the plight of women at their suffrage
meetings.5 They would have applauded when Caird used her knowledge of
ancient history in order to identify ‘patriarchy as a historically contingent (rather
than God-given) institution’.6
Among the more radical voices agitating for reform in late-nineteenth- and
early-twentieth-century Britain were several belonging to women educated
at university level in Classics, who would certainly have agreed with Caird
that women accepted a life appropriate only to cows. But they would have
said that the answer was to give everyone, of both sexes, the vote and
economic security. This essay is about one of them, Katharine Bruce Glasier
(formerly Conway, 1867–1950), but it glances at others, especially Enid Stacy
(later Widdrington, 1868–1903), Mary Jane Bridges Adams (formerly Daltry,
1854–1939), and Mary Agnes Hamilton (formerly Adamson, 1882–1966).
Two of them (Glasier and Hamilton) themselves published ‘New Women’ novels,
but their fiction is not the focus here.7 All four were committed feminists,
socialists and, above all, active members of the Independent Labour Party (ILP),
which was established in 1893, the year before the publication of Daughters of
Danaus.
The need for a new, national working-class political party had become
pressing. The concept was supported across a range of progressive organizations,
from the gradual-reformists of the Fabian Society (represented by, among
others, George Bernard Shaw) to the most revolutionary trade unionists. Led by
Keir Hardie, the new party’s agreed main objective was informed by Marxist
economics: ‘to secure the collective ownership of the means of production,
distribution and exchange’.8 The 120 delegates met in Bradford in January 1983.
The inauguration of the party was hailed as a landmark in both the socialist and
the feminist press, including Shafts magazine, with its explicit imagery of the
classical Amazon (Figure 12.1), founded the year before by Scottish feminist
Margaret Shurmer Sibthorp.9
One of the fifteen members elected to the ILP’s first National Administrative
Council, and the only woman, was the former Classics teacher Katharine St John
Conway. The tone and aspirations of the convention are conveyed in her
rapturous description:
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Classically Educated Women in the Labour Party 199
On January 13th, 1893, the Independent Labour Party sprang into
being, and, as a child of the spirit of Liberty, claims every song that she has
sung – in whatever land – as a glorious heritage. Life, love, liberty, and labour
make liquid music. The Labour Party is in league with life, and works for
liberty that man may live. The Socialist creed of the ‘One body’ is a declaration
that liberty grows with love, and that therefore life is love’s child.10
Since the ILP was committed to universal adult suffrage, it was a natural home
for women who wanted to live with men, and have children, but nevertheless felt
keenly their exclusion from parliamentary politics as both voters and MPs.
Bridges Adams, Glasier, Stacy and Hamilton were, however, all radicalized
initially not on behalf of women en masse but on behalf of the poor.
No British women were enfranchised until the Representation of the People
Act of 1918; women could not be elected to parliament until the Eligibility of
Women Act was passed in the same year. Women under thirty years old and
those without either householder status or husbands of householder status could
not vote until after the Representation of the People Act 1928. There is in one
Figure 12.1
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200 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
sense a ‘happy ending’ to the story of the women classicists in the ILP. The latest
born of the women mentioned here, Mary Agnes Hamilton, was one of the five
women MPs representing Labour to be elected to a parliamentary seat at the
general election on 30 May 1929. We will never know whether Katharine Glasier
(hereafter referred to as ‘Katharine’) or any of her peers might have risen to such
a prominent position had they been born under a more enlightened system. We
may not be able to answer fully, either, the question of how their self-emancipation
and socialism related to their classical education. But this question is still well
worth asking, and it is the aim of this essay to do so.
Katharine Glasier has been chosen as the central figure in this investigation
for four reasons. First, we know most about her as a private individual. Second,
she was a prolific writer in several genres – journalism, pamphlets, novels and
short stories. She wrote continuously for the socialist press, including the
Manchester Sunday Chronicle, the Clarion and Woman Worker,11 and became
editor of the ILP’s newspaper, Labour Leader, in 1916: sales reached their highest
ever under her editorship, and for a time she was acclaimed in the role. Third, she
was acknowledged to be one of the ‘gang of four’ most influential women in the
early days of the ILP, alongside Caroline Martyn, Margaret McMillan and her
own protégée Enid Stacy (of whom more later).12 Fourth, Katharine collaborated
on many projects with her husband, John Bruce Glasier, whom she met in 1892,
several years after she had become a socialist activist. They were introduced in
Glasgow by Cunninghame Graham, the radical MP for North Lanark, and
married five months after the foundation of the ILP. John Bruce Glasier, born
illegitimate and forced to work as a child shepherd in south Ayrshire, was one of
the four most significant leaders of the party, and in 1900 succeeded Keir Hardie
as its chairman. He also served as editor of Labour Leader between 1906 and
1909. Katharine’s position as his wife meant that she could keep her ear closer
than other women to the ground of what was, despite its espousal of the cause of
women’s equality, still a patriarchal organization. Her mere presence on the
committee reminded the men of the issue of women’s suffrage. To put the sexual
politics of the early ILP into perspective, it must be remembered that it was only
women who offered to clean and decorate the hall for that inaugural conference.13
What was Katharine’s own class background? How did it inform her interests
in classics and her politics? On her father’s side, she was only one generation
away from abject poverty. He was a Congregationalist minister, Samuel Conway
BA. Born into a low-class Plymouth home, he was befriended by a well-to-do
nonconformist family on his paper round. They financed his schooling. He went
on to New College, the Congregational college near Swiss Cottage, which he left
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Classically Educated Women in the Labour Party 201
in 1860 with a BA and a copy of Smith’s Classical Dictionary presented to him by
the Selwyn Book Fund. His first appointment was as Congregationalist minister
at Ongar in Essex.14 Samuel married ‘up’ the social scale, to Amy Curling, who
came from a much more prosperous family in Stoke Newington.
Amy had been given the same education as her younger brother, who became
an Oxford don, and she home-educated her own children until they were about
ten years old. Katharine learned French, German, Latin and Greek from her
mother.15 Her intelligence was spotted early, and her destiny as a student of
Classics was probably not in doubt thereafter; her older brother, Robert Seymour
Conway, was also a classicist, who went on to achieve distinction as a specialist
in Latin. He was professor at Manchester from 1903 until 1929. He also shared
his sister’s bent for politics, although not her radicalism, which exasperated and
embarrassed him: he even stood for parliament (unsuccessfully) in 1929, on
behalf of the Liberal Party. These talented children were raised in the family
home in Walthamstow, where their father, an overt sympathizer with socialism,
had been appointed minister of Marsh Street Congregational Church.16 While
Robert attended the City of London School and Gonville and Caius College,
Cambridge, Katharine enrolled at the new Girls’ Public Day School Company
school at Hackney Downs, where the headmistress, Miss Pearse, was a public
supporter of women’s suffrage.17
The tendency of classically educated young women to espouse social and
political reform did not spring from nowhere. Katharine was influenced by her
reading of George Eliot – her twenty-first-birthday present was Eliot’s complete
works. Eliot had studied her Greek at Bedford College for Ladies, which opened
in Bloomsbury in 1849, and this establishment attracted other progressive
women throughout the next few decades. The African American campaigner for
the abolition of slavery in the United States, Sarah Parker Remond, for example,
studied Latin there in the early 1860s. This was probably at the invitation of
Edward Spenser Beesly, socialist and friend of Karl Marx, who was appointed
professor of Latin at the college in 1860.18 But Katharine would probably have
been most aware of Anna Swanwick, the famous translator of Aeschylus, who
was a campaigner for women’s suffrage (indeed, she discovered her talent for
public speaking as late as the age of sixty, in 1873, in order to speak in its favour).19
Swanwick also supported the pioneering work of Josephine Butler, who
campaigned on behalf of the lowest-class prostitutes.20 Education, especially for
women, but also for all children of all classes, was at the centre of Swanwick’s
life’s work; she was involved in the foundation of Girton College, Cambridge,
and Somerville Hall in Oxford, as well as the London colleges for women. She
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202 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
was president of Bedford for a time. But she also lectured at the Bethnal Green
Free Library, the People’s Concert Society and the Social Science Congress.21 The
sense that knowledge needed to be shared and blended with a philanthropic
spirit came over in her speech on the dangers young students faced, which she
delivered at Bedford College, ‘in no Cassandra-like spirit . . . but rather like the
watcher at the prow’. It was crucial, she urged each young lady of Bedford, that
she cultivate ‘a large and warm-hearted sympathy with her fellow–creatures. She
must bear in mind that though she be conversant with the language of the Greeks
or the Romans, and though she understand the mysteries of the higher
mathematics, and have not charity, in the broadest sense, it will profit her
comparatively little.’22 For the women of the ILP, it was campaigning for parity,
not charity – reform, even peaceful revolution – which they fused with their
classical knowledge.
When Katharine was only fourteen her mother died, and she became
independent and rebellious. This caused her problems when she arrived at
Newnham College, Cambridge, in 1886, on a Clothworker’s Scholarship, as the
youngest student of her year. She detested the strict rules and especially being
permanently chaperoned. She looked forward to the weekends, because on
Sundays the Newnham students – inevitably chaperoned – ran classes on religion
for working men, who had been brought to Cambridge for education under the
University’s Extension scheme.23 Katharine promptly struck up a romance with
‘a postman of intemperate habits’, but her older brother Seymour interfered and
broke it up; he had been appointed to a lectureship at Newnham, much to
Katharine’s irritation.24 Her extra-curricular interests may have contributed to
her appearing in the lower ranks of the second class in the College Tripos results
in 1889, although women faced a disadvantage because few of them had been
trained at school in Latin prose and verse composition, which were compulsory
elements of the university examinations. Women were not actually awarded
degrees at Cambridge until 1925, but Katharine always defiantly put the letters
BA after her name, whether on posters advertising her appearances at meetings
or in articles in the socialist press.
Along with many Newnham ladies, she entered the teaching profession,
moving to Bristol to become Classics mistress at Redland High School for Girls.
There she began to mix with the local Fabians and Christian Socialists. Under
her tutelage, the schoolgirls’ results improved dramatically: she successfully
prepared eleven girls for Latin matriculation within eighteen months of her
arrival.25 How she saw her role at this time is conveyed in her pen-portrait of the
strongly autobiographical heroine of her ‘New Woman’ novel Aimée Furniss,
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Classically Educated Women in the Labour Party 203
Scholar (1896). Miss Furniss, the Classics mistress at the fictional Brightwell
High School in a northern industrial city, has studied at Oxford, espouses
progressive views, is extremely pretty and is adored by the girls she teaches. She
finds herself drawn into sympathy with the poor by helping a local Roman
Catholic priest run his club for working boys. But she also forges an alliance with
a working-class shop assistant who has lost her job, Annie Deardon. These two
find freedom in the man’s world of their time by moving in together (chastely),
reading Shelley and William Morris, and committing their lives to spreading
socialism: ‘Slowly a new hunger grew up within them and a new hope.’26 The
intensity of this friendship, although not its cross-class quality, may reflect
the influence Katharine exerted on another classically educated socialist at her
real-life school, Enid Stacy. Enid’s family were middle-class Christian socialists.
The Bristol studio of Enid’s father Henry, an artist, was a meeting place for the
British Socialist Society, and visited by such luminaries as William Morris and
Eleanor Marx. After excelling in her senior Cambridge examination at the age of
sixteen, Enid won a scholarship to University College, Bristol, from which, in
1890, she was able to pass the exams for a London BA in Arts (open to women
since 1878).27
Enid took a tutoring position at Redland High School and came under
Katharine’s influence. In 1889 she joined the Gasworkers’ and General Labourers’
Union, which accepted workers from any trade or profession. Most teachers,
however, joined the much less militant National Union of Teachers. She then
helped the Bristol cotton-workers’ strike of 1890, becoming secretary of the
Association for the Promotion of Trade Unionism among Women. This strike
also changed her mentor Katharine’s life. She later recalled how inspired she had
been when some of the striking women from the local cotton mills, dressed in
white and soaked to their skins from the rain outside, conducted a silent
demonstration in the fashionable church of All Saints, Clifton, in which she (and
the factory-owners) worshipped. Katharine joined the Bristol Socialist Party the
next day.28
But neither woman stopped teaching at the privileged school for young ladies
until the Redcliff Street strike of 1892, sparked off when the owner of Bristol
Confectionery Works, J. A. Sanders, banned his workers (all women) from joining
or forming a trade union. Enid became honorary secretary of the Strike Committee
and tirelessly argued with Sanders in the letters columns of the Bristol Mercury
and Daily Post (signing herself, as ever, Enid Stacy BA).29 Katharine Glasier
recalled later, in an obituary for Enid in the Labour Leader for 12 September 1903,
that she often arrived home at midnight ‘with draggled skirt and swollen feet after
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204 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
hours of patient standing about in the effort to win laundrywomen to a trade
union’. Enid frequently found herself in trouble with the police and was sacked
from her job as schoolteacher. With Katharine, she then tried to found a
cooperative colony near Kendal in the Lake District, where work and food would
be equally shared among the previously unemployed and homeless. But the
project was sabotaged by the local vicar, and so Enid devoted herself to
campaigning for socialism and the rights of women as a member of the ILP.
She spoke at 122 meetings in 1894 alone. She became known as one of the
most effective speakers on the tours of the ‘Clarion Van’, an itinerant campaigning
vehicle which took the gospel of socialism to hundreds of towns and remote
villages; its leading light, Julia Dawson, made a striking appearance along with
the other female ‘vanners’ committed to feminist dress reform. They wore loose
flowing dresses, without corsets, which they called ‘Greek gowns’.30 Enid did not
wear outlandish garments, but was an excellent communicator with working
people, often addressing crowds for two hours continuously, in terrible weather
and in the open air. She had physical strength and stamina; Sylvia Pankhurst
recalled her as a ‘big, handsome woman with a very clear complexion’ whose
voice could carry to the back of any room.31 On one occasion, when the police
tried to arrest her for organizing a mass meeting of the unemployed in Liverpool,
she climbed on top of a tramcar and continued her rousing harangue. She died
– some said of exhaustion – at the age of thirty-five.32
Katharine, meanwhile, in 1892 resigned her post at Redland High School, and
moved out of her genteel lodgings into the extended household of Dan Irving. He
was a political activist who had lost one leg in a shunting accident while working
on the railways in the Midlands. Leaving the safety of her genteel social circle to
embrace the life of an agitator for the working class was a huge and risky step. There
were also ambiguities surrounding her relationship with Irving and his invalided
wife. But Katharine’s commitment to helping the poor was beyond question. She
took a new post at an elementary school in the deprived district of St Phillips,
where her class, with seventy infants, was almost unmanageable. Her scholarly
brother Seymour was outraged at his wild sister’s rejection of respectability and
of her vocation as a teacher of Classics. The siblings were estranged for years.
It was not long before Katharine’s gifts as a public orator were noticed by the
prominent Fabians Sidney Webb and his soon-to-be wife Beatrice Potter. The year
1892 turned into an exciting and demanding time, when Katharine discovered her
full potential. Both she and her former protégée Enid were, therefore, now working
full-time for the socialist cause. Katharine delivered her debut speech at Nelson,
Lancashire, in early 1892, and in April set out on her first tour, visiting Blackburn,
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Classically Educated Women in the Labour Party 205
Burnley, Keighley, Bradford, Wigton and South Shields. She was an enormous
success; naturally eloquent and persuasive, her physical beauty, enthusiasm, refined
manners and the authority she had acquired through her Cambridge education all
helped to draw large crowds. Her reputation was briefly tarnished by rumours that
she was having an affair with the prominent Fabian W. S. De Mattos. The scandal
highlighted the problems faced by single women in radical politics, especially
young ones.33 She acquired an undeserved name for being a daring exponent of
the ‘New Morality’ espoused by some of her contemporaries. But she refused to be
discouraged, and campaigned hard in June 1892 for the election to parliament of
the dockers’ leader Ben Tillett, who came within 600 votes of winning the seat for
Bradford West as a candidate for Independent Labour. She also met the most
prominent members of the labour movement, including the Scotsmen Keir Hardie
and John Bruce Glasier. Just as important as her public speaking was her discovery
that she could write fast and cogently. She began writing for Edward Hulton’s
radical Sunday Chronicle, and then, after contact with Robert Blatchford, the most
widely read socialist journalist of the day under his pen-name Nunquam (‘Never’),
freelanced for his widely read polemical Clarion.
When, the following year, the ILP came into being, as described earlier in this
chapter, Katharine was ecstatic, and married John a few months later. They both
hurled themselves into the thick of the political action, speaking for a tiny
pittance several nights every week. In an attempt to raise more income, Katharine
published two novels, in 1894 and 1896, which were reviewed warmly by the
socialist press. She was made very happy by her marriage to Glasier, although at
first they pledged to remain childless in order to devote themselves, like
missionaries, full-time to the cause. In 1898 they moved from Glasgow to a
town on the Manchester side of the Peak District, Chapel-en-le-Frith, to make it
easier to travel to both ends of the country. But in the event they had three
children, in whom Katharine delighted. She always maintained that it was seeing
the affection between her then friend Emmeline Pankhurst and her little boy
Harry which changed her mind. But, even after starting their family, the speaking
programme was relentless. In 1900 alone, after having her baby daughter Jeannie
Isabelle, Katharine spoke at Long Eaton, Derby, Birmingham, Manchester, Ayre,
Farsley, Chorlton-cum-Hardy, Attercliffe, Pendlebury, Littleborough, St Helens,
Hanley, Longport, Stockport, Liverpool, Rotherham, Leeds, Leicester, Kettering,
Nottingham, Bradford, Oldham, Leek, Derby, Bolton, Middleton, Preston,
Rochdale, Stalybridge, Ashton-Under-Lyne, Pudsey, Farnsworth and Dewsbury.
Despite this hectic schedule, she became pregnant again, and their son Malcolm
was born in 1903. For a middle-class woman, Katharine suffered serious
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206 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
poverty – threadbare clothes and frugal meals – in order to keep her family fed
while working for the cause.34 She and John were helped by small handouts from
the philanthropic chocolate magnate George Cadbury, although Katharine was
too proud to accept a fully paid holiday from him. But their lives were eventually
turned around when a wealthy Boston widow and social reformer named
Elizabeth Glendower Evans visited England, became converted to socialism, and
bestowed upon Katharine (who had played a key role in her conversion) a life
income from a trust fund of $15,000. This meant that Katharine could have a
third, longed-for baby, which she did in 1910.
Yet this energetic campaigner and devoted mother never forgot that she was
a trained classicist. One of her most impressive pamphlets is The Cry of the
Children, exposing the need for radical reform of the education system, abolition
of child labour and state support for all children and mothers. It was published
by the Labour Press in Manchester in 1895. It includes moving descriptions of
the starving and neglected street children. Katharine accumulated shocking
statistics on overcrowding and infant mortality: 55% in the working classes died
before they reached the age of five years, compared with 18% in the upper classes.
In 1893 fewer than four million children were in school, and 90% had left at
thirteen years old.35 But she approached this argument from a long historical
perspective, which added both a sense of intellectual authority and – because she
was able to show that attitudes had differed across cultures – the sense that the
current predicament of children was a problem that could certainly be solved:
To those who have read the history of many nations and studied the rising and
falling of various empires, it is clear that whatever else has passed away, the
belief in the home has remained . . . Men feel instinctively that the child needs
for its start in life the protection of its parents’ love . . . Attempts have been made,
both in theory and practice, to overcome this instinct. Sparta fought against it
for a few centuries. Plato declared against it in his Republic. In our own day we
have a philosopher or two appealing to aboriginal man, and endeavouring to
destroy what they term ‘the fetish of the family’. But the consensus of human
experience is against them. Under the stress of a fierce competition, the severity
and callousness of an outside world may develope [sic] an unwise spirit of
indulgence and special pleading in the home. The false training of our girls may
lead to much failure on the part of our mothers. Unnatural or brutal conditions
may destroy the best instincts of our human nature . . .
After a revealing excursus on pauperism, the detention of children in
reformatories and industrial schools, and the number of children growing up in
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acute poverty, she produces a killer argument: even in the brutal world of
antiquity, she claims, child labour did not exist:
Have you thought of the significance of the fact that some 90 out of every
100 of the worker’s children have begun to work for their living at thirteen
years old, and many two years earlier? To begin with, it is a new thing – the
old world knew it not. Search Greek and Roman literature as you will, and
no trace of child labour will you find . . . Wherever chattel slavery existed
masters knew the folly of spoiling their property by any such practice. In
Greek and Rome [sic] the nursery was common to the children of slave and
master alike; and the trainers worked to produce strong and beautiful bodies,
careless of wealth or station.
There is, it must be admitted, little evidence to support her optimistic claims
about the ancient Greek and Roman treatment of children, but it is fascinating
to find her trawling her memory for details of ancient history which she can
harness to her polemical socialist cause.
Like most members of the ILP, Katharine was opposed to the British treatment
of the Boers in the Boer War, and became a harsh critic of British imperialism:
among the titles of the lectures she gave regularly on the circuit in Lancashire
and Yorkshire was one entitled ‘Roman imperialism and our own’. At home, as
well, she encouraged her children to read widely, and at least one conversation
revolved around the issue of whether ancient Greek women were more or less
excluded from intellectual culture than women in early-twentieth-century
Britain. Her prolific private letters are always full of references to literature,
especially to Plato and her favourite poet, Walt Whitman. Even her idealized
short stories, Tales from the Derbyshire Hills: Pastorals from the Peak District
(1907), mostly in dialogue form, feature virtuous, socialistically minded
daughters of vicars, similar to herself, who educate and help the farm labourers
around them. The pen name under which she wrote her woman’s column in The
Labour Leader was ‘Iona’, probably inspired by Ione, the virtuous, educated and
philanthropic Greek heroine of Bulwer’s famous novel The Last Days of Pompeii
(1834). The columns examined problems facing ordinary women from
philosophical and historical perspectives. In May and June 1906, for example,
she discussed stoutness, arguing that in women it was a result not of gluttony but
of many generations of oppression and confinement to the household.36 In a
pamphlet likewise aimed at women, Socialism and the Home (1909), she
recommends thinking about love and marriage in a transhistorical and
anthropological perspective, as Engels had done in The Origin of the Family,
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208 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Private Property, and the State: (1884); love matches, as Engels had shown, ‘had
been a hard-won privilege, after many other systems.’37 Katharine, idealistically,
believed that, provided women were guaranteed financial support from the state,
love was the correct basis for marriage, rather than economic advantage, with
love confined to adulterous liaisons:
No students of sociology can deny that contract marriages have so failed to
satisfy the human heart, that whether in ancient Rome or modern France
the tendency has been to associate them with illicit ‘love’ unions, more or less
condoned by public opinion to the degradation of all concerned and the
ruin of the ‘home’ ideal.38
Another series of columns she wrote in 1919 for an ILP paper called Birmingham
Town Crier featured a fictional young woman called Dolly, who lives with her
elderly uncle, a professor, and tries to convert everyone to socialism. Here
Katharine allowed her classical training to be seen explicitly. When the professor
objects to someone of her class doing the cleaning, Dolly responds with a lecture
on egalitarianism, but admits that ‘the Greeks were right in the main when they
taught “strength for the man and beauty for the woman.” It hurts a woman’s self-
respect to be dirty in a way it never does a man‘s.’ Dolly also quotes Augustine
and Plotinus, and contrasts religious ways of understanding the world in the Old
Testament with the theories of Pythagoras.39
Katharine’s perceived authority on classical matters seems to have rubbed off
on the men of the ILP. She was heavily influenced, in her relativist understanding
of human history and different systems for regulating the relationships between
classes and genders, by her close friend Edward Carpenter, also a founding
member of the ILP. She cites his important Civilization: its Cause and Cure
(1889) in her own visionary tract The Religion of Socialism, in which a white-
haired old man, a fusion of Socrates, Aesop and the Christian god, converts her
to socialism.40 But it is likely that the influence went two ways. After a traditional
education, including Classics, at Brighton College, Carpenter had studied
mathematics at Cambridge, and lectured on astronomy for the University
Extension Movement. But he became increasingly fascinated by the ancient
Greeks, especially Plato, Sappho and other authors who helped him to think
cross-culturally about homoerotic relationships. Edward and Katharine were
close friends (she always supported the rights of people who would today be
called lesbian and gay). I suspect that he had discussed with her many of
the ancient sources on same-sex relationships gathered in his much-reprinted
Iolaus: an Anthology of Friendship (1902). It is also interesting to find this
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father of British socialist-gay activism translating both Apuleius and the
Iliad in 1900.
Katharine also discussed literature and culture constantly with her husband,
who remained sceptical of the value of university education, believing that
academic professionals always tried to appoint right-wingers to top posts out of
preference for ‘an uninformed political reactionary because . . . they want to set
up as stiff a political guard as they can for the protection of their class privileges’.41
But he seems to have picked up a good deal of interest and information about the
ancient world from Katharine, as well as from his close friend and ally William
Morris, whom he regarded as a profoundly important quasi-spiritual leader,
invited regularly to lecture in Glasgow and even visited in his Hammersmith
home, Kelmscott House.42 When he came to write his autobiographical account
of Morris and the early days of British socialism, Glasier introduced several
learned references to antiquity. Morris’s wife, in her simple white tunics, looked
‘a veritable Astarte’. He used to discuss books with Morris, including Charles
Kingsley’s tale of the Chartist and self-taught classicist, Alton Locke (1850). He
relished the memory of Morris’s response to a middle-class man who objected
that the industrial workers of Coatbridge should have found a better place for
their famous visitor to speak than the cinder heap underneath the iron works:
‘this is just the sort of place that Diogenes and Christ and, for all we know,
Homer, and your own Blind Harry the minstrel used to get their audiences; so
I am not so far out of the high literary conventions after all’. He also recalled
Morris charming his own shy Highland mother, with whom he lived in one of
Glasgow’s notorious tenement blocks: Morris was delighted to discover that she
was a Gaelic speaker, and asked her about the west Highland pronunciation of
certain words that had a common Gaelic and Latin root. But it was probably to
conversations with Katharine that John Bruce Glasier owed many of these
retrospective classicisms. It was certainly to her that he owed his interest in
ancient Greek oratory and Platonic aesthetics, and his belief that the ten great
thinkers of the world included Aeschylus and Socrates as well as Shakespeare,
Milton and Shelley.43
As editor of The Labour Leader, Katharine received considerable success,
raising the circulation to 62,000 in early 1918. Things began to deteriorate after
the Russian Revolution, however, as ILP members became split over the question
of their support for the new Bolshevik government. Katharine bravely insisted
on keeping The Labour Leader open to all shades of opinion – a decision which
helped prevent a greater leakage than actually happened to the newly created
Communist Party of Great Britain. But the conflict, after her husband’s slow
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210 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
death from cancer in 1920, finished her off, and she had a nervous breakdown.
On recovery, amazingly, she once more took to the lecture circuit, addressing
seventy-eight meetings in three months in 1921. And she continued for the next
eighteen years,44 speaking tirelessly to the Labour Party’s summer schools at
Easton Lodge in Essex (which the socialist Lady Daisy Warwick, on whom more
below, made available to trade unionist and ILP activities).
Katharine never stopped addressing anti-war demonstrations or the socialist
faithful in endless village halls and provincial market towns. She was devastated
in 1928 when her youngest child, Glen, died in a football accident, but even this
tragedy did not stop her for long. She continued to campaign until her own
death – for state nursery school provision (unsuccessfully) and for pit-head
baths (successfully). Always a careful housewife, she was appalled that miners
had to take their dirt home with them. The miners did not forget, and gave
generously to her memorial fund, which acquired her Pennines house for the
Youth Hostels Association and named it Katharine Bruce Glasier Hostel. It is still
functioning. She was also behind the Margaret McMillan Memorial Fund after
the Second World War, which raised enough to found the Margaret McMillan
Training College at Bradford. She supported the Save the Children Fund
enthusiastically. She was thrilled to meet Gandhi in 1931 when he visited
London. She wrote more than a thousand words every day. Besides long letters
to her family and her diary, she penned regular articles in these years for Labour’s
Northern Voice and other Labour and cooperative newspapers. She was appalled
by the rise of Nazism, and wrote in her diary for 14 September 1940 ‘Germans
practicing swimming ashore with all their kit. Storms in Channel. Salamis
over again? God grant it.’45 Ten years later, on 14 June 1950, she died peacefully
in her sleep.
The major impact of Katharine on the movement, as a woman excluded even
from voting in parliamentary elections, was through her own words as a lecturer
and her writing. The other great classically trained woman lecturer in the early
ILP, Mary Bridges Adams, succeeded in carving out a rather different role in
reform through election to a non-parliamentary body, the School Board for
London (LSB).46 It had been created as one of many school boards by the
Elementary Education Act 1870, which for the first time provided for the
education of all children in England and Wales. The LSB was enormous, since
it covered the whole of Metropolitan London and had forty-nine members
(a number which grew later to fifty-five). Crucially, women were allowed to vote
for members and stand for election. The board proved highly successful in
provision of school places, building hundreds of schools and ensuring that
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350,000 children were in education by 1890. Mary was elected to the Greenwich
district seat in 1894, her campaigns supported by many other women, including
Enid Stacy.47 Over the next six years Mary made a huge impact on the tone and
direction of this body, campaigning indefatigably for reform, widening of
educational opportunity and, especially, the feeding of deprived schoolchildren.
An outstanding biography by Jane Martin, on which the next few paragraphs
draw heavily, has clarified Mary’s achievements (she had hitherto been scarcely
noticed even by feminist historians). Her parents were from the Welsh working
class. Her father was an engine-fitter. They moved to the north-east when she
was young, and she became a pupil teacher, which meant employment as a
trainee in a local school during the day and studying in the evenings. Her own
career opportunities were opened up by the 1870 Education Act, which produced
a swift expansion of elementary education and promotion for competent
teachers. Mary was academically talented and a brilliant communicator; she
became a head teacher by her mid-twenties, teaching in elementary schools in
Birmingham, London and Newcastle. Unusually for a working-class woman, she
also taught older children at High School in Woolwich.
Like Enid Stacy, Mary studied towards an external degree at the University of
London, and matriculated from the College of Science in Newcastle. In January
1882 she moved to London to enter Bedford College for Women, where she
enrolled for two terms, focusing on subjects in which she felt she had been
inadequately educated: history, maths, English and French, as well as Latin and
Greek. In the summer she passed the Intermediate London BA examinations, in
the second division but with distinctions in maths and in Greek.48 She wanted
to continue, and received encouragement from the assistant Latin lecturer,
Rachel Notcutt, a nonconformist who had a reputation for warm support of
disadvantaged students and sat on the special committee appointed to offer
them advice and support. She was affectionately known by her students as
‘Nottie’.49 But the tuition was expensive. It cost Mary more than ten shillings for
each term, and it proved impossible for her to continue.
As her biographer has remarked, Mary’s focus on the classics was remarkable,
especially for a woman of her class background.50 But her academic prowess,
especially in such respected subjects, was to stand her in good stead: the
gasworkers who supported her election to the LSB in 1897 wrote a letter saying
she deserved it ‘from her learning, great scholastic experience, lucidity of thought
and expression’ as well as her ‘aptness of resource and charm of presence.’51 Her
academic record also gave her the intellectual authority to impress men in the
top echelons of the socialist intelligentsia, which added lustre to her cultural
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212 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
initiatives in the radical Woolwich of the 1890s. She persuaded many eminent
speakers to lecture, and raised funds from well-to-do women in London
philanthropic societies to support her initiatives. She appealed to the Women’s
Institute and the Grosvenor Club for Women; she wrote in the feminist magazine
Shafts (see above), appealing for financial help to support good works among the
labouring classes of Greenwich. In particular, in 1899 she organized an exhibition
of loaned pictures called ‘Art for the Workers’ in Woolwich Polytechnic, opened
by no less a figure in socialist art than the illustrator Walter Crane.
Mary, like Katharine, was also a polemical journalist. Many of her most
acerbic articles appeared in the ultrasocialist Cotton Factory Times. Like
Katharine, she was also a wife and a mother; in 1887 she married the socialist
Walter Bridges Adams, a keen follower of William Morris. Mary and Walter soon
had two sons, but this did not diminish her political activities. She was enthused
by the strike of the match girls in 1888 and of the gasworkers in 1889. Like Enid
Stacy, despite being a teacher, it was the Gas Workers’ and General Labourers
Union that Mary joined. Like Katharine Glasier, she formed an alliance with the
charismatic one-legged firebrand Dan Irving, with whom she toured the mill
towns of Lancashire in 1907–8.52
It was when her husband died in 1900 that Mary gave up teaching and
membership of the LSB to become a full-time propagandist for socialism. In
1903–4 she became a political secretary for Lady Warwick, whom she recruited
for the Socialist Democratic Federation. This enabled her to focus on the issue
perhaps dearest to her heart – adult education. She believed that working-class
adults needed a specific curriculum which would educate them politically and
prepare them for class struggle. She therefore objected to the classical and liberal
educational philosophy which underlay the foundation of both Ruskin College
in Oxford (1899) and the Workers’ Educational Association WEA), under the
aegis of Albert Mansbridge, in 1903. Mary was unimpressed. She was convinced
that there was no alternative but for all the universities – Oxford and Cambridge
included – to pass into state ownership and come under popular control. The
endowed seats of learning, she argued, were ‘the rightful inheritance of the
people’.53
Mary was at the centre of the conflict between the WEA ‘liberals’ and the
rebellious Marxist socialists who formed the revolutionary Plebs League and
Central Labour College (CLC). Supported by the National Union of Railwaymen
and the South Wales Miners’ Federation, the CLC found its physical headquarters
in Earls’ Court, London. Mary immediately responded by opening an equivalent
establishment for women close by, the Women’s College and Socialist Education
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Centre in Bebel House, into which she moved as principal. Along with the
working-class Manchester novelist Ethel Carnie, she taught women workers
literacy and numeracy, and, through the Bebel House Rebel Pen Club, how to
write propaganda.54 Mary thus used her brief university-level education to lend
authority to her candidacy in elections and her campaigns for adult self-
improvement. But she was conflicted about the place of classics in mass
education. She was criticized for sending her son William to a private school,
albeit a progressive one (Bedales), which had partly been founded on the
principle of reaction against the exclusive classical curriculum of the old public
schools.55 William studied at Worcester College, Oxford and enjoyed a successful
career as a theatre director. He even directed Stravinsky’s Oedipus Rex at Covent
Garden in 1936.
Because the great ILP orators rarely committed their speeches to writing,
preferring to extemporize and interact with their audiences, it is difficult for us
to recreate the effect of their public performances. Katharine’s style seems to
have been more earnest and charismatic, with echoes of her nonconformist
father’s preaching. Mary had an acerbic wit and could reduce audiences to
laughter as well as tears. Having cut herself in the kitchen, she declared that she
had no intention of being told what to do by a sardine can; she explained that she
had joined the Union of Gasworkers and General Labourers because she worked
‘in gas on the platform’ and was a General Labourer at home. But both Katharine
and Mary saw their activism of several decades bear fruit in 1929, when one
hundred and forty-seven members of the ILP, including a small group of women,
were elected to seats at the general election.
We will never know how many individuals were inspired to join the socialist
cause by their legendary oratory. One we do know about was Hannah Mitchell,
the Bolton seamstress who was inspired by Katharine and became a famous
suffragette, socialist, autodidact and Manchester City Councillor;56 her
autobiography, The Hard Way Up (1968), paints the most vivid portrait of the
first two decades of the twentieth century. Another Glasier convert was one of
the women who were elected Labour MPs in 1929, Ellen Wilkinson, ‘Red Ellen’,
who had joined the ILP as a teenager after hearing Katharine give a speech.
Wilkinson was appointed parliamentary secretary to the Minister of Health. But
Katharine would perhaps have been most delighted by the election of Mary
Agnes Hamilton, a Newnham classicist, whose own mother, Margaret (‘Daisy’)
Duncan, had been one of the earliest students at Newnham when they were
taught at Norwich House in Cambridge back in 1877–8. Mary Agnes later
dedicated her account of the early days of Newnham to her mother’s memory,
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214 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
and no doubt most of it was based on anecdotes she had heard at her mother’s
knee.57
Mary Agnes was born in 1882. Her father was a professor of philosophical
logic at Owens College (later to be incorporated into the University of
Manchester). After education at girls’ high schools, Mary Agnes arrived at
Newnham College in 1901, to read Classics and history. She achieved first-class
marks. She then took up a position as assistant to a history professor at the
University College of South Wales in Cardiff, married, and separated soon
afterwards (she was the only woman discussed in this article who did not
embrace marriage and motherhood). Mary Agnes subsequently embarked on a
new career as a writer and journalist. But, before her employment as
correspondent on women’s suffrage and reform of the poor law at The Economist
in 1913, she was already earning a living from her pen, writing novels about the
travails of the New Woman and high-end ‘popular’ books about ancient Greece
and Rome for OUP’s Clarendon Press. Her Greek Legends (1912) is an
exceptionally well-written prose retelling of the Hesiodic Theogony and the
stories of Theseus, Thebes, Perseus, Heracles, the Argonauts, Meleager,
Bellerophon and the Trojan War. It is intriguing, given Mary Agnes’ feminism,
that every single visual illustration is not of a hero but of a heroine or goddess
(Demeter of Cnidus, Mourning Athena, Medusa and the Venus of Melos), except
for two which portray husbands and wives together (Zeus and Hera, Orpheus
and Eurydice). Her history of the ancient world (1913) is accessible and accurate;
with useful maps and timelines, it covers the entire history of the Greeks and
Romans from Hissarlik to Julius Caesar. Both books were successful and reissued
in new editions. In the 1920s she wrote two more books about the ancient world
for a general audience, Ancient Rome: the Lives of Great Men (1922) and a new
book about Greece (1926). Being an acknowledged expert in the history of the
classical world lent authority to her stream of books on politics and political
figures; these included biographies of Abraham Lincoln, John Stuart Mill,
Thomas Carlyle and Ramsay MacDonald, as well as a lucid textbook, The
Principles of Socialism, published ‘with notes for lecturers and class leaders’ as the
second in the ILP’s series of study courses.
In the 1923 general election, Mary Agnes was an unsuccessful candidate.
Thereafter her grasp of history and her writing skills were put to the cause of
Labour with Fit to Govern! (1924), her proud celebration of the first Labour
government, containing brief biographies of the members of the Cabinet. It was
designed as a retort to Winston Churchill’s assertion that the people leading
Labour were ‘unfit to govern’.58 Under the pseudonym of ‘Iconoclast’, Hamilton
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either celebrates their working-class backgrounds (for example, in the case of
Arthur Henderson) or congratulates men educated at public school for coming
to espouse socialism (such as Charles Philips Trevelyan, alumnus of Harrow and
Trinity College, Cambridge). Above all, she writes a powerful panegyric to
Margaret Grace Bondfield, one of the earliest women to achieve executive power
in the British democracy, as under-secretary for Labour. How gratifying it must
have been when it was Mary Agnes’ own turn to be swept to victory in Blackburn
in 1929, having won the trust of the trade unions there, and gaining more votes
than any other woman Labour candidate. The patriarchal exclusion of women
from parliament had indeed turned out, as Mona Caird’s articulate feminist in
The Daughters of Danaus had been so well aware, to have been historically
contingent. Against so many odds, the ILP women, classically educated or not,
had finally taken up their rightful place in parliamentary politics.
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13
The Greeks of the WEA:
Realities and Rhetorics in the First Two Decades1
Barbara Goff
The parliament that convened after the Labour victory of 1945 boasted fifty-six
members who were or had been active in the WEA (Workers’ Educational
Association), either as tutors or as students.2 Since 1903 the organization had
campaigned for the rights of working-class people to higher education, as well as
supporting numerous other reforming measures such as the reduction of children’s
working hours and the establishment of school clinics.3 The profile of the 1945
parliament thus recognised the Association’s success and consolidated its claim to
be part of mainstream British life. But were the Greek and Roman classics any part
of the WEA’s progressive remit? Preliminary research by John Holford, presented
at the British Academy conference on ‘Classics and Class’ in 2010, concluded that
classics had minimal presence in the work of the WEA. I shall suggest, instead, that,
at least during the first two decades of the WEA’s history, classics was a persistent,
if minor, part of its activities. More strikingly, there is a contrast between the modest
presence of classics as a taught subject and the rhetorical force which reference to
classics could wield in the various discourses of the WEA, such as its magazine
The Highway. This rhetoric is deployed both by the working-class founders of the
WEA and by the academics who supported it, who included surprisingly many
classicists. Or is it so surprising? I shall close by questioning whether classicists
supported the WEA because of the liberal tradition within Hellenism or because
of the increasingly precarious institutional position of the discipline.
What was the WEA?
The WEA currently advertises itself as the ‘largest voluntary sector provider of
adult education’ with a ‘special mission’ ‘to provide educational opportunities to
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The Greeks of the WEA 217
adults facing social and economic disadvantage’.4 While this kind of social
commitment is lamentably still necessary, it was even more so at the time of the
WEA’s foundation by Albert Mansbridge, a clerk and lay reader. Although the
‘Workers’ component of the name is perhaps by now more redolent of tradition
than of class-consciousness or a revolutionary agenda, the distinction was
essential in 1903. The Association had the express aim of ‘promoting the higher
education of working people’ in a context where the state had only just begun to
involve itself in secondary education, via the 1902 Education Act.5 The WEA
brought together strands of working-class educational activity which were
already underway, but relaunched them in more radical fashion. Trade unions
and cooperatives were already undertaking some educational activity, and the
WEA also built on the achievement of bodies like the Working Men’s College,
the Mechanics’ Institutes and the University Settlements.6 From the other
direction, the universities of Oxford, Cambridge and London were already
experimenting with university extension lectures, sending lecturers into
communities which lacked any higher education, to give courses to all comers.
Several of these enterprises had been criticized by sections of the working classes
for being too ‘top-down’; for instance, Mechanics’ Institutes were accused of not
permitting free discussion.7
When the WEA put the various initiatives together, it forged a new enterprise
which, crucially, put workers’ organizations themselves at the heart of provision.
Those who had been denied higher education because of poverty and deprivation
would now organize their own classes, in conjunction with sympathetic
university tutors, and would retain control over all aspects of the process. The
education thus purveyed would not necessarily lead to individual certification
and progress into professions, but would provide a ‘leaven’, in the contemporary
vocabulary, that would allow a whole class to ‘rise’.8 Although the WEA never
proclaimed any revolutionary ambitions, its genesis was revolutionary; it treated
higher education as a right to which all who wanted it were entitled, and it took
the form of an alliance between lecturers and workers in which the former did
not have a monopoly on power or authority.
The Association grew exponentially in the decades after its founding, and in
1946–7, at its peak, it ran over 5,000 classes and reached over 100,000 students.9
The nature of the classes was particularly important for the identity and self-
representation of the Association. The hallmark was the university tutorial
class, which required workers to sign up for three years and to produce regular
written work. This was an enormous commitment for people who were struggling
with physically demanding jobs, low wages, imposed overtime, periods of
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218 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
unemployment, little or no study space, and little educational experience beyond
the compulsory primary years. The tutorial class was convened on a topic chosen
by the worker-students, with a tutor whom they approved, and it proceeded with
an hour’s lecture followed by an hour of discussion. The ethos of the Association
was that all participants were entitled to an equal and respectful hearing of their
contributions, with no ‘party line’. There is endless testimony in the documents of
the WEA as to how life-changing such an experience could be. Its radicalism can
be measured by the fact that in 1903, when the Association was founded, no
woman had the vote, and not all men – yet in the context of the WEA all were
potentially considered able to profit by and contribute to a serious and demanding
course of education.
My account of the WEA will concentrate on its first two decades. In the
following two, the WEA became an established part of national life, and after
that, commentators agree, began to fall victim to its own success.10 An alignment
with the British left was consolidated in the 1945 election, but, despite this
connection, the WEA always insisted that it was non-party political and open
to all points of view. Since early-twentieth-century workers were quite likely
to identify with the reforming left tradition in British politics, this particular
tenet of the Association often led to tension and contradiction in its discourse.
There is a long-standing and sometimes ‘bloodstained’ debate over whether
the WEA co-opted the workers’ natural revolutionary fervour, drew them away
from Marxist analysis or action, and thus became an unwitting tool of the
establishment.11 Roger Fieldhouse considered that access to public money
was explicitly made ‘conditional on good behaviour’, which was the same as
‘not unduly upsetting the status quo’.12 Thus, the education on offer in the
WEA could not challenge the tenets of capitalism and the broadly liberal
consensus that prevailed during the Edwardian period; it could not work for
social change except in so far as change would follow necessarily on wider access
to education.
Fieldhouse’s analysis is seconded by that of Stuart Macintyre, who states
baldly that ‘The WEA was the chief instrument of this state policy of adult
education.’13 He goes on to explain his position: ‘In essence the mission of the
WEA was to break down the isolation of working-class students and integrate
them in a national culture; in political terms the proletarian intellectual was
encouraged to widen his narrow class horizons for a broader progressive polity.’14
Without impugning the motives of the WEA founders, then, Macintyre suggests
that the broadly liberal outlook of the WEA, coupled with its determination to
be non-partisan, meant that it was unlikely to foster class-conscious analysis or
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The Greeks of the WEA 219
action. These accounts of the WEA’s co-option, however, are modified by others,
such as that of Lawrence Goldman.15 He concedes that the WEA ‘bought its
durability’ at the expense of a radical agenda, but cites a number of other elements
in British society which also decreased the likelihood of revolutionary thought
or action among the working class.16
The tension between acknowledging and resisting a left identity is legible in
many documents of the WEA. Other related tensions, which became actual
shifts over time, include the relationship between subjects of study that appeared
to lead more directly to political change and social reform, and subjects that
were more cultural or literary. Initially, workers signed up in droves for classes
on economics and industrial history, but, as the twentieth century wore on, more
classes were devoted to literature, music and art. A second change was that the
university tutorial class lost some popularity to shorter, less demanding courses,
an alteration that for some commentators diluted the essence of the WEA and
for others made it even more accessible to working people.17 A further significant
change was that women, who had formed a very small proportion of the earliest
classes, later came to predominate. Goldman concludes that one of the WEA’s
major achievements was to educate women, ‘the most important group of the
educationally under-privileged’.18 These changes, especially those from ‘politics’
to ‘culture’ and from male to female, have fed the perception that the WEA began
as a revolutionary enterprise but became compromised. But it may be more
accurate to conclude that after the ‘golden age’ of the 1930s and 1940s, because
higher education had become much more widely available, the WEA had
essentially realized its early reforming aims.19
Class itself was often a challenge to the WEA, and it is fair to say that, despite
the best intentions, as the student body expanded, manual workers lost their
majority position.20 The Final Report of the 1919 Adult Education Committee
found that, out of over 3,000 university tutorial class students, fewer than 400
were not from the working class, but this situation did not persist.21 The records,
which may not be completely reliable,22 do not always type students in very
helpful ways, but ‘home workers’, probably women, form a huge proportion of
students at most times, as do shopworkers, clerical workers and teachers. Despite
the name, then, the WEA has often been typed as a middle-class institution.23
That said, we should not conclude that any classical teaching on offer was
available only to people who already had some grasp of the ancient world. Clerks,
shopworkers and even teachers could identify with the manual working class in
terms of low pay and demanding conditions, and, by the same token, cannot be
assumed to have had prior acquaintance with classical antiquity.24
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220 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Was there classics at the WEA?
What role would the discipline of classics be likely to have had in the WEA? The
Annual Reports suggest that, while very few classes were ever titled ‘Ancient
Greece and Rome’, classical antiquity had a notable presence via courses centred
on other topics. Most regions, in most years, hosted at least one course on
something like the history of civilization, and many regions, in many years,
hosted a course on a topic such as ‘What we owe to ancient Greece’ or ‘Ancient
Greek life and thought’.25 This is one measure of the importance of the classical
world to the students. But another point to note is that Ancient Greece and Rome
wielded considerable ideological clout in the discourse of The Highway and
other documents, as an index of workers’ exclusion from higher education, and,
conversely, as a sign of a higher ‘national culture’, to which workers were entitled
and to which they would now be able to gain access. While the absence of classics
from the discourses of the WEA may thus not be absolute, there is still a contrast
between its relatively low-key presence in the classes and the rhetorical force
with which it can be invoked.
Latin and Greek were, of course, not simply symbolic of workers’ exclusion
from higher education; up until 1920 Greek was compulsory for entry to Oxford
and Cambridge (as was Latin till the 1960s). Classics may be seen as symptomatic
of the shift between ‘politics’ and ‘culture’, because the institutional position of
compulsory Greek made culture into politics; those unable to learn the ancient
languages, by whatever means, were actually barred from the commanding
heights of the national life. How one normally learned Latin and Greek was by
attending a secondary school, often a fee-paying one, so that the ancient
languages usually consolidated a class identity based on family wealth, ensuring
that only those with money acquired education. In the early decades of the
twentieth century, it was consequently extremely rare for any person of humble
origins to penetrate the ancient universities, and, in fact, entry to university was
never the chief goal of the WEA. Albert Mansbridge freely admitted the WEA’s
inability to teach certain subjects: ‘The range of subjects is limited to those which
do not demand a long period of school education; for instance, mathematics and
languages are beyond this range.’26 My research has turned up only very sparse
ancient language teaching, which may often have been down to a very particular
conjunction of tutor and students, or, sometimes, student.
Even though there were hardly any ancient languages at the WEA, there is
substantial evidence suggesting that the classical world was widely available to
WEA students, but emerges into the archival record only under certain
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The Greeks of the WEA 221
conditions. Certain titles of classes indicate that the ancient world would play
a role in their content: ‘Utopias Ancient and Modern’, for instance, or the
‘History of Political Thought’, the ‘History of Drama’, the ‘Development of Europe’.
There are also several instances of events with a classical focus that are not
part of regular courses. Some of these may have had an almost ‘talismanic’
quality, marking the importance of the new enterprise.27 Thus, the opening
programme of the Reading branch, in 1904, comprised two lectures on ‘The
Teaching of Socrates’, as well as a demonstration of chemistry, a debate, two
musical evenings, and lectures on ‘English Liberty’, ‘William Cobbett’ and
‘Pictures’.28 In 1908 the Rochdale branch, one of the first to be founded, hosted a
course on ‘Imperial Rome’, which was pronounced an experiment, but was
successful.29 Similar language is used of a class in ‘Greek History’ which ran in
Manchester in 1914: ‘All the students are keen about the experiment being
continued next autumn.’30
In 1913 the course of winter lectures at Belfast included three by Sir Samuel
Dill on ‘The Possibilities of Higher Literary Studies for Workers’. Remarkably,
all these possibilities centre on the study of the ancient world.31 The ancient
world is also prominent in the syllabi of several of the annual summer schools.
Gilbert Murray read his translation of Medea to a spellbound summer class in
1911, and one student, Lavena Saltonstall, suggests that ‘neither is Mr Lindsay
likely to forget our discussions of Plato’s Republic, nor the manner in which we
often attacked him as though he had written it himself ’.32 Later, The Highway of
1915 announces a summer school on ancient Greece in the following terms:
In this time of travail and anguish of the nations, it is not so much relief and
distraction that we seek . . . as a renewed power of realising, in and below the
present storm and havoc the abiding issues of life that underlie and will
survive them . . . [the Greeks] can even yet ‘purge the emotions of pity and
terror in our souls’ by bringing each man’s own sense of compassion and
apprehension into relation with the universal sufferings and aspirations of
humanity, and with that august overruling march of destiny or providence
which we so dimly gauge. No study could better tend to ennoble our sorrows
and purify our resolves.33
The rhetoric is inclusive, with a fully realized ‘we’ throughout, so that there is no
sense that The Highway’s audience might have felt excluded from the classics.
There is also, perhaps, an implication that the audience would not normally turn
to the classical world for its self-understanding, but does so under the compulsion
of crisis.
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222 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Such testimony shows that classical material was available, even if sometimes
it appeared as an anomalous ‘experiment’. But what about evidence that the
ancient world was part of regular activity? There are a few such indications. In
the early 1910s G. D. H. Cole, one of the university tutors, was answering students’
bibliographic queries about support for their studies in a column called ‘At the
sign of the book’. His topics include – as well as quantities of history, economics
and politics – Plato’s Republic, Latin, Roman history, and classical myths.34
Several other different kinds of contributions, such as book reviews, suggest that
the audience of The Highway are reading the classics, or are interested in the
classics generally. For now we can note a letter, which purports to come from a
student, and which suggests regular discussion of classical topics. This letter also
lays claim to the classics as being particularly pertinent to working-class students.
The letter is from ‘A Wayfaring Man’ and is titled ‘The Spirit of the WEA’.35 It
celebrates the ‘fellowship’ found in the branches, which depends on free
interchange among members, no automatic guarantee of authority to the lecturer,
and a certain level of political awareness. The ideal is illustrated with specific
reference to classical antiquity:
Literature, economic history, nature study, philosophy, ethics, even theology,
were made studies of the humanities and the modernities. We were not dry-
as-dust doctrinaires poking among the ashes of extinct theories and dead
civilisations, but pioneers of truths to live by and save the civilisation of to-
day. If some rather bold democrat was studying Greek history and ventured
to suggest that Cleon was like some modern statesman, whom he named,
our tutor did not choke him by an extinguisher, but mildly marked out the
points of similarity and the points of difference between the modern and the
ancient types of demagogue . . .
The mercantile system suggests Daniel de Leon, Wordsworth’s Sonnets lead
to small holdings and the iniquity of land grabbers, Napoleon reminds one
of the Kaiser, Greek art recalls Brick Row in our village. The WEA does not
stand for the utter repudiation of these connections.
If I understand the fundamental motive of our pioneers . . . Brick Row is not
so remote from Greek art in the thought world. The thought of a Greek
statue should arouse in all sane minds the stern resolve that Brick Row
should be smashed to atoms.
This is an idealized version of the WEA, but the ‘Wayfaring Man’ claims that it is
frequently instantiated. In this extract, at least, the best version of the WEA
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The Greeks of the WEA 223
makes positive connections between the classics and the working class, and
they are even dynamically linked, in that the one will ideally lead to the end of
the other.
Where was the classics at the WEA?
Such testimony as that of the ‘Wayfaring Man’ makes a start on suggesting that
WEA students could have regular access to classical material. The archives also
make it relatively clear that exposure to the ancient world, when it happened,
often came via Plato. Whenever we are able to scrutinize the content of a
philosophy class in any detail, Plato is almost certain to form a prominent part
of the reading. In 1913 the editor of The Highway visited the class at Reading,
where the students, mostly employees of the Cooperative, ‘were forcing out of a
tutor all that he knew about the ancient civilisations and the philosophy of
Greece and Rome’.36 Given that I have found no records of classes in this early
period on ancient philosophy, this may well have been a class on philosophy,
which might not advertise itself as ‘classical’ but would almost inevitably
introduce its students to antiquity. For some students, this might not be an
introduction but a consolidation of prior acquaintance, but no students are likely
to have had any prolonged exposure to the classical world.
The Annual Reports from the Welsh Districts offer a series of insights into
how antiquity might be studied under different titles, where the actual names of
classes would not show any classics. In 1914 a logic class at Ynysybwl (a ‘little
industrial village’) was studying Plato’s Republic (7),37 suggesting both a broad
sense of ‘logic’ and a recognition of Plato’s potential importance in a range of
contexts. In 1914–15, there were twenty-five tutorial classes, but also a preparatory
class (lasting one year and leading up to membership of a tutorial class), attended
by fifty-nine students, where the subject of study was sociology and Greek
civilization (8). Most of the classes in these years were devoted to economic,
historical and social studies, and politics, but there was recurrent interest in
classical antiquity. Thus, in 1921–2 a pioneer class on history and politics at
Pontadarwe included the study of Ancient Athens (7). In 1923–4, when there
were ninety-seven university tutorial classes in the Welsh district, of which none
was explicitly focused on antiquity, two political philosophy classes taught Plato
and Aristotle in the first half of the year and Rousseau to Cole and Tawney in the
second (10). Although we do not have details of all the philosophy classes, we
can be fairly sure that many would have included study of Plato and Aristotle.
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224 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
If we pursue the Welsh experience, we uncover ever more substantial study of
Plato and related classical topics. In 1925–6 a philosophy class at Merthyr studied
idealism for its first year, in Plato, Berkeley, Kant and Hegel (28); one at Ferndale
in 1926–7 studied the Republic (28); and one in 1927–8 at Cwmllynfell (near
Neath), made up largely of colliery workers, studied the Book of Job, Plato’s
Republic and the Method of Descartes (23). In 1924–5, twenty-four students
enrolled in a tutorial class in social philosophy at Fforestfach, where Plato was
studied under the rubric of ‘utopian ideals’ (21). In 1925–6 a class at Caersws
discussed ‘such topics as: The Village Community, The Greek City State, Rome and
its Political Organization, The Feudal System, The French Revolution, The Nation
and Nationality. Several evenings were given to a consideration of Plato’s Republic
and More’s Utopia’ (17). In 1928–9 a preparatory class in philosophy at Hirwain
had twelve lectures on early Greek philosophy and twelve on Plato’s Republic (22).
The first year of a tutorial class in philosophy at Penclawdd read the Apology, Crito
and Republic, with the last being studied by means of passages read and discussed
in class (32). At Cwmllynfell the philosophy class reached its final, third year, in
which seventeen students studied Aristotle’s Ethics and Kant’s Fundamental
Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals, and wrote on ‘Aristotle’s Conception of
Virtue’, ‘Kant’s Theory of the Moral Act’ and, lastly, ‘A Comparison between
Aristotle and Kant as Ethical Teachers’. The report by the class secretary sums up:
The tutor was afraid that the students would find these books too difficult and
that the attendance would fall away. But his fears in that respect were
groundless. They are now acquainted – and that textually – with the main
ethical arguments of both thinkers, and have discussed them in very great
detail. They have always learnt to apply these to their own life, and have always
criticised them from this point of view. ‘I hardly think any other class in Wales
worked on dryer or stiffer texts, but the interest of the class never waned,
and sometimes the discussion reached a high philosophical standard’ (35).
Meanwhile, an advanced class at Abergavenny continued into a fifth year of
philosophy, and completed reading the whole text of Plato’s Republic (28). ‘The
whole of the time last session was given to special studies in the application of
the principles of Plato’s Republic to the problems of the modern state’ (28). In
Newport, the ‘dockers’ class’ pursued a study of social science, in which
a detailed study of Plato’s Republic was taken last session, and a sound
mastery of the text was acquired by the students. The application of Plato’s
principles to contemporary problems was the chief theme of the discussion.
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The Greeks of the WEA 225
The students came to the conclusion that the supreme task of democracy
was to devise social machinery as [sic] would discover the ‘wise man’ and
make him wiser. The interest taken by a class of working men in questions
such as the place of art in education and in social life was very gratifying,
and the discussion on the development of knowledge from conjecture
through science to philosophy was most animated. A good deal of reading
was done by individuals and the ‘written work’ was quite satisfactory (27).
Even allowing for the tutors’ investment in the students’ performance, which
is seconded by the investment of the reporting secretaries, these references
indicate a persistent and thorough exposure to versions of classical antiquity, via
classes whose titles do not necessarily advertise their identity as classical at all.
Perhaps even more striking than the philosophy and social science classes are
the literature classes. Again, if the sources enable us to read the details, we can see
that general literary titles of classes sometimes conceal substantial classical
content. In 1923 the WEA Playgoers’ Club at Birmingham had a spring
programme which included readings of Greek plays alongside ‘a performance of
A. A. Milne’s “The Romantic Age” ’.38 In 1926 a London WEA class, which began
by studying dramatic literature, ended by performing Sophocles’ Antigone at the
Old Vic.39 In 1926–7 a Welsh class in ‘Philosophical Tendencies in Literature’
read, among other much more modern works, Gilbert Murray’s renderings of
the Oedipus Rex of Sophocles and the Medea and Trojan Women of Euripides.40
This class was taught in two locations, in Ebbw Vale and Tredgar, and addressed
a total of fifty-three people. At Neath the class in ‘English Literature’ read Murray’s
translation of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus as well as Milton’s Samson Agonistes,
Twelfth Night, She Stoops to Conquer, A Doll’s House, The Wild Duck, Lady from
the Sea and Pygmalion (32). The class in ‘Welsh Literature’ in Pontardawe in
1928–9 studied ‘literary criticism in different epochs from Plato down to the
nineteenth century’ to give ‘a wider horizon to the contemplation of “Welsh
Literature” ’ (34). If even the Welsh literature class could include some classical
content, then it might be possible to conclude that classical antiquity had quite a
substantial presence within the practices of the WEA.
Literature classes formed about 10 per cent of all the WEA’s offerings during
its history;41 philosophy classes seem to have accounted for 5 per cent.42 If we can
extrapolate from the South Wales district – which gives a much greater level of
detail on the content of classes than most other districts – we may conclude that
a small but significant proportion of workers in these decades were reading at
least Plato, and maybe Aristotle. It is also likely that there were other kinds of
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226 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
exposure to classical antiquity, particularly via Murray’s translations of tragedy.
In this period, children in schools, even at the secondary level, were not studying
the classics in translation to any great extent, so ordinary working people rarely
had any general access to the culture of antiquity – which, of course, was one of
the deficiencies that Murray’s translations tried to address.
A particularly interesting example of the ancient world being purveyed
indirectly can be read in the 1918 book edited by the campaigning journalist
Harold Begbie, Living Water: Being the Romance of the Poor Student. This is a
collection of autobiographical fragments from various ‘poor students’, describing
their backgrounds and educational trajectories. When one of these, the
‘Manchester Socialist’, rounds on his interviewer with the words ‘the only man
that has ever helped me is Socrates’, the interviewer admits that ‘I was amazed.’
The Manchester Socialist continues:
When I read the Symposium for the first time . . . I knew that I had got into
a new world. And when I read the Trial and Death, I knew that I had got a
hero for life. I want no greater hero than Socrates. I know of no idealism that
is higher and nobler than his.43
The Socialist began to attend university extension lectures, and from there joined
the WEA and became a member of the very first university tutorial class in
Rochdale. The tutor of this class was R. H. Tawney, who was teaching economics
at Glasgow University at the time (Figure 13.1). The class at Rochdale studied
Figure 13.1
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The Greeks of the WEA 227
economic history with an emphasis on the eighteenth century.44 But the
Manchester Socialist describes the class very differently:
Then came the luck of my life . . . I met Mr R. H. Tawney, the tutor, and
through him I was introduced to the world of Greek civilisation. Mr Tawney
struck me from the first as a true and absolutely disinterested friend of the
working-classes. I could give him not only my respect and my confidence,
but my affection. I was a member of the first tutorial class ever formed by the
WEA under Oxford University. It was the new-birth of my intellectual life.
Oxford came to me with the wisdom of Greece in her hands, and from that
moment I read Greek civilisation to the exclusion of almost everything else.
To this day I can’t get enough books about Greece. I’m making a special
study just at present of the Periclean age. Any book that deals with Pericles is
more than gold to me. And I’m sure of this, that there’s no understanding of
our own economic conditions without knowledge of Greek history.45
Without this particular testimony we would not have been aware that Tawney’s
class in economics also offered to the workers knowledge of the ancient world,
and we would have derived an incomplete notion of the role of classics within
the work of the WEA.
The rhetoric of classics at the WEA
Clearly there is much else to be said along the lines already laid out, but I want
now to shift focus. With the passionate declaration of the ‘Manchester Socialist’,
we move from sketching the extent of classics at the WEA to exploring its
rhetorical force. The ‘Manchester Socialist’ experienced what Rose calls an
epiphany,46 corresponding to what Rowbotham found in her study of university
extension audiences: ‘an excitement and a sense of liberation almost like
religious conversion’.47 The rhetorical force of the classical reference derives
partly from the cultural distance between the classics as signifier of exclusion
and the working-class subject who lays claim to the classics. It should be noted,
however, that the working-class student does not usually characterize the
classical material as hostile or impenetrable; rather, the material offers an almost
romantic familiarity and availability. The rhetorical force also derives from a
pre-existing liberal discourse about the classics, which the WEA can be seen to
tap into, and develop, partly under the guidance of classicists like Murray and
Zimmern. Turner labels this version of antiquity ‘evolutionary humanistic
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228 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Hellenism’, and suggests that antiquity as a spiritual, even a quasi-religious,
object of veneration took the place of a lost faith for many late-nineteenth and
early-twentieth-century intellectuals.48
As a version of religion, the classics sometimes appears in the writings of
Albert Mansbridge like the Christian gospel itself, demotically available within
everyday life while simultaneously challenging its quotidian assumptions. Thus
Mansbridge writes: ‘There are miners and factory hands in the North who don’t
care twopence about increasing their wages or living in bigger houses or wearing
finer clothes, but who can discuss Greek history with men like Alfred Zimmern,
Greek poetry with men like Gilbert Murray and Greek philosophy with men like
W. H. Hadow.’49 The classics in this formulation act, I suggest, as a metaphor for
the workers’ aptitude for education, but also as a metonymy for their spirituality,
which helps to establish their right to education. This quotation also uses the
Ancient Greeks to bridge the gap between the working men and the university
tutors, and, crucially, to denote them all as ‘men’ – men, that is, in the sense of
both heroic men, like the Ancient Greeks, and ordinary men, who are linked by
their ordinary humanity. Although the classics does not appear very frequently
in Mansbridge’s writing, when it does, it is with an idealism that is forceful
enough to join the classes rather than separating them.
It will be noted that, in this quotation, the classics is explicitly opposed to any
desire for material gain. This aspect of Mansbridge’s educational ideology
sometimes brought him into conflict with other sectors of the working-class
movement, and with other members of the WEA.50 It can be aligned with the
equivocation over identifying the WEA fully with the labour movement, and it
is part of what gives rise to the idea that Mansbridge’s WEA became co-opted
rather than producing radical change. But Mansbridge was not alone in wielding
this rhetoric of enthusiasm. Many other early testimonies strike a note similar to
his claim that ‘Adult education is a secular gospel.’51 Alfred Cobham was a
working man who found in university extension, and later in the WEA, the
education and, indeed, the ‘joy of life that was denied to me in the years of my
youth’.52 He writes to promote adult education as one of the means to national
recovery after the Great War, envisaging a recovery that would be not solely
technical and economic but also cultural and even spiritual. Cobham’s first
lectures were in the classics:
It was my good fortune to begin my University Extension career with a
course of lectures on Greek History from Solon to Pericles. What a joy it
brought into my life to watch Athens rise to the zenith of Greek civilisation.
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The Greeks of the WEA 229
Hundreds of hours have I gloated over the victories of Marathon and
Salamis. And those Olympic festivals – the thrilling excitement of the
chariot race, and the pageantry of the pan-athenaic procession in which
Miltiades, thrice-victor, was carried to the Acropolis to be crowned with a
garland of bay-leaves. Talk about national sentiment! I have been the winner
of that chariot race many a time when I have tackled a task apparently
beyond me. Then, as if to add joy to joy, that most delightful expounder of
Greek life, Mr Kaines Smith, delivered two courses of lectures, one on Greek
Religion and Architecture, and one on Greek Art and National Life. Thrills?
Who can ever forget the gesture and the eloquence with which he described
the Discobolus? Of course one never does forget.53
The epiphanic quality here is akin to that recorded by the Manchester Socialist,
in that the classics is a revelation, but also appears as offering a sense of rightful
access and even ownership. This sense of ownership is facilitated by the
representation of the classics as delivering pleasures of a particularly immediate
kind, a thrill of identification with exciting activity.
These rhapsodic testimonies are from workers who became students, and
who included classical material in the subjects of their study. The rhetoric of
other sources on the classics, for instance of Highway editorials, is noticeably
different. Here the version of the classics that we may read, in the admittedly
sparse references, is not so personal, but is connected to the nation. The editorials
are not rhapsodic, partly because they are not couched in the first person, but
when they do, very occasionally, touch on classics, they lay a definite claim to the
classics as part of a general culture from which working people shall be no more
excluded. The Highway begins with a reference to Plato in its very first issue,
when the new enterprise is introduced by a long paragraph that ends:
When the philosopher Plato was speculating on the future of society, he said,
in his half humorous half pathetic way, that the world would never go
straight till the kings became philosophers or the philosophers kings. The
modern world is faced with the nobler task of making the people both king
and philosopher; for unless democracy puts on in some measure the
philosopher it cannot hope to win or to retain its kingdom.
The Platonic views on education are, of course, a two-edged sword for anyone
to use, especially, perhaps, working-class students, because such views often
seem as keen to exclude people as to empower them. And, indeed, Plato is the
object of much debate within the pages of The Highway, never simply accepted
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230 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
as an authority. But if we think for a moment of the exclusionary version of
Plato, the one that would distrust the worker-students of the WEA, we can,
perhaps, read a related doubt in this paragraph. It was a commonplace in the
nineteenth century, when the franchise was expanded, that ‘we must educate our
masters’ – or rather, in the words of Robert Lowe in his parliamentary speech on
the Reform Act of 1867, ‘it will be absolutely necessary that you should prevail
on our future masters to learn their letters’.54 This phrase clearly assumes and,
indeed, perpetuates a class difference between the speaker and his audience on
the one hand, and the ‘masters’ on the other, who will only be bearable in the
improved, educated model. Does the paragraph in The Highway register a version
of this anxiety about the uneducated populace? I would argue that its rhetoric is
quite different; the democratic ‘people’ inserted into the Platonic taxonomy of
philosophers and kings are represented as eminently entitled to their kingdom.
Moreover, the modern task of education is ‘nobler’ than the ancient, not least
because it goes way beyond ‘learning their letters’. Part of the workers’ educational
birthright, indeed, is Plato’s educational theories.
A few years later, The Highway comments vigorously on the debate over
compulsory Greek at Oxford University. This issue matters because it binds the
national identity to a version of classics which now fosters the welfare neither of
the discipline nor of the nation:
The ‘Greek Question’ is much in evidence at present at the universities and in
the newspapers. The Association, too, has its Greek question, about which it
intends to make its voice heard in the near future. With the so-called
compulsory ‘Greek’ it has no concern, except to desire its abolition; for it
knows, as all good teachers know, that where there is compulsion, there is
likely to be no true education. What it is concerned with is the far more vital
question of the open door of Greek – the extension to workpeople and to the
children of workpeople of opportunities of becoming familiar with the
literature and art and history of the first civilised communities in Europe.
Many generations of the well-to-do have learnt to hate Greek by being forced
to study it, and being taught it badly. The time is coming when the poor will
learn to love it by being allowed to study it, and finding in it some of their
own truest aspirations and ideals.55
The Highway had not changed its tune in 1917, when R. W. Livingstone published
A Defence of Classical Education. The Highway considered it a matter for the
attention of a working-class organization:
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The Greeks of the WEA 231
Mr Livingstone calls his book A Defence of Classical Education. So far as the
WEA is concerned it is not defence that is needed, but offence. Most of us
know enough about the Greeks to want to know a great deal more, both for
ourselves and our children . . . Plato is used as a text book in some tutorial
classes; and if few WEA members can read him in the original, many
understand some of the problems he handles better perhaps than the general
run of those who can.56
Although some of this rhetoric strikes a very traditional note in the type of value
that it attributes to classical antiquity, a significant difference is made by the
audience to whom the critique is addressed. This audience clearly includes
students of working-class origins, even though it may also include tutors with
more middle-class affiliation. There is a persistent assumption about the
relevance of Greek to those who have been unable to study it, and, conversely, the
relevance of those people to the study of Greek.
Why were the classicists at the WEA?
I noted earlier that classicists formed a good proportion of the university tutors
who supported the WEA from the outset. These were, predictably, the same
classicists as were engaged in developing the ‘evolutionary humanistic Hellenism’
mentioned earlier. Murray, Zimmern, Livingstone and Lindsay wrote regularly
for The Highway, and Zimmern was also active in other roles,57 while Murray
and Zimmern are also known for their involvement in other movements of
progressive reform, such as the League of Nations. The Hellenism of this group
is not, of course, without its own history of production; it did not spring fully
formed from the classicists’ heads, but responded to pressures in the general
social and cultural context. As we noted, the decline of organized religion left a
space, which such a Hellenism was able to fill, and Hellenism was well prepared
to fill it by its own history of cultural authority. But this was not the only driving
factor. Turner (1981) and Stray (1997) also point to the fact that the university
reforms of the nineteenth century had left classicists needing to justify their
discipline in new terms. One way for classicists to proceed was to repackage the
timeless value of antiquity to match Edwardian consciousness of social and
political shifts; change is inevitable, but becomes progress when guided by the
Hellenic spirit.58 For classicists who already had liberal sympathies in politics,
the WEA offered fertile ground for exactly that justification; classical antiquity
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232 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
could be celebrated as offering a model of culture that was demanding but also
inclusive – that offered only the best, but offered to share it.
Early volumes of The Highway, in 1909 and 1910, published parts of Gilbert
Murray’s inaugural, a series of articles by A. D. Lindsay on his translation of Plato’s
Republic, and a series of articles by Zimmern, based on the Oxford lectures which
would subsequently appear as his book The Greek Commonwealth. The Highway
also advertised Murray’s article ‘Working-Men and Greek’, published in the
weekly paper founded by Keir Hardie, The Labour Leader.59 In this article, Murray
demonstrated that Greek literature is a natural pursuit for the working man
because the Greeks themselves combined high culture with material poverty.
Moreover, Greek is inherently progressive: Greek provides an education in ‘the
first splendid beginnings of almost everything that matters in the forward march
of mankind’. Because of this disposition towards the progressive, the problems
which Greeks were tackling were ‘essentially the same problems that trouble
advanced thinkers at the present day, and their spirit is or ought to be, in the main,
our spirit’. The only drawback to an immediate alliance between the working man
and Greek was the difficulty of the language, about which Murray was disarmingly
frank; and, although he offered the services of the WEA to all workers who wished
to learn Greek, he had to end his article with the hope that ‘anyone who embarks
on this sort of reading will remember my warning, that it is all the work of a far-
off time and, even apart from the languages, needs an interpreter to make it clear’.
In this approach, Murray’s writing implicitly acknowledged a possible misfit
between ‘the working man’ and ‘Greek’, such that this particular circle could not
be easily squared. Zimmern’s contributions suggest the opposite. Zimmern also
desired to promote the liberal version of Ancient Greece and share it with a
newly active working class, but countenanced no difficulty; for instance, ‘there is
nothing a modern man needs to learn before he can read Plato or the Gospels,
except the mere art of reading’.60 This simplicity of solution came about because
the WEA already was Greek, or at least Athenian. In 1909 Zimmern reported on
‘Summer Meeting Impressions’ and claimed that for the members of the WEA
summer schools, ‘as for the Athenians, politics are the gate to all the arts and all
the sciences’.61 The WEA members and the Greeks were further linked, in a deft
sleight of hand, as being socialists. Socialism included ‘every subject that ever
had been and could be included under literae humaniores’, from metaphysics to
economics, and such subjects ‘as the Athenians discovered (and Socrates after all
was a working man) are best discussed in conversation’. The WEA members’
discovery of the topics of a liberal education, pursued by discussion, thus aligned
them with the Greeks as progressives.
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The Greeks of the WEA 233
In 1910 Zimmern was even more explicit about such identification. In ‘Tents
are Better’ he noted the public activity of WEA members, likening it to the
intellectual and political ferment of the Athenian polis, and suggested that ‘the
WEA numbers members who, under grimmer conditions, are living like
Greeks’.62 The series of articles on ‘The Greeks and Modern Life’ began with the
WEA’s claim on Greek. This was contrasted with Greek as it currently appeared
in formal education:
The ‘compulsory Greek’ in our schools and universities, which provides so
much copy for the journalists, may have all the virtues claimed for it; it may
be as unpleasant and as health-giving as the best pill ever invented; but there
is very little about it that is Greek. There are more true Greeks in the WEA
than in all the classical universities and schools of England put together.63
At the end of the series of articles, the WEA appeared again as the inheritor
of Greece and, consequently, as the means to remake England, specifically by its
democratic and egalitarian disposition. Zimmern suggested that the Athenians,
faced with England’s particular problems, would have worked to bridge the gap
between public and private, which is exactly what the WEA endeavoured to do
with its ideology of ‘fellowship’; ‘the best thing about a WEA gathering, and the
most truly Greek thing about it, is that men and women feel “at home” there’. This
work, at the interface of public and private, was the work of making England ‘for
the first time in her history a truly civilised country’.64 Liberal and progressive
Hellenism here joined up seamlessly with working-class aspirations in order to
produce a new version of England.
Within the discourses of the WEA, the Ancient Greeks did offer to cross, and
even transcend, the class barriers of the early twentieth century. To this extent,
the discipline of classics could be put to work in the cause of reform. But there
are two obvious caveats. The first is that, despite the resonance of individual
passages, there is not a great deal of sustained reference to classical antiquity in
the early years of the WEA or of The Highway; I am picking out my quotations
from among vast tracts of economic and political discourse that are not at all
interested in the ancient world. Yet often, when there is reference to antiquity, it
bears a considerable ideological weight, deriving from the point of cultural
change where a real historical restriction to the elite meets a new emphasis on
the inclusivity and openness of ‘evolutionary humanist Hellenism’. Although this
Hellenism was potentially radical in its acknowledgement of a national culture
that should be shared, the second caveat is that it is important not to romanticize
it in our turn. Workers who desired a higher education met dons who needed
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234 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
more compelling narratives about the relevance of their subject to the modern
world; the embrace of working-class education by humanist Hellenism can be
explained by the dons’ pragmatism as well as their liberal, reforming ideologies.
Classics at the WEA was thus multiply determined and multiply significant;
ancient Greeks might be available to all, but there might be a variety of motives
for calling upon them.
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14
Christopher Caudwell’s Greek and
Latin Classics
Edith Hall
There’s a valley in Spain called Jarama
it’s a place that we all know so well
it was there that we fought against the fascists
we saw a peaceful valley turn to hell.
From this valley they say we are going
but don’t hasten to bid us adieu
even though we lost the battle at Jarama
we’ll set this valley free ’fore we’re through.
So ran Woody Guthrie’s adaptation of a popular anti-fascist song commemorating
the battle of Jarama in the Spanish Civil War, 12 February 1937. In the last line,
with the words ‘we’ll set this valley free’, Guthrie turns the individual bloody
encounter into the universal struggle for freedom and equality, the cause which
the soldiers of the International Brigades certainly believed they were defending.
On ‘Suicide Hill’, east of Madrid, the British Battalion of the International
Brigade lost nearly two-thirds of their 600-strong force.1 They included a
communist writer, steeped in Greek and Roman classics, Christopher Caudwell
(1907–37; Figure 14.1). He was twenty-nine years old and the author of numerous
works, including two book-length studies of literature, which would be published
soon after his death, Illusion and Reality (1937) and Studies in a Dying Culture
(1938). To the comrades alongside whom he fought he was known by his real
name, Christopher Sprigg, and for the rest of this chapter, to avoid confusion, I
simply call him ‘Christopher’. His brief life, fervent commitment to the cause of
international socialism, prolific output and untimely death do not just make an
arresting story in themselves; they can also be read as emblematic of the whole
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236 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Figure 14.1
lost cause of British revolutionary socialism in the 1930s. This briefly promised
an exciting new approach to cultural analysis, as Philip Bounds has shown in his
fine study British Communism and the Politics of Literature 1928–1939 (2012). It
also opened up new vistas on the literature of Ancient Greece and Rome, most
of which were prematurely closed off again.
Although it is seldom pointed out, the spirit that drove British communism in
the 1930s and inspired people like Christopher in their literary work and military
action was far from ineffectual. It was in the left-wing resistance to fascism and
the spirit fostered in the universities during the period from the General Strike
(1926) to the Second World War – and not the war alone – that prepared the
nation and the generation of Labour politicians for the implementation in the
1940s of some of the most important social reforms Britain has ever seen.
Aneurin ‘Nye’ Bevan, for example, the son of a coal-miner who established –
against enormous vested interest – the National Health Service, which would
provide free medical care at point of need for all, a seismic breakthrough in the
struggle for social reform, was suspended from the Labour Party in 1939 for
straying from the party line by rallying with members of the Communist Party
of Great Britain (CPGB) and other socialist parties in the attempted formation
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Caudwell’s Greek and Latin Classics 237
of a united, cross-party ‘Popular Front’ against fascism. The ideology that
stimulated and nourished the work of figures from the left such as Christopher
throughout the 1930s had real-world political implications manifesting
themselves in the foundation of the ‘Welfare State’ – a mighty landmark for
British social reform – and further reforms brought in by the Wilson cabinets of
the 1960s, which included former CPGB members.2
Among Christopher’s poems is a well-crafted and faithful translation of a
Greek epigram by Crinagoras of Mytilene (first century bc). It is a memorial
poem for a young man from Lesbos who died far from his homeland in Roman
Iberia. As Sullivan has suggested, it might well serve as Christopher’s own
obituary (Palatine Anthology 7.376):3
Unhappy men, who roam, on hope deferred
Relying, thinking not of painful death!
Here was Seleucos, great in mind and word,
Who his young prime enjoyed for but a breath.
In world-edge Spain, so far from Lesbian lands
He lies, a stranger on uncharted strands.
Seleucos clearly haunted Christopher, but Christopher has himself turned
into a ghostly presence haunting the imagination of the British left and its
literary circles ever since his premature death in Spain. His own voice has yet
to be fully heard, since so many of his papers lie unpublished in the Harry
Ransom Center at the University of Texas, Austin. Despite the lip service
routinely paid to the radicals who risked their lives for the freedom of Spain,
it has long been customary to criticize Christopher’s published work. A
retrospective condescension has been a common response to his unswerving
commitment to the Soviet Union,4 as if this had been an unusual stance on the
British left in the mid-1930s. He was a remarkable polymath, an expert on the
history of aviation who tried to think about the world of knowledge – physics
as well as literature – synthetically; using an ancient philosopher’s image, he
explained science and art as yearning to be reunited,‘like the two halves produced
by cutting the original human hermaphrodite in half, according to the story
of Aristophanes in Plato’s Symposium.’5 Yet he has met with damning critiques of
his grasp of the physical sciences. His cultural and literary theories have been
savagely criticized as naïve, misguided or reductionist by theoretical titans
on the Marxist scene, including E. P. Thompson and especially Terry Eagleton in
Criticism and Ideology (1976), thus perpetuating the tiresome tradition of
oedipal aggression towards forefathers displayed by new generations within
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238 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
the intellectual left.6 Little has been written about Christopher that does not
evaluate – and often condemn – his contribution to materialist theories of
culture, especially literary culture.
Bounds has recently argued, persuasively, that Christopher took many of his
theoretical bearings from important elements in Soviet theory, ‘but that he
refracted the Soviet orthodoxy through the distorting mechanisms of his
distinctively autodidactic mind’.7 Like Bounds, I hope to shift the emphasis onto
illumination rather than judgement. First, I aim to show the extent to which
Christopher’s approach to aesthetic questions was indebted to classical literature,
especially classical literary theory. This debt can help to explain what have been
seen as some of his more idiosyncratic as well as important insights into the
relationship between Life and Art, and between reality and poetic rhythm, on
which his thinking was groundbreaking. Second, I want to emphasize that
Christopher saw the production of art, and analysis of art, as necessary parts of
the struggle for social and political renewal. He wrote poetry himself, and saw
no real distinction between theory and practice. Both art and its analysis were,
for him, active verbs rather than abstract nouns. Art offers humans a way
to think about their predicament collectively, a way of seeing their fate without
which they could not cope with it, let alone change it: tragic art can be great
art, for example, ‘for here reality at its bitterest – death, despair, eternal failure – is
yet given an organisation, a shape, an affective arrangement which expresses
a deeper and more social view of fate’.8 Tragedy organizes, shapes, arranges
affectively and expresses, thus producing a social view of fate. If the social world
were to be changed for the better, mankind needed – Christopher believed – to
achieve a collective and clear-eyed ‘social view’ of mankind’s situation. It was the
function of art and its discussants to make such a view achievable.
In his finest poem, ‘Classic Encounter’, he fuses material from an ancient
tragedy with a critical stance on more recent history, attempting to create
through art ‘a deeper and more social view’ of the cost of militarism, ancient and
modern:
Arrived upon the downs of asphodel
I walked towards the military quarter
To find the sunburnt ghosts of allied soldiers
Killed on the Chersonese.
I met a band of palefaced weary men
Got up in odd equipment. ‘Hi,’ I said
‘Are you Gallipoli?’
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Caudwell’s Greek and Latin Classics 239
And one, the leader, with a voice of gold,
Answered: ‘No. Ours, Sir, was an older bungle.
We are Athenian hoplites who sat down
Before young Syracuse.
‘Need I recount our too-much-memoired end?
The hesitancy of our General Staff,
The battle in the Harbour, where Hope fled
But we could not?
‘Not our disgrace in that,’ the leader added,
‘But we are those proficient in the arts
Freed in return for the repeated verses
Of our Euripides.
‘Those honeyed words did not soothe Cerberus’
(The leader grinned), ‘For sulky Charon hire
Deficient, and by Rhadamanthos ruled
No mitigation.
‘And yet with men, born victims of their ears
The chorus of the weeping Troades
Prevailed to gain the freedom of our limbs
And waft us back to Athens.
‘Through every corridor of this old barracks
We wander without friends, not fallen or
Survivors in a military sense.
Hence our disgrace.’
He turned, and as the rank mists took them in
They chanted at the God to Whom men pray,
Whether He be Compulsion, or All-fathering,
Or Fate and blind.9
The ‘I’ in this poem is a visitor to the Underworld, like Odysseus in book eleven
of the Odyssey. The nekuia was, of course, a favourite trope of all the modernists,
especially in the wake of the First World War,10 but few of them made such
explicit references to real events in recent history. The ‘I’ voice meets the
Athenians who had died a horrible death in Syracuse in 413 bce (described in
tragic detail in Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War, book VII) as a
result of the military debacle that concluded Athens’ disastrous invasion of Sicily.
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240 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
The speaker mistakes them for those fallen in the Gallipoli campaign of 1915–
16, when combined British and Anzac fatalities alone are estimated at 76,000.
The poem thus draws a parallel between the victims of warmongering generals
in the Mediterranean at a distance of more than two millennia. But it also
incorporates an ancient tradition, reported in Plutarch’s Life of Nicias 29, that
some of the Athenians had persuaded their captors to spare their lives by
performing songs from the tragedies of Euripides:
Most of the Athenians perished in the quarries by diseases and ill diet . . .
Several were saved for the sake of Euripides, whose poetry, it appears, was in
request among the Sicilians more than among any of the settlers out of
Greece. And when any travelers arrived that could tell them some passage, or
give them any specimen of his verses, they were delighted to be able to
communicate them to one another. Many of the captives who got safe back
to Athens are said, after they reached home, to have gone and made their
acknowledgments to Euripides, relating how that some of them had been
released from their slavery by teaching what they could remember of his
poems, and others, when straggling after the fight, been relieved with meat
and drink for repeating some of his lyrics.
But Christopher adapts this ancient anecdote by suggesting that the song they
had sung was actually from Trojan Women. With the exceptions of Medea and
Oedipus, this was the most familiar Greek tragedy in Britain in the 1920s. Just
after the war, in 1919, Sybil Thorndike played Hecuba at the Old Vic to raise
funds for the newly founded League of Nations, and also at the Alhambra Theatre
in Leicester Square: she said later, ‘All the misery and awfulness of the 1914 war
was symbolised in that play and we all felt here was the beginning of a new era
of peace and brotherhood.’11 We do not know whether Christopher saw that
production or not. But the work that he makes the ancient play do shows him
forging a distinctive new mythical method that used the Greeks in a progressive
political way. The method allows him both to expose the needless deaths of
irresponsibly led ordinary soldiers, and also to pose metaphysical questions
about the reasons men invent to understand mortality. The last lines are a
response to one of the most famous challenges to the idea of benevolent deities,
expressed in Trojan Women by Hecuba herself (e.g. 884–6).
Before we explore Christopher’s writings further, we will benefit from laying out
the context within which he was operating, especially the political organization to
which he had given his allegiance, the CPGB. This had been founded in 1920.
Inspired by the Russian Revolution, and supported by a financial donation from
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Caudwell’s Greek and Latin Classics 241
Lenin, the four major political groups which combined to form the new CPGB
were the British Socialist Party (BSP), the Socialist Labour Party (SLP), the
Prohibition and Reform Party (PRP) and the Workers’ Socialist Federation (WSF).12
Although the CPGB never became a mass party like its equivalents in France
or Italy, it exerted an influence out of proportion to its size, partly because there
were always links between its members and those of the mainstream Labour
Party. Substantial numbers of prominent workers’ representatives, students and
intellectuals, moreover, did actually take out membership. By the time of the
General Strike in 1926, the party had over 10,000 members. Its first member of
parliament, William Gallacher, was elected for the mining district of West Fife
in Scotland in the 1931 general election, at which the party won nearly 75,000
votes nationally. During the next few years Christopher joined the party,
along with thousands of other young idealists. It offered the young people of
that generation ‘a bridge between the radical liberal tradition of the “freeborn
Englishman” and the twentieth-century struggle against fascism and decrepit
capitalism.’13 Christopher was one of several communist writers during the first
two decades of the party’s existence; they were influential among their ‘fellow-
traveller’ friends – the substantial number of communist sympathizers who
never actually became members, such as W. H. Auden, E. M. Forster and the
classical scholar and poet Louis MacNeice.
By 1936, as the first rumours of Joseph Stalin’s purges emerged, the CPGB
leaders had begun to be divided over the question of continuing support for
the Soviet Union. But the emergency in Spain diverted the world’s attention and
aroused the grass-roots members of the party to action. British communists
were crucial in the creation of the International Brigades which went to fight for
the republicans in the Civil War. After Christopher’s death, while the fascists
gained power in both Germany and Italy, the membership of the CPGB steadily
increased. At the end of the war, two communists were elected to parliament in
the general election. This was the historic moment at which the CPGB enjoyed
its greatest popularity; but, within a decade, lurid anti-Soviet propaganda,
alongside truthful accounts of Stalin’s dreadful crimes, sent the party into
terminal decline.
Looking back on the 1930s, the Marxist historian Christopher Hill himself
drew attention to the number of CPGB intellectuals for whom, he argued, it
had not been history but English literature that had been the original primary
interest – he was thinking of A. L. Morton, Edgell Rickword, Alick West, Douglas
Garman and Jack Lindsay.14 I do not deny the importance of English literature in
the intellectual development and publications of these people, and for other
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242 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
communists of their generation, such as the poet (and translator of Virgil)
Cecil Day Lewis, Stephen Spender and the English literature specialist Margot
Heinemann. But several, for example Alick West and Jack Lindsay, only came to
English literature via traditional and rigorous educations in the Greek and Latin
classics. Moreover, part of their Marxist understanding of culture was that
separating different linguistic traditions and historical periods – reading ancient
poetry in isolation from contemporary poetry, for example – was to impoverish
the transformative social potential of art. Edgell Rickword, who in 1919 went to
Pembroke College, Oxford, to read modern languages, had attended Colchester
Royal Grammar School, famous for its training in classical languages and
literature. Douglas Garman attended Caius College, Cambridge, graduating in
medieval and modern languages in 1923, but much of his specialist translation
work in later life was actually on Ancient Greek history.
There were, moreover, classical scholars working inside academia who were
committed and active party members, notably Benjamin Farrington and George
Derwent Thomson. In their cases, too, we often find a sensitivity to the continuity
of literary history, taking the form of much more developed interest in the
‘reception’ of ancient literature in the modern world than in most of the classical
scholars of the time. It is, therefore, possible to make a case, as I have with Henry
Stead in another volume,15 that British Marxist intellectual tradition, as founded
in the 1930s by committed revolutionaries, was built less on literature in English
than on literature in Latin and Greek. This has important implications for the
way that literature in that period is configured, since the classicism of this time
is routinely associated with the modernist poetry of Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot
and the other practitioners of the ‘radical right’ in literature.16 Their fame and
public prominence has effectively occluded the role of classics in early British
communism.
Among the substantial group of CPGB intellectuals, there were many who did
not operate within the ‘Ivory Tower’ but in the public world of letters. Classical
authors were still an important component of the advanced school curriculum,
and so many of the middle-class intellectuals attracted to communism had read
substantial amounts of ancient literature. One of the most brilliant of the young
communists killed in Spain, John Cornford, was the son of the distinguished and
prolific Cambridge classicist Francis MacDonald Cornford, himself a politically
engaged supporter of the working-class movement.17 John had undoubtedly
studied classical authors during his privileged education at Stowe School. But the
most promising communist intellectual killed in Spain was Christopher, whose
posthumous book Illusion and Reality (1937), despite all the obloquy it has been
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Caudwell’s Greek and Latin Classics 243
customary to pour on it since Terry Eagleton’s critique, has undoubtedly exerted
a considerable influence in British and also Continental left-wing circles.18 It was
mostly written in the summer of 1935.
Before the painstaking studies of Sullivan and Whetter, the standard view of
Christopher had long been that he was at worst a ‘maverick’ author,19 and at best
an autodidact who taught himself all he knew about the history and philosophy
of the world in the London Library in the 1930s. Yet education scarcely begins at
university. He was a member of the highly educated Roman Catholic middle
class. His family had literary interests and had worked in journalism for several
generations. He was unusually close to his father, Stanhope W. Sprigg, because
his mother died when he was only eight years old. Stanhope was superlatively
well read. He had attended the King’s Grammar School in Worcester before
beginning a career (as had at least two generations of Spriggs before him) in
journalism, editing, literary consultancy and translation. Stanhope was a member
of the Authors’ Club in Whitehall Court and the Savage Club on Adelphi Terrace.
He regularly renewed his reader’s card for the British Museum reading room.20
Stanhope’s first publication was Games and Amusements in the ‘Sunlight Year
Books’ series published at Port Sunlight by the Lever Brothers (1895). He was
best known as the editor of a popular illustrated children’s series Louis Wain’s
Annual (1901–21) and of The Windsor Magazine. But he was decidedly on the
left-wing end of the political spectrum, as his strongly worded letter urging the
formation of a National Union of Working Journalists in The Journalist reveals:
he talks of the ‘colossal stupidity’ of working journalists who expected that their
employers would ever raise their salaries without a fight, and urges that the
proposed union should accept only ‘bona fide pressmen’, whether ‘rich or poor,
high or low’, and exclude all newspaper proprietors.21 For many years Stanhope
Sprigg also offered his services, probably for no fee, as literary advisor to
the Society of Women Journalists.22 His commitment to progressive politics is
underlined by his publication of Lucy B. Stearns’ Two Schemes to Prevent
Pauperism (London, 1911); his keen interest in military matters and international
politics, at least during the First World War, is proved by his translation of The
New Bernhardi: ‘World Power or Downfall’ (London: C. A. Pearson, 1915); his
study of the Australian Labour politician and prime minister William Hughes in
W. M. Hughes, the Strong Man of Australia: With a message from Mr. Hughes
(London: Pearson, 1916); and his First World War pamphlet The British Blockade:
What it Means; How it Works (London: G. B. Dibblee, 1917).
But Stanhope’s regular paying job was as literary editor of the Daily Express
newspaper, owned by C. Arthur Pearson Ltd. He lost this position in 1922 after
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244 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
the death of Pearson, who was fond of him and had always protected his interests.
Stanhope was forced to accept the post of literary editor on the Yorkshire
Observer and moved north. Christopher, although required for financial reasons
to leave school prematurely, was keen to help his father, and found a job in
Bradford as a trainee reporter on the same paper. The books his father chose to
discuss, and which one of Christopher’s biographers suspects he helped his
father review, included works by Maxim Gorky, several on new technologies
including the wireless, and Dictionary of Socialism.23 Brought up by a union-
organizing father, and plunged into poverty suddenly in his teens, he was soon
politically disaffected, although he remained unaffiliated to any party or ideology,
and attached to the idea of the British Empire.
By 1925 he had moved back to London, to join his older brother Theo as a
freelance journalist and contributor to the new magazine Airways: aviation had
long been a family interest. Christopher also worked as assistant editor on the
journal of the Association for British Malaya. He began writing in several different
genres under a variety of pen names: his works on aviation were written as
St. John Lewis, Christopher Sprigg, Arthur Cave and (intriguingly) Icarus: the
telegram address he shared with his brother was ‘Ikaros, Estrand, London’.24 He
published several books on flying, but by the early 1930s was bored and frustrated,
remarking to a close friend that he felt alienated by the ‘the conventionally
minded bourgeois with a certain ability for superficial journalism’ among whom
he spent his days.25 He lost his religious faith altogether; he read philosophy,
psychology and anthropology voraciously. He wrestled with Plato through his
identification with the questing, philosophical hero of Charles Morgan’s novel
The Fountain (1932).26 He was a rebellious and intellectual man who had
not found his cause in life. He increasingly turned to creative writing, especially
poetry and detective novels, some of which were quite successful and are still
read.27 Depressed by the worldwide economic slump and the rise of anti-Semitism
in London, he did not fight to save the aeronautical publishing business he had
shared with his brother. And, in 1934, he began to read the Marxist classics.
His first sustained encounter with Marxism may have been through Viewpoint,
a Croydon-based literary review which ran for a few months in 1934, before being
absorbed in October of that year into the Left Review, the new organ of the British
section of the Writers’ International.28 But the work which most transformed his
politics and world view was John Strachey’s classic communist polemic, The
Coming Struggle for Power (1932). For Christopher, any lingering affection for
British imperialism or the British armed forces was impossible to retain by the
end of this volume, which concludes with a rousing exhortation:
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There is no force on earth which can long prevent the workers of the
world from building a new and stable civilization for themselves upon
the basis of the common ownership of the means of production. Nor is
there anything in the geographical, industrial, cultural, or economic position
of Great Britain which forbids the British workers from taking a decisive
part in the establishment of world communism. The realization of this new
stage in the history of mankind is not in doubt. But the immediate future
of all humanity rests to no small degree in the hands of the workers of
Great Britain.29
Christopher was persuaded. He had discovered his intellectual position and
his political cause. He soon joined the Communist Party in a conversion, which
his brother later said was almost overnight, ‘after being struck on the head while
observing a Mosley rally in Trafalgar Square.’30 He also joined the London
Library in St James’s Square and never looked back. He wrote ferociously
throughout the two and a half years remaining to him, planning to publish under
a new pen name, Christopher Caudwell (his mother’s maiden name), probably
to mark a break with his earlier political views and his serious commitment to
Marxism. Writing continuously, he moved in November 1935 to Poplar in Tower
Hamlets, East London, the traditional home of the radical dock workers who
made up most of the local branch of the Communist Party’s membership. At
least ten of the branch members were ‘coloured’, which heightened the importance
of fighting Oswald Mosley’s fascists.31
Calling himself simply ‘Chris Sprigg’, he was a very active party member,
selling the Daily Worker on street corners. He soon became treasurer and then
branch secretary. Christopher worked in isolation from the other CPGB
intellectuals of the time, who were mostly university graduates. The sole
opportunity for more contact came in early 1936, when he attended some
lectures on ‘Marxism and Literature’ held at Marx House, Clerkenwell Green.
The course was run by Alick West and Douglas Garman, graduates of Cambridge
University and Trinity College Dublin. respectively. West dimly recalls, in his
own autobiography, a young man with clear and intelligent eyes, who in a
discussion after one of the sessions said that he thought they were not thinking
enough about the nature of language in considering the social character of
literature.32 Another student on the course recalls that Christopher had to give
up attending on account of his duties selling the Daily Worker at the entrance to
the Underground.33 Nobody else attending the course seems to have had the
slightest idea that Comrade Sprigg was engaged in such extensive researches of
his own, and there was no further contact between them.
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246 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
But Christopher was, in fact, planning a large number of compositions, as his
list in a surviving notebook reveals. Enticing titles of novels include Plato in
Syracuse and Tiberius as well as Filthy Rags and Boom and Slump; proposed
poems include ‘Prometheus’ as well as ‘The Revolutionaries’. Plays and books of
social and literary criticism are also promised.34 But he kept his writing life
hidden from his Poplar comrades. One later remembered him as not ‘quite one
of us’, although they ‘would hang on his every word’.35 In his unperformed script
The Way the Wind Blows, derived from a story he had written earlier called ‘We
All Try’, a Jewish working-class communist tells a middle-class comrade that he
is not wanted: ‘The workers distrust your sort, deboshed intellectuals trying to
save their souls! If you really want to do propaganda, go back to your Mayfair
drawing-room . . .’36 But Christopher did not go back to his bourgeois life in
journalism; the Poplar branch of the CPGB staunchly supported the Spanish
republicans. Christopher left for Spain on 11 December 1936 (probably in
response to John Cornford’s recruitment campaign). He died two months later.
A telling epitaph upon him was pronounced by Jason Gurney, a sculptor from
Norfolk who survived Jarama:
Spriggy . . . was an exceedingly modest, pleasant man whom I knew simply
as a private of infantry like anybody else. I only learned subsequently that he
had written five books on aviation technology, three books on philosophy
and economics, together with Illusion and Reality which still remains one of
the important books on Marxist aesthetics. In addition, he had produced
seven detective stories and yet, when he was killed on the first day at Jarama,
he was still under thirty.37
How much more might ‘Spriggy’ have achieved if he had, like Gurney, been
wounded rather than killed on that February day in 1937?
There is no doubt that Christopher’s reading in philosophy, psychology and
anthropology mostly dated from about 1932, but he was already highly educated
in both literature and technology. He was certainly an accomplished classicist.
His elementary education was at St Dominic’s Roman Catholic Preparatory
School in Bognor Regis, where he would have been introduced to Latin. He left
St Dominic’s in the summer of 1919 to enrol as a boarder at a London school,
then called Ealing Priory School. It had opened in 1902 and occupied Orchard
Dene in Montpelier Road in Ealing. He would have been taught a great deal of
Latin, and at least some Greek.
The Benedictine curriculum goes all the way back to St Theodore, a Greek
convert to Christianity who came to Britain with Benedict in 669 CE and became
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archbishop. He brought with him Greek as well as Latin classics, and a conviction
that the great pagan authors had much to offer Christianity; he therefore set up
schools for these learned languages in various parts of the country.38 There is no
contradiction between the philosophy that underlay Christopher’s schooling
and his profound sense of an ancient pagan world of art and culture lying forever
just beneath the surface of the modern world, which comes over in his early
short poem, ‘In the Aegean’:
We passed that day on the Aegean deep,
Those lovely children of the Cyclades,
And thought of all the gracious forms that sleep,
Prisoned in rock, beside those tuneful seas,
Never to be released! for in that dust
The enchanted chisels of Phidias rust.39
A traditional approach to classics, in a Victorian poetic idiom inherited
from Arnold, Browning and Tennyson, with the conventional praise of Phidias’
sculpture, reveals Christopher’s typical middle-class education and veneration of
classical art. He also asks the reader to work slightly, to decode from the reference
to the Cyclades a specific pointer to the island of Paros, source of famous marble.
The choice of the idea of classical form – the famous sculptor Phidias’ ‘graceful
forms that sleep’ – perhaps reveals Christopher’s mind, even at this early, pre-
Marxist period, sensing the importance of inherited forms concealed forever
within ideology and culture.
With his Benedictine teachers, Christopher would have studied composition
into Greek and Latin verse as well as Greek and Latin prose. His early poems in
English also include versions of favourite schoolboy Latin classics, such as
Catullus’ poem no. 5, ‘Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus’.40 Earlier we saw his
rhymed, taut translation of Crinagoras’ Hellenistic Greek epigram on Seleukos;
two further translations of epigrams from the Greek Anthology show him
wrestling – uncomfortably – with the challenge of reproducing the dactylic
rhythm and form of the Greek elegiac couplet in English:
O would I were a red rose that blooming where your feet go
I might be plucked by your fingers and laid in your breast of snow
and
O would I were as the wind that, walking where the seas flow
You might lay your bosom and receive me as I blow.41
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This technical interest in metrical form prefigures the work of the man
who became the unquestioned pioneer in terms of developing a systematic
socio-political approach to the metre of English verse, rooted in prehistoric
rhythms of labour and ritual, in his study of the rhythms of bourgeois poetry in
Illusion and Reality.42
In the 1920s, before he encountered Marxism, Christopher’s poems share
several features of the use of classical myth and literature by the famous modernists
of the time. A telling example is his early poem ‘Agamemnon and the poets’:
(Always just past the next hill
To be reached early in the next year).
I press with longing on until
That hour when I no more shall hear
The nightingales, but be their lips
And shriek and swing among the trees,
And be the body’s flesh that slips
Round the red bath with loosened knees.43
This is clearly a response to T. S. Eliot’s ‘Sweeney among the Nightingales’ of 1918,
in which Sweeney negotiates the barbarism of modern civilization in a café. Eliot
begins with an epigraph consisting of Agamemnon’s death cry as he is struck by
Clytemnestra in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon, and ends with these two stanzas:
The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And sang within the bloody wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
Yet Christopher has bypassed Eliot in order to go back to Aeschylus (the bath in
which Agamemnon died does not feature in Eliot’s poem). He has used the
mythical method made fashionable by Eliot, but adapted it to say something
more personal and more optimistic about the experience of attempting to write
poetry. He is partly figuring himself as Cassandra, whose voice and stance are
compared by Aeschylus in her prophetic singing to a nightingale (1140–9), as
Christopher clearly knew. But he is a Cassandra-in-waiting, hoping one day to
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shriek and swing himself in the trees. He presses on, waiting for the time when he
does not just hear the nightingales, but actually becomes their lips, at the same
time as he becomes the flesh of the dying Agamemnon. The Benedictine-trained
Christopher is, in effect, erasing the Platonic–Catholic distinction between mind
and body, matter and art, but through a type of poetry otherwise very much of
its 1920s era.
The Oresteia, the trilogy of plays kicked off by Agamemnon, haunted
Christopher. When he later wrote about changes in the social function of language
over time, he referred to the ancient Greek language as the ‘feeling-tone of reality’
expressed by ‘the “god” of the early Greek tribunal’,44 by which he meant Apollo
and Athena in Eumenides. It was to the trilogy of plays kicked off by the
Agamemnon, the Oresteia, that Christopher turned later – in the early 1930s –
when writing his longest and most ambitious poem, Orestes (originally Orestes in
Harley Street). Any relationship between his work and the Agamemnon translation
by Louis MacNeice, published in late 1936 (after a November production in
London by the Group Theatre45), is probably coincidental; although MacNeice did
know many Marxists and communists through W. H. Auden, Christopher, as we
have seen, scarcely knew any other party intellectuals or their contacts. There had,
however, been a few productions of the Oresteia or parts of it during his teens and
early twenties. It is impossible he did not know that in February 1922, a few
months before he left the Ealing school, the Chiswick Education Committee had
organized a performance of Agamemnon and the final scene of Libation-Bearers
as a matinee at the nearby Chiswick Empire, acted by Cambridge University
students. They had at the same time shown a film of the 1921 stage production in
Cambridge.46
The teenage years spent with his father in dismal Bradford lodgings were
significant in Christopher’s intellectual development. His job required him to
report on criminal incidents, drunkenness, accidents and labour unrest in the
factories of the area, which exposed him to a very different stratum of society
from the genteel townspeople of his early years on the south coast, in literary
London and at boarding school. He now devoted himself to improving the
knowledge of classics he had already acquired at school and used it to explore
both his literary and sexual urges. In a sonnet he wrote on his seventeenth
birthday, which fuses his desire for both aesthetic and sexual potency, there are
awkward references to ‘Helen’s breasts’, to the crowning of Julius Caesar and to
the ancient oracle at Memphis.47
His years in Bradford and before joining the CPGB are illuminated by two
prose novels, both written at around the time he discovered Marxism in 1934–5.
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250 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
We All Try, which has not been published, centres on a disillusioned middle-
class man in his twenties named Brian Mallock. He feels parasitical on society
and that his life has no meaning. He is drawn to the cause of the working class,
and after a divorce and problems with alcohol eventually finds some kind of
contentment working in a cobbler’s shop.48 This My Hand (published in 1936),
by far his most profound novel, features a fictionalized female version of
Christopher’s younger self in Celia Harrison, the heroine of the first part. Celia
is the clever daughter of a widowed Berkshire vicar. Her father teaches her Latin
and Greek as well as geometry, French, history, geography and literature.49
Having moved with her father at the age of fourteen to a parish in Tinford, an
industrial town in Yorkshire, she becomes involved in social issues and leaves
school. As a lover of poetry, she attends the university extension lectures at the
Mechanics’ Institute, and begins to review books for the local paper. She has an
intellectually questing nature, and becomes dissatisfied with the answers she
feels she has been offered to the world’s problems, in due course joining the local
Spiritualists.
All the young people in the novel are struggling with the epistemological and
metaphysical crisis that afflicted the young people who had survived the First
World War, and Christopher’s later antipathy to Spiritualism suggests he may
have had direct personal experience of it. Another avatar of Christopher in the
novel is to be found in the enigmatic figure of Charles Firth, a rich, nervous
youth. He strikes the novel’s anti-hero, Ian Venning (with whom he became
friends in the trenches), as strange: Firth ‘used always to keep a volume of Greek
poetry in his pocket and would at intervals escape into it from externals’.50 This
My Hand also owes a substantial debt to Greek tragedy. It contains a much more
heavyweight analysis of the moral issues of crime and punishment than we
might expect in the average crime detective novel. One of the characters, Salmon,
discusses murder, atonement, scapegoats and sacrifice, and has been described
as ‘a salesman with a philosophical bent’, who ‘acts as a kind of “chorus” in this
modern tragedy’.51
Yet, despite such noisy clues, the scale of the classical influence upon
Christopher’s intellectual development has never been acknowledged. Aristotle
and Plato do not feature at all in Pawling’s study of the development of his
dialectical theory of literature.52 Even Francis Mulhern, who praised the
‘fascinating study of Greek and Roman culture’ he discovered in Illusion and
Reality, and stressed Christopher’s discussion of religion in the city state,
neglected his engagement with Aristotelian aesthetics.53 But Christopher’s
competence at handling authors who had written 2,000 years before in Latin and
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Greek shine through both his poetry and his critical studies. His late and only
overtly communist poem, ‘Heil Baldwin!’ (1936), a satire on the Anglo-German
Naval Agreement of 1935, is framed as a pastiche of the Aeneid, opening ‘Arms
and the man I sing’.54 Sullivan argues that the idea for his verse drama Orestes
was partly inspired not by Freud’s Oedipal complex but by the psychoanalytical
Charles Baudouin’s thoughts on how the Platonic theory of ideas retained a
vestigial presence in culture centuries after the disappearance of the material
circumstances which had produced it.55
It is true that classical authors are not prominent in Studies in a Dying Culture,
or the essays later collected and published as Further Studies in a Dying Culture
(1949), because their focus was ‘bourgeois literature’ (H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw,
D. H. Lawrence), and their theoretical approaches profoundly informed – as
Bounds has shown – by Russian critics of bourgeois art (Nikolai Bukharin,
Maxim Gorky, Georgi Plekhanov, Andrei Zhdanov and Karl Radek).56 But Greek
and Latin authors are central to Christopher’s more conceptual approach in
Illusion and Reality. It was to Greek myth and religion that he turned when
seeking to understand how art arises, and especially to the famous classicist Jane
Ellen Harrison’s ritualist theory of myth, which has been called the biggest single
influence on Christopher’s entire aesthetics.57 In Illusion and Reality he discusses
ancient and more recent poets alongside one another, as voices in an ongoing
transhistorical dialogue: natural phenomena, in poetry, are social signs, ‘the rose
of Keats, of Anacreon, of Hafiz, of Ovid, of Jules Laforgue’; poetry expresses a
dialectic between instinct and environment, ‘rooted in real concrete social life –
English, French, or Athenian’.58
Above all, it was to the debate between Plato and Aristotle on the nature and
function of art that he intuitively took his quest for a new, all-embracing, social
way of thinking about literature. The most overlooked section of Illusion and
Reality is chapter 2, ‘The Death of Mythology’, which is essentially a study of
Aristotle’s Poetics. E. P. Thompson rides roughshod over the study of the Poetics in
his otherwise penetrating study of Christopher’s legacy.59 One of the problems
here is that people have read Christopher through the admiring exposition of the
classical scholar George Thomson, perhaps understandably, since Thomson was a
staunch defender of the dead critic at the time of the earlier attacks led by Maurice
Cornforth.60 But Thomson’s own work on ancient Greek literature is much less
philosophically and aesthetically engaged, and far more centred on anthropological
and sociological models of the evolution of poetry from primitive magic and
ritual. This has resulted in the failure of most critics, except perhaps David
Margolies,61 to recognize that Christopher’s fundamental thesis in Illusion and
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252 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Reality is inspired by the argument between Plato and Aristotle on the topic of the
relationship between the ideas, the empirically discernible world (reality) and
the worlds conjured up in art (mimesis). This battle of the philosophical titans of
the fourth century bce represented a sophisticated stage in the ancient evolution
of literary theory. It has left magic and ritual far behind, and discusses mimetic art
as a category including sculpture, painting, poetry and theatre, all of which, as
it proposes, offer imitations, in paint and stone or words and music, of things
apprehended through sense in life. For Plato, these imitations, however pleasurable,
are bad for humans psychologically; for Aristotle they are pleasurable, and
beautiful, and can offer two distinct psychological and social benefits. It does not
matter that they are representations of things in the real world rather than being
real themselves. And, in a crucial paragraph, Christopher writes that ‘Aristotle’s
theory of mimesis, as our analysis will show, so far from being superficial, is
fundamental for an understanding of the function and method of art.’62
Margolies is surely correct in commenting here that what Aristotle ‘means is
that art’s function is accomplished, not by a “pure” emotional reorganization, but
by emotional reorganization in regard to the reality with which art deals’.63
Christopher is here linking two parts of Aristotle’s theorization of poetry. The
first is that all art is fundamentally mimetic of reality, as stated in Aristotle’s
Poetics chapter 4:
Poetry seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them lying deep in
our nature. First, the instinct of imitation is implanted in man from
childhood, one difference between him and other animals being that he is
the most imitative of living creatures, and through imitation learns his
earliest lessons; and no less universal is the pleasure felt in things imitated.
We have evidence of this in the facts of experience.
The second Aristotelian principle which Christopher assimilates to his Marxism
is that it is the aim specifically of tragic art to produce a socially beneficial
function by somehow addressing the painful emotions aroused in tragedy
(Poetics chapter 6): tragedy effects, through the arousal of the emotions of pity
and fear, the release or relief from such emotions. Christopher has already
demonstrated how attentively he has read the Poetics in his insistence that ‘the
categories of literature are not eternal, any more than the classification of
systematic biology; both must change, as the objects of systematisation evolve
and alter in the number and characteristics of their species’.64 This teleological
model of the rise and evolution of genres is almost identical to Aristotle’s
teleological description of the emergence and development of tragedy and
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comedy in the Poetics. But there are other things that have impressed Christopher
about Aristotle, especially his analysis of literature as a social product – a body of
cultural data to be analysed for what it can tell us in its own right, rather than as
an expression of the individual writer’s subjectivity, or even the influence it
might have had on an individual subjectivity:
Aristotle, with his extraverted mind turned firmly on the object, was
more interested in the created thing, e.g. the play – than in the man who
was influenced by it or who produced it. Thus his angle of attack is
aesthetically correct; he does not approach literature like a psychologist or a
psycho-analyst.65
I need to stress, of course, that there were numerous other influences on
Christopher besides Aristotle, and these extended beyond the writings of Marx
and Engels themselves to thinkers including, most importantly, I. A. Richards
and Bukharin. But Aristotle’s Poetics shaped the very form taken by the questions
Christopher asked himself, as well as the answers that he formulated.
David Margolies concludes in The Function of Literature that the British
criticism of the 1930s, despite the important contributions of Ralph Fox and
Alick West, ‘did not succeed in producing a Marxist aesthetic’. The questions they
did not ask, but Christopher did, included ‘what is literature?’, ‘what is its social
function?’ and ‘where does it fit into the human world?’66 In the case of the first
two questions, Christopher found the model for them in Aristotle’s theories that
literature develops across time according to contingent historical circumstances
and that it is mimetic. When it comes to the second question, he found not
only the question in Aristotle but also the answer – that literature’s function is
educative and that it affects beneficial emotional change. What he added to the
Aristotelian model, of course, was the analytical category of class and the
principle of the dialectical interpenetration between matter and the immaterial
content of human minds.
Christopher’s thoughts moved independently of the regular tramlines of the
contemporary debate on classics. He certainly did not align himself with the elite
Pound/Eliot view of the inherent superiority of Greek and Roman culture, as
expressed in Eliot’s essay advocating the traditional classical curriculum in
‘Modern Education and the Classics’ in 1932.67 The egalitarianism of his poem
‘Classic Encounter’ and its unheroic dead hoplites underlines his different
approach. But nor did he ever suggest – as did some of his peers – that using
classical literature might be to foster links with cultural property so thoroughly
hijacked by the ruling classes as to call its place on the socialist agenda into
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254 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
question. His independent position is thrown into relief by comparison with the
revulsion against traditional classics and all it stood for as expressed in most
other left-leaning writers of the 1930s.68 An important note was struck by Day
Lewis in his article ‘An Expensive Education’ in Left Review for February 1937,
when he attacked Latin as a bourgeois instrument for the retention of power.
Gavin Ewart’s poetic voice in 1939 claimed a desperation to grow up and quit the
academy, ‘To go, to leave the classics and the buildings, / So tall and false and
intricate with spires.’69
MacNeice, despite being a university lecturer in Classics, professed himself
happy in ‘Out of the Picture’ that the archaic poet Pindar was dead and gone,
and refused in Autumn Journal section XIII (1939) to defend the classical
snobberies:70
We learned that a gentleman never misplaces his accents . . .
That the boy on the Modern side is merely a parasite
But the classical student is bred to the purple, his training in syntax
Is also a training in thought
And even in morals; if called to the bar or the barracks
He always will do what he ought,
And knowledge, besides, should be prized for the sake of knowledge:
Oxford crowded the mantelpiece with gods –
Scaliger, Heinsius, Dindorf, Bentley and Wilamowitz –
As we learned our genuflections for Honour Mods.
Such breast-beating about the exclusivity of classics seems to have bypassed
Christopher altogether. Perhaps this was because he was forced to leave school
early; perhaps it was because he had been earning his own living since his teens;
perhaps it was because of his isolation from the fashionable literary ‘scene’.
But perhaps it was most of all to do with his respect for the cultural discussions
in Russia that he would have heard about in the Communist Party. For in Russia,
despite the similar place that classics had held in the elite and reactionary
curriculum under the Tsars, the leading lights of the cultural revolution in 1917,
above all Anatoly Lunacharsky, had insisted on the importance of Ancient
Greece and Rome in the teeth of opposition from more extreme members of the
organization established to plan culture in the new Soviets, Proletkult.71 Lenin,
influenced by his friendship with Lunacharsky, famously enshrined ‘everything
of value in the more than two thousand years of the development of human
culture’ in the fourth item of the resolution he drew up for the First All-Russian
Congress of Proletkult, which met in Moscow from 5 to 12 October 1920.
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Marxism has won its historic significance as the ideology of the revolutionary
proletariat because, far from rejecting the most valuable achievements of
the bourgeois epoch, it has, on the contrary, assimilated and refashioned
everything of value in the more than two thousand years of the development
of human thought and culture. Only further work on this basis and in this
direction, inspired by the practical experience of the proletarian dictatorship
as the final stage in the struggle against every form of exploitation, can be
recognized as the development of a genuine proletarian culture.72
Christopher quoted this when writing to Elizabeth Beard about his project for a
book called Studies in a Dying Culture. He felt the need to immerse himself
in the entire cultural history of the world, including the Roman Republic and
the French fin-de-siècle, if he were to understand the historical changes taking
place under his contemporaries’ noses: in imagining a richer culture in the
socialist future, he writes that he has taken profoundly to heart ‘Lenin’s remark,
“Communism becomes an empty phrase, a mere façade, and the Communist a
mere bluffer, if he has not worked over in his consciousness the whole inheritance
of human knowledge.” ’73 Given his love of and immersion in classics, and
the exceptional promise of the dialectical and class-conscious Aristotelianism of
his theory in Illusion and Reality, Christopher’s death before he could develop
his full potential was a particularly dreadful loss to those of us who deny that
the Greek and Latin classics are inherently any more reactionary than any
other literature. He fully deserves to be rescued from what E. P. Thompson
called in another context ‘the enormous condescension of posterity’.74 I feel it is
Christopher himself speaking when he concludes his Orestes with Athena
ascending on the theatrical crane, saying as she departs: ‘Well, I had quite a lot
more still to say.’75
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15
Staging the Haitian Revolution in London:
Britain, the West Indies and C. L. R. James’s
Toussaint Louverture
Justine McConnell
On 16 March 1936, an actor onstage at London’s Westminster Theatre proclaimed
‘Everyone talks of Toussaint. Who is Toussaint?’1 The ‘actor’ was C. L. R. James,
renowned Marxist theorist and author of the play being performed; his presence
on stage had been necessitated only hours before by the absence of the usual
actor Rufus E. Fennell. Yet James’s question, or, more accurately, the question of
the character he portrayed, General Macoya, is an apt one. An officer in the
Spanish army, Macoya announces himself (in a comically repeated refrain) as
‘the subject of three kings, the King of Congo, who is father of all the blacks, the
King of France, who is my father, and the King of Spain, who is my mother’ (59,
64, 66). By the end of the play, San Domingo (now Haiti) will be free; Toussaint
will have led the slave revolt that brought this freedom, and will have died
imprisoned by the French as a result; and the new leader of Haiti, Jean-Jacques
Dessalines, will rip the white from the French flag just before the final curtain
falls:
(Pointing to the black) This is for the blacks, and this (pointing to the red) is
for our mulatto brothers. Black and red. But this (pointing to the white) I
trample under my feet. (Frenzied cheering.) Henceforth, this is our flag!
(133)2
This play, written by C. L. R. James four years prior to his far more famous work
on the same topic, The Black Jacobins: Toussaint L’Ouverture and the San Domingo
Revolution (1938), was entitled Toussaint Louverture (1934). Its subtitle was the
oft-repeated ascription of the Haitian Revolution as ‘the only successful slave
revolt in history’. Performed in 1936, the script was then believed lost until
Christian Høgsbjerg, researching his PhD on James in 2005, stumbled across it in
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Staging the Haitian Revolution in London 257
the papers of Jock Haston at the University of Hull.3 Prior to this discovery, the
existence of the play was well known, but it had frequently been elided with James’s
later play, co-written with Dexter Lyndersay as an adaptation of James’s highly
renowned history of the revolution, The Black Jacobins (1938).4 As a result, a
number of works of earlier scholarship cite from James’s play, referring to it either
as The Black Jacobins or as Toussaint Louverture, and as having been performed in
1936 or in 1967, but when specific quotations or references are given it is always to
the later co-authored play, The Black Jacobins, that they should rightly refer.5
Toussaint L’Ouverture has frequently been referred to as ‘the black Spartacus’.
In 1846, for example, George Dibdin Pitt had staged his blackface minstrel play,
Toussaint L’Ouverture, or The Black Spartacus at the Britannia Theatre in London.
But it was Laveaux, the French governor-general of Saint-Domingue, who first
gave Toussaint this epithet when he referred to him as ‘that black Spartacus
prophesied by Raynal, whose destiny is to avenge the outrages upon his race’.6
The work referred to here is Abbé Raynal’s L’Histoire philosophique et politique
des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes (The
Philosophical and Political History of the Establishments and Commerce of
the Europeans in the Two Indies) (1770), which was not only considered by the
abolitionist Thomas Clarkson to be invaluable in promoting the cause of
abolition in England in the 1770s,7 but is also directly cited in James’s play itself.
(He opens his book again. He reads, scarcely looking at the page, so often has
he read the passage.)
‘A courageous chief only is wanted. Where is he? That great man whom
Nature owes to her vexed, oppressed, and tormented children. Where is he?
He will appear, doubt it not. [. . .] Everywhere people will bless the name of
the hero, who shall have re-established the rights of the human race.’
(69–70)
James would cite from Abbé Raynal again, and discuss Toussaint’s repeated reading
of the work, in The Black Jacobins.8 Indeed, John R. Beard’s 1853 The Life of Toussaint
L’Ouverture also includes not only mention of, but also an illustration depicting,
Toussaint reading Raynal’s work, and, when this was republished in the United
States in 1863, the volume also included the first English translation of Toussaint’s
autobiography.9 The play emphasizes the facts, not only that Toussaint is the only
one of the rebel leaders who is literate (62), but also that, in addition to Abbé Raynal,
he carries a copy of Caesar’s Commentaries with him.10 Tellingly, Macoya mistakes
the book Toussaint is reading for the Bible (62), thereby suggesting that Julius
Caesar’s accounts of war are of more use to him than a religious text.
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258 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
James’s original play, Toussaint Louverture, is quite different from the later
one, and was a milestone for British theatre. It also occupied a very different
space in the rapidly changing global history of the mid-twentieth century. For,
while Toussaint Louverture was performed in 1936, with the British Empire still
desperately clinging to life and, most importantly, with the Second Italo-
Ethiopian War still going on, the later play, The Black Jacobins, was first staged in
post-Independence Nigeria in 1967 at the University of Ibadan. It is the former
play on which this chapter will focus, considering the ways in which the play
utilized classical forms and literature both to depict that time of momentous
social change in the Caribbean and across the world and to urge social reform
and racial equality in 1930s Britain.
C. L. R. James arrived in England from Trinidad in 1932, and by 1933 was
living in London and had become a member of a Trotskyist group. Prior to
leaving Trinidad, he had begun campaigning against imperialism and in favour
of independence for Caribbean nations. It was within this context of his own
burgeoning socialism and anti-imperialism that he began writing Toussaint
Louverture. The play, written and staged as it was in England but set in Haiti, and
protesting against European oppression of the West Indies both past and present,
demonstrates the international scope of the communist struggle for social
reform during the 1930s. By the time the play was staged in 1936, its anti-
colonialist message had been brought into even sharper focus by what was then
known as the ‘Abyssinian War’ (and later as the Italo-Ethiopian War just
mentioned), when Italy, under the leadership of Mussolini, invaded Ethiopia and
thereby prompted the Abyssinian Crisis within the League of Nations. As Stuart
Hall has remarked, Italy’s ‘invasion spawned the League for the Protection of
Ethiopia and Toussaint L’Ouverture; the play that James wrote and Robeson
performed was staged under the auspices of the league at a small theatre in
London’.11
Not only that, but James, alongside George Padmore, Amy Ashwood-Garvey
and Jomo Kenyatta, soon formed the International African Friends of Abyssinia,
who became highly influential in the Pan-African movement. James was
vociferous in his opposition not only to Italy’s actions in Ethiopia, but to the
European response to them that emanated from the Committee of Five appointed
by the League of Nations to report on the threat of war. Of their proposals, he
wrote, with thick sarcasm,
Thus the local population being disarmed will be taught the proper respect
due by black men to white in imperialist Africa.12
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A similar sentiment will be echoed in Toussaint Louverture when the British
officer, General Maitland, will group white people against black, over and above
national animosities:
I want to speak to you of a matter which concerns all of us who rule in these
colonies. I am speaking now, not as an Englishman, not as an enemy of
France, but as a white man and one with the same colonial interests as yours.
This General Toussaint Louverture, at the head of his black army, is a danger
to us all.
(83)
The play, as the reviewer for The Stage regretted,13 does not allow any European
character to emerge in a positive light; given the historical events that the drama
retells, this is scarcely surprising. Combined with the contemporary world events
that James was witnessing, it is clear that, for him, anti-imperialist action must be
undertaken by the proletariat. Imperialism, in other words, is a clear battleground
within the class struggle:
Workers of Europe, peasants and workers of Africa and of India, sufferers
from imperialism all over the world, all anxious to help the Ethiopian people,
organise yourselves independently, and by your own sanctions, the use of
your own power, assist the Ethiopian people. Their struggle is only now
beginning.
Let us fight against not only Italian imperialism, but the other robbers and
oppressors, French and British imperialism.14
The parallels with the Haitian Revolution are clear, and it is surely no coincidence
that James’s play (more than many others on the topic) foregrounds the
competing imperial powers, which, in their treachery and self-interest, do indeed
merge into a scarcely distinguishable group of imperialists. Raphael Dalleo has
argued that, in addition to the Abyssinian War, which only began after the date
James claims to have finished writing the play,15 the US occupation of Haiti
(1915–34) was in his mind as he wrote.16 This argument could be supported by
the presence in the play of Tobias Lear, the American consul, who is otherwise a
slightly surprising inclusion. Furthermore, it is worth noting that Sergei
Eisenstein, whose efforts to make a film on the subject of the Haitian Revolution
will be discussed later, explicitly identified the American occupation of Haiti as
a block to his progress in finding support for the project in Hollywood: ‘When I
was in America I wanted to make a film of this rising, but it was impossible:
nowadays Haiti is virtually a colony of the United States.’17
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260 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
At the time of the revolution, the land that became Haiti was the French
colony of Saint-Domingue; yet the British powers in Jamaica and the Spanish
powers on the eastern side of the island, which later became the Dominican
Republic, were also involved. While the Haitian Revolution drew inspiration
from the French Revolution, the revolt that Toussaint led also compelled the
French revolutionaries to confront the wider-reaching consequences of their
political actions. Despite abolishing slavery in 1794, Napoleon restored it in 1802,
and only two weeks later, on 6 June that year, Toussaint was arrested, transported
to France and imprisoned there. He died the following April, but the revolution
which he had led was not defeated, and on 1 January 1804 Dessalines declared
the former colony independent, and reclaimed its former Arawak name of Haiti.
James’s socialist awakening coincided with his arrival in Britain – not by
chance – and it is as a social and political theorist that he is most renowned. His
fervent anti-Stalinist Marxism, and his passionate advocacy of Pan-Africanism,
has been the subject of much scholarly work, to the relative neglect of his creative
writing. What is surprising about such neglect is that it disregards the important
Marxist notion of the revolutionary responsibility of the artist. This responsibility
is all too evident in Toussaint Louverture, which was clearly written as part of
James’s push for social reform. Indeed, only the year before the play was staged,
Georgi Dimitrov had foregrounded the need for the struggle against fascism to
be fought in the cultural as well as the political sphere, when he addressed the
Seventh Congress of the Communist International in August 1935.18 It is clear,
then, that the affinities with Soviet communism should not be underestimated,
and that these connections highlight the poignant alignment of the abolition of
slavery with free elections, freedom of speech and the rule of law as examples of
‘proto-communist’ social progress triggered by popular radicalism.19
While David Scott is right to identify the ‘mythopoetic character’ of The Black
Jacobins (the history), and his declared interest in the work ‘less for its facts than
for its literary-political project’ is an exceptionally rewarding one,20 the
publication of Toussaint Louverture invites fresh examination of this literary
work as a work of drama. Indeed, years before Toussaint Louverture was
rediscovered, Kara Rabbitt had already identified the creative and performative
impulse of James in The Black Jacobins, when she discussed his creation of ‘a
dramatic figure of the historical one of Toussaint-Louverture’ and the way in
which he imposes an ‘Aristotelian tragic structure’ on the work.21 Stuart Hall, too,
had observed of The Black Jacobins (1938) that ‘to imagine this history, James
himself had classical Greek tragedy and Shakespeare at the very forefront of his
mind at every turn’.22
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Staging the Haitian Revolution in London 261
The play resonates with classical antiquity on a number of levels. It is not only
James’s classical engagement that comes to the fore, but also the well-attested
classical education and reading of Toussaint himself, as we have seen.
Furthermore, discussions of slavery, both for and against, had long since turned
to antiquity to support their arguments, and the identification of Toussaint with
Spartacus was commonplace. But James extends the model more broadly, and
along specifically literary lines, when he compares Toussaint to ‘Prometheus,
Hamlet, Lear, Phèdre, Ahab’, before concluding that ‘Toussaint is in a lesser
category’ on account of the strategic error (rather than the ‘moral weakness’)
which caused his downfall.23 James’s choice of tragic heroes here is evidence of
his recourse to ‘the Western canon’ as a whole, and to notions of tragedy derived
from Aristotle but extended to other times and media, yet the mention of
Prometheus is particularly telling. As Edith Hall has shown, Prometheus became
a prominent motif in the abolition movement at the end of the eighteenth
century and the start of the nineteenth.24 He was also adopted in wider spheres
of revolutionary politics, not least by Karl Marx, who was pictured as a chained
Prometheus being tortured by an eagle of Prussian censorship.25 At a time when
James was extensively reading the works of Trotsky, and from there tracing the
roots of socialist thought back through Lenin to Marx, the Greek hero whom he
had first admired in his reading of Aeschylus would have been an appealing
figure through which to view Toussaint anew.26
James’s classical education had been rigorous and traditional in the way of the
‘sound colonial education’ referenced by Derek Walcott in ‘The Schooner Flight’
(1979), but he continually downplayed the influence of such formal modes of
learning. As Emily Greenwood has suggested, equally important to him was his
more autodidactic approach, facilitated by his family, who instilled in him a love
of literature. James’s discussion of his education in Beyond a Boundary (1963)
suggests a rejection of the colonially imposed curriculum combined with a
simultaneous embrace of the European canon, from the works of classical
antiquity to those of Victorian England.27 While it is James’s works of the 1950s
and 1960s that develop an analogy between Trinidadian society and Athenian
democracy, as Greenwood has illuminatingly discussed,28 it is worth considering
Toussaint Louverture in the light of its engagement with classics as well.
In fact, James’s own brand of Marxism was, as the philosopher Cornelius
Castoriadis has discussed, not only fervently anti-Stalin (a direction which led
him to Trotskyism, in the first instance), but was also significantly informed by
his views of Athenian democracy.29 For James, classical antiquity had much to
teach the modern world about just and democratic society, as his 1956 essay
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262 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
‘Every Cook Can Govern: A Study of Democracy in Ancient Greece’ exemplifies.30
Of importance to James in this essay is the way in which the winners of the Great
Dionysia were decided by the people, rather than – as he imagines they would be
in the modern era – by ‘professors, successful writers, and critics’.31 Indeed, for
James, a cricket correspondent and passionate enthusiast, it is that sport which
comes closest to the ritual of the drama festivals in ancient Athens:
Once every year for four days the tens of thousands of Athenian citizens sat
in the open air on the stone seats at the side of the Acropolis and from
sunrise to sunset watched the plays of the competing dramatists. All that we
have to correspond is a Test Match.32
In keeping with his high estimation of the citizen body is also what we can
deduce to be James’s high opinion of that distinctive feature of Greek drama: the
chorus.
Distinctive, though not exclusive, to Greek theatre, the presence of a chorus is
also particularly prominent in African drama. Ng#atug#ati wa Thiong’o, for
example, has described how in pre-colonial Kenya
In song and dance they acted out the battle scenes for those who were not
there and for the warriors to relive the glory, drinking in the communal
admiration and gratitude. [. . .] there were stories – often with a chorus – to
point the fate of those threatening the communal good.33
James’ play Toussaint Louverture also features a chorus, though it is not explicitly
labelled as such. He describes this ‘chorus’ of slaves at the start of the second
scene, with the following stage directions:
A little clearing is dotted with groups of Negro slaves. They, the Negro slaves,
are the most important characters in the play. Toussaint did not make the
revolt. It was the revolt that made Toussaint.
(54)
James is here adamant that his play is all about the collective, that they are ‘the
most important characters in the play’. Indeed, speaking of Eisenstein in 1954,
James reiterated this view of the centrality of the masses:
He makes the mass itself his hero. [. . .] from the very first time I saw
Battleship Potemkin many, many years ago, the scene on the steps of Odessa
has not been the greatest scene of the film. I was fascinated by the spectacle
of the thousands upon thousands of people bursting from all parts of the
screen.34
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Staging the Haitian Revolution in London 263
Later, in The Black Jacobins, James would elaborate on the way the former slaves
of San Domingo came together as a collective body to form a chorus:
The Greek tragedians could always go to their gods for a dramatic
embodiment of fate, the dike which rules over a world neither they nor we
ever made. But not Shakespeare himself could have found such a dramatic
embodiment of fate as Toussaint struggled against, Bonaparte himself; nor
could the furthest imagination have envisaged the entry of the chorus, of the
ex-slaves themselves, as the arbiters of their own fate.35
This articulation of popular radicalism recalls less the function of the chorus in
ancient Greek tragedy itself (who tend not to oppose the political order),36 and
more that seen at the time of the French Revolution, particularly – as Fiona
Macintosh has shown – in the corps de ballet.37 It is particularly fitting, of course,
that James employs this kind of resistant and oppositional chorus, familiar from
the festivals of the Revolution, for his play, which is set at exactly that time, and
which is so intricately involved with the events that were taking place in
revolutionary France.
Christian Høgsbjerg makes the connection with an ancient Greek chorus in
his introduction to the play (15). He notes that the beating drums which underlie
much of the drama not only signify the enslaved masses who will liberate
themselves by the revolution, but also that ‘the chorus of ex-slaves seems almost
to be using the drums to comment on the ideas put forward by their leaders’ (15).
The insight is a valuable one, and prompts consideration of the underappreciated
work that James intended this chorus to do in the play. How successful James
was in this is uncertain: none of the reviewers make any mention of a ‘chorus’,
though they do frequently comment that there were a large number of black
actors onstage.38 The chorus in Greek drama has been a notoriously difficult
concept for twentieth-century audiences,39 and James scarcely helps his viewer
by not giving his chorus any words at all, apart from their echoing of Dessalines’
cry (and motto of so many revolutions),‘Liberty or death!’ (56; 132). Nevertheless,
it is not only his later ascription in The Black Jacobins that supports the argument
that James was indeed consciously intending to portray a new kind of Greek
chorus in this play, or even his own description of the centrality of the chorus in
Greek drama (‘In the art of the Greek city state, where individual and universal
have achieved some balanced relation, it is the chorus upon which the whole
dramatic action depends’).40 It is also, in addition to the music of the drumbeat,
the way that James portrays them moving. Very early on in the play (Act 1, scene
3), Dessalines is seen training the slaves to work together as a military collective.
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264 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Following Toussaint’s advice, he has instigated the use of a whistle to instruct the
men in which direction to march, as a shout would not be heard over the din of
the battlefield. The initial results are somewhat confused, but then the stage
directions describe a scene that is certainly a kind of dance:
The soldiers march. Boukman blows uncertainly, but the soldiers continue to
march. Dessalines pulls the whistle from him and blows twice. The soldiers
turn about and march back. Dessalines blows three times and the soldiers come
to a halt; he blows once and they march away. Macoya, Jean-François, etc., all
applaud, and Dessalines, greatly pleased, salutes.
(58)
Music and dancing were both integral parts of the ancient Greek chorus; with the
marching and the drums, James replicates both. This allows him to align the slaves
of the Haitian Revolution with the collective bodies represented in so many Greek
dramas, be they the elders of the city in Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus, the slave
women in Euripides’ Ion, or, most aptly given their centrality, the Danaids in
Aeschylus’ Suppliant Women. Naturally, it also enables James to place his drama in
a genealogy of performance that can be traced back to fifth-century bce Athens.
However, if this connection with the choruses of Greek drama is not perceived,
then the wordless role of the slaves in Toussaint Louverture is problematic. For
Laura Harris, James is compelled to confront the problem that, by focusing his
retellings of the Haitian Revolution on Toussaint, those who are truly most
responsible for the revolt, the masses, are eclipsed to some extent, notwithstanding
his remark that the revolt made Toussaint, rather than vice versa (quoted
above).41 Despite citing James’s later suggestion in ‘Notes on American
Civilization’ (1949) that what is required in order to create work that is truly of
the masses is a combination of Aristophanes and cinema,42 Harris does not
pursue the idea that it may not be only the ‘democratic’ nature of ancient drama
that is in James’s mind here, but also the chorus. James’s ambition is for the
author to function as a mere conduit of the people, which itself is a kind of
reflection of Toussaint’s aims to be a voice for the masses, but not an irreplaceable
or even a prioritized one:
You can defeat an army, but you cannot defeat a people in arms. Do you
think an army could drive those hundreds of thousands back into the fields?
You have got rid of one leader. But there are two thousand other leaders to
be got rid of as well, and two thousand more when those are killed.
(127)
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Staging the Haitian Revolution in London 265
As Harris interestingly concludes, just such a merging of author and audience as
that which James is aiming at was described by W. E. B. Du Bois in his account of
a ‘Southern Negro Revival’ in The Souls of Black Folk (1903).43 Yet this is surely
also a role of the ancient Greek chorus, as the scholion to Euripides’ Medea, line
823, makes clear when it describes the chorus as ‘the voice of the poet’.44 James
undoubtedly sensed this, and chose to deploy it in his own drama. This should
also be related to what Schlegel saw as their role as ‘the idealized spectator’, by
which the chorus ‘conveys to the actual spectator a lyrical and musical expression
of his own emotions’.45 This view also resonated with James, who declared that in
films ‘We have lost the chorus which was the audience on stage’.46 The chorus
functions, then, as the connection between actors and audience, or, as so
serendipitously demonstrated by James having to take to the stage as an actor in
his own play, between the author and the audience.
The 1936 production of Toussaint Louverture, which is – as yet – the only time
that it has been staged, took place at the Westminster Theatre in London and
starred the highly renowned actor Paul Robeson. This was the first time that
professional black actors had performed on the British stage in a play written by
a black playwright, making it a historic production. An often-overlooked
precedent had been set three years earlier, however, when the Jamaican activist
and writer Una Marson directed her play, At What a Price (1932), with a cast of
amateur actors. These actors were all members of the League of Coloured
Peoples, and the play was initially staged at the YMCA, before being transferred
to the West End for a short, three-night run.47
Robeson’s reputation as a star had long since been established, particularly
by his performance in the musical Show Boat (London, 1928; Broadway
Revival, 1932; film, 1936) as well as Eugene O’Neill’s All God’s Chillun Got Wings
(New York, 1924) and The Emperor Jones (New York and London, 1924;
film, 1933), the latter of which – coincidentally – was inspired in part by the
life of Henri Christophe, Toussaint’s fellow leader of the slave revolution.
Not since Ira Aldridge had performed on the London stage in the first half
of the nineteenth century had a black actor received such high acclaim,
nor – remarkably – had a black actor played Othello.48 In Aldridge’s time,
Britain’s abolition of slavery made it seem a more hospitable place for
African American actors than they would find in the United States. For Robeson,
living in London a century later, laws of segregation may not have been in
place as they were in America, but racism was undoubtedly present. Refused
seating at the Savoy Grill on one occasion, Robeson released a press statement,
and began a campaign against racial discrimination. When he travelled to the
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266 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Soviet Union a few years later, the lack of racism he felt there prompted him to
reflect that
Here I am not a Negro but a human being [. . .] Here, for the first time in my
life, I walk in full human dignity. You cannot imagine what that means to me
as a Negro.49
For Robeson, the socialism of the Soviet Union and its lack of racial discrimination
went hand in hand, as he discussed in an interview in the communist paper The
Daily Worker in 1935:
This is home to me. I feel more kinship to the Russian people under their
new society than I ever felt anywhere else. It is obvious that there is no terror
here, that all the masses of every race are contented and support their
government.50
The Soviet film-maker and theorist, Sergei Eisenstein, who had invited
Robeson to Russia and to whom he made the former, much-quoted remark,
first suggested the idea of a project centred on the story of Toussaint L’Ouverture.
Eisenstein had hoped that Robeson would take the lead role in a film he
wished to direct about the Haitian Revolution.51 Tentatively titled Black Majesty
by Eisenstein (after John W. Vandercook’s 1928 biography of Henri Christophe,
who became first king of Haiti following the revolution and the assassination
of Dessalines), and later The Black Consul (reflecting a new focus on Toussaint,
which had been made by Anatoli Vinogradov’s novel of the same name), it
was submitted to the export catalogue by Boris Shumyatsky as Black Napoleon,
but was never made.52 In fact, as James cites in The Black Jacobins, Toussaint
himself suggested that he was a Caribbean counterpart to Napoleon: ‘If Bonaparte
is the first man in France, Toussaint is the first man of the Archipelago of the
Antilles.’53
For Eisenstein, cinema stood in a direct line of descent from classical antiquity,
and its power was innately political. In his essay ‘Dickens, Griffith, and the Film
Today’ (1944), he discusses this historical lineage:
Let Dickens and the whole ancestral array, going back as far as the Greeks
and Shakespeare, be superfluous reminders that both Griffith and our
cinema prove our origins to be not solely as of Edison and his fellow
inventors, but as based on an enormous cultural past; each part of this past
in its own moment of world history has moved forward the great art of
cinematography.54
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Staging the Haitian Revolution in London 267
This genealogy stands alongside the political undercurrents that inform so much
of Eisenstein’s work, and which he discusses in Nonindifferent Nature, where he
articulates art’s role in the quest for social reform:
Along the path of an imaginary abolishing of contradictions in an ecstatic
experience of pathos, man achieves what is a presentiment of the final aim of
his efforts – the destruction of the social contradictions that has been
approaching since the fall of tribal structure.
This unquenchable desire finds a temporary satisfaction in the pathos of
artworks and art forms.55
Following the disappointment of not being able to bring Black Majesty/Black
Napoleon to fruition, and to bring to the screen ‘the destruction of social
contradictions’ which Eisenstein discusses, Robeson readily agreed to take the
lead role in Toussaint Louverture when James approached him eighteen months
later with his play based on the very same subject. Although the play is not a
wholehearted success when read on the page, reviews from the time suggest that
Robeson did much to help invigorate it. Notwithstanding the caution with which
reviews must always be treated – and the political bias of many of the reviews of
Toussaint Louverture are particularly transparent – they do shed invaluable light
on the way the play was received and the socio-political environment of the
time.56 It is not only the fact that nearly all insist on emphasizing that James is a
black writer, though his specifically Caribbean background is of less interest to
them. Compare, for example, the reviewer in The Stage, who begins by declaring
that the Haitian Revolution is ‘a page of history all but forgotten’ and goes on to
remark, in a fit of racist pique,
The play is altogether too propagandist. Propaganda – in this case the cause
of the negro races, is all very well in its proper place, but it is not permissible
in a play which purports to be substantially true to history. The coloured
races have certainly been persecuted by the whites, but the author’s bias in
their favour would appear to deny the whites a shred of nobility of character
or honesty of purpose. In his play the blacks are white and the whites are
black.57
The final sentence is ugly in the extreme, but that it was not perceived as being
so by the author is evidenced by the generally positive overall assessment of the
review. On the other hand, the Glasgow Herald remarked that, far from being
forgotten, Toussaint as ‘one of the greatest figures in negro history was brought
to life by Paul Robeson’.58 A fact on which all seem to agree, however, is the
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268 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
greatness of Robeson, which is exemplified by the unquestioned logic of one
reviewer’s sentiment (which is echoed in various ways by many of the others)
that ‘The fault cannot be with the actors, since Mr. Paul Robeson is Toussaint.’59
If the fault was not with Robeson, several reviewers do place it at James’s door.
Although not wholly negative about the play, a number remark on its being
‘unevenly written’, ‘artless and therefore dull’ and ‘ponderous’.60 The reviewer at
the Evening News picks up on, and criticizes, a quality that we may recognize as
being characteristic not just of ‘chronicle plays’, as he suggests, but also of Greek
tragedy, with its off-stage violence and long messenger speeches:
The weakness of this chronicle play, as of so many other chronicle plays, is
that all the action happens ‘off ’. Toussaint has little to do but utter noble
sentiments and gesticulate over the view of distant battles, concealed
sufferings, invisible sieges and assaults.61
Such a description could be seen as a fairly accurate, if uncharitable, view of a
play like Aeschylus’ Seven against Thebes, with its extensive descriptions voiced
by the messenger scout. If James’s play failed to lure the Evening News reviewer,
part of this failure could well have been a result of James’s tragic template, derived
from the Greek tragedians, which induced him to include quasi-messenger
speeches and that kind of tragic chorus. The difficulty of incorporating these
forms into a new drama, and James’s own inexperience in writing for the stage,
rendered the reception of the play only moderate.
Nevertheless, James’s passionate attachment to Greek drama, which for him
was intricately bound in with his socialist political ideology, is crucial not just to
Toussaint Louverture, but also to his more successful history, The Black Jacobins.
The play, after all, combines distinctive features of classical drama to tell the story
of the most famous leader of a slave revolt since Spartacus. The collectivity of
James’s chorus, and even the very effort to write drama (rather than the diverse
range of other genres, from fiction, to history, to biography, to essays, to political
theory, with which the rest of his career was taken up), signify his fervent belief
that fifth-century Athens offered a model for social change in a number of
respects. And by staging the play in London in 1936, with the premier African
American actor of the time – also an outspoken communist – in the leading role,
James offered his own intervention into global politics, the struggle for social
reform, and the need to combat imperialism, racism and social injustice.
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16
Yesterday’s Men:
Labour’s Modernizing Elite from the 1960s
to Classical Times
Michael Simpson
Harold Wilson’s Labour administrations in the UK began in October 1964 with
the explicit project of modernizing both the national economy, by the application
of science to industry, and the social fabric of the country, by bold policies on
housing and education.1 The industrial appliance of science was to be effected, in
Wilson’s purple phrase, by ‘the white heat of technology’.2 In the event, slum
clearance proceeded apace, the nation’s housing stock was ‘improved’ by
controversial modern developments, equal pay for women was passed into law,
non-selective comprehensive education was introduced at secondary level and
the Open University was created; on the social agenda, capital punishment was
abolished, homosexuality was legalized and censorship, particularly of the
theatre, was liberalized.
Creating and driving these policies was a cabinet widely regarded, then and
since, as being of the highest intellectual calibre. But several of these talents,
committed to modernity and the difficult business of getting there, shared an
academic background in the disciplines of Classics and a consequent cultural
acquaintance with the Greek and Roman classics themselves. Within these
leading politicians, there was a radical intersection of political modernity and
cultural antiquity. A powerful implication of this intersection, as we shall see, is
that any supposition of a classical education being correlated with the right of
the political spectrum is spectacularly short-circuited. While there may indeed
be such a general tendency, the Wilson administrations pose a highly visible
challenge to any supposed correlation.
Bearing out this tendency in the present, Boris Johnson, mayor of London,
publicly burnishes both his political credentials as a Conservative and his
cultural credentials as a (former) classicist, in calculated pursuit of the leadership
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270 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
of the parliamentary Conservative Party. This ideological association of the
politically conservative and the culturally classical within the British political
class has some considerable historical gravity behind it: Enoch Powell,
Conservative minister and maverick,was known for his classical accomplishments,
as was Quintin Hogg, another leading Conservative politician of the 1960s. But
our concern here will be with the different names, and political party, of Anthony
Crosland, Richard Crossman, Denis Healey, Douglas Jay and Michael Stewart.
My first premise of an intersection between political modernity and classical
antiquity in these figures, once it is brought into contact with the polarity of
radical versus conservative, clearly upsets the standard correlations between
modern and radical and, conversely, between classical and conservative. It is this
intersection, or convergence, of the poles of modernity and antiquity that short-
circuits the usual correlations between these two polarities. The next of the
opening moves in my argument is to establish a second premise, which runs
partly counter to the first: the convergence of the poles of modernity and
antiquity within the political figures above is not a reconciliation of them, but,
rather, a fraught and continuing negotiation between them.
Although these five former classicists can be understood to have become
eligible for high political office at least partly in virtue of their classical attainments,
owing to the cultural power then ascribed to Classics, the ruling order within
which they had been promoted was not one that they endorsed, but, rather, one
that they vigorously sought to reform, even to the extent of challenging the
prestige of Classics itself as a preparation for such office. This specific challenge,
which may be seen to instantiate a reforming orientation against the larger social
order, was vested in one official body and the text that it produced. The five ex-
classicists were all senior members of the government that urgently commissioned
the Fulton Report (1968) on the makeup of the British Civil Service, for which a
classical education at Oxford or Cambridge had previously been deemed a
peerless preparation. It was the Fulton Committee, working from 1966 to 1968
under a modernizing brief, that recommended the increased recruitment of
‘specialists’, such as economists, as against the earlier premium set upon
‘generalists’ or humanists, including, most prominently, classicists. Given that this
recommendation was virtually implicit within the inquiry, here was a government
prepared to act against a part of its own background in the service of
modernization.3 Though officials rather than politicians were covered by the
Fulton Report, the wider logic encompassed politicians too.
Since there was a conjunction between modernity and antiquity within
several senior ministers in the reforming Wilson governments, and since this
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Yesterday’s Men 271
conjunction was potentially contradictory, some large questions are triggered.
Did this shared cultural experience of the classics condition the thinking of
these policymakers? If so, to what extent, and how? And, if so, how did this
traditional background fit, or not fit, with the ideal of modernity and the political
means of realizing it by way of the newly promoted social science of economics?
In pursuing these questions, this chapter traces the profile of classics and
classical literature in the educational backgrounds, writings, conversations and
cultural behaviour of the five individuals named above.4 What emerges is an
account of a cultural–political subgroup, deriving from a limited variety of social
backgrounds, whose approach to and knowledge of the classics preceded their
common political project of modernization, and who sought, in varying degrees,
to deploy their privileges in the service of a more equal society. The operative
tensions in this account are between ancient and modern, between progressive
and conservative, and between elite and mass culture. Already my argument has
begun, with two premises about the first of these tensions, and how that
fluctuating tension might bear on the second; the third tension will figure much
later. My argument will develop broadly as follows: Classics, as an institutionalized
discipline, provided an iconic phase to be transcended in the professional careers
of these men; meanwhile, the classics themselves presented concepts, institutions,
events and images that these same men could neither transcend nor merely use,
because the political mission to remake the present as a more satisfactory future
for more people demanded that this past, among others, be confronted, critically
and creatively.5 This present rounds on the past dialectically, for the sake of a
future that will be neither, yet built from both. Beyond the body of this argument,
my conclusion will be that, in at least one or two cases, episodes and figures from
the classics return, within the intimate consciousness of these individuals, to
reveal something rather less altruistic in how they ambitiously image their own
political identities.
Insofar as Classics figures here as being in tension with the social sciences,
this period in the 1960s appears as another chapter in the story told so
convincingly by Christopher Stray (1998) of the decline of Classics, and especially
of Classics at Oxford University, as the standard qualification for entering
national politics, or, for that matter, the Civil Service. Literae Humaniores, a four-
year degree comprising Classical Moderations (‘Mods’) and ‘Greats’, had long
been regarded as an almost indispensable cultural qualification for political
leadership, but this course was gradually superseded as the established
undergraduate education of the nation’s leaders by the ‘PPE’ course in philosophy,
politics and economics. Stray’s focus, of course, is on the first part of this
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272 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
narrative. In this account, Literae Humaniores becomes increasingly perceived
as merely a cultural ticket to additional social privilege; meanwhile, the course in
PPE emerges as an epistemic paradigm that is thought to fit young minds for
future rule because economics and political theory are regarded as more
organically related to the modern world. Within the cultural mentality of our
group of reforming ex-classicists, however, Classics and classical literature will
figure, in the account to follow, as much more powerful than a mere vehicle of
elevation. As indicated above, classical texts will appear in the main as latently
oppressive sources to be confronted and remade, where possible, into resources
for a desired future.
The criterion that composes this group of anciently equipped modernizers
within Wilson’s cabinets, from 1964 to 1970, is that of a classical education. On
this score, Crosland, Crossman, Healey, Jay and Stewart all qualify. There will be
more to say about the social backgrounds of these individual figures as they are
introduced, but for now we shall briefly address their common educational
tracks at Oxford, and individual variations. All five had read Classical Moderations
at Oxford University, and Crossman, Healey and Jay then described the usual
trajectory and read Greats, which also included some modern philosophy.
Crosland and Stewart, meanwhile, made a more determined bid for modernity
by the relatively new route of following Classical Moderations with Modern
Greats, or PPE. Crosland’s path here was more complicated, in that, after taking
Classical Moderations, he embarked on the Greats course but then, after a year,
volunteered for war service. When he returned to Oxford five years later, in 1945,
he switched to PPE, which he completed in one year. Only Crossman went on to
an academic career centred on the classics, before he became a professional
politician and journalist. All did what a classical education at one of the ancient
universities was supposed to prepare them to do, which was to assume positions
of leadership in their chosen spheres.
There are no signs that this group would have identified itself as a group,
given the different alignments of the members with respect to different policies
and ‘wings’ of the Labour Party.6 Crosland particularly, but also Jay, had been
closely associated with Hugh Gaitskell, who had been Wilson’s predecessor as
Labour leader, although, unlike Wilson, on the right of the party; Healey was also
aligned generally with the right, but was more independent of the circle that had
formed around Gaitskell. Stewart, meanwhile, though broadly right of centre,
was more difficult to place, whereas Crossman had been, like Wilson, part of the
circle around Aneurin Bevan, on the left of the party. Nor was this group defined
by any direct mutual communication on classical matters, and so this chapter is
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directed towards common educational backgrounds and often limited classical
references. Our inquiry will now begin in earnest by considering how Classics
and the classics themselves figured within the educational and cultural
experiences of these individuals, and will then proceed to discuss more directly
political applications of their classical knowledge.
Classical backgrounds and hinterlands
Of the five individuals being considered prosopographically here, Denis Healey
is the most forthcoming about the impact of his classical education. This fact
might be related specifically to Healey having the only provincial background of
the five ex-classicists, and more generally to the fact that, like Stewart’s, his social
background was not especially conducive to a classical education. Healey’s
grandfather had been a tailor in Ireland before migrating to England, and his
father was an engineer and then head of a technical college. His grandfather on
his mother’s side had been a railway signalman and stationmaster. As a vaguely
unlikely classicist, given his background, Healey may have been more motivated
to dilate on this phase of his education and the impact of it.
It is his book My Secret Planet that expatiates on Healey’s relationship with
some of the Graeco-Roman classics themselves, not only in the context of his
cultural life but also, occasionally, within his political thinking and encounters.
Though his formal undergraduate studies at Oxford are represented as vaguely
dutiful and quite lightly undertaken, the cultural power of certain classical
sources is represented as abiding:
The Greek language is far more difficult to learn than Latin . . . Yet it is worth
the effort of learning Greek for the poetry alone. Poetry depends for its effect
so much on sound and rhythm that it is impossible to translate adequately
from one language to another . . . I find that Greek poetry is at once the
greatest and most untranslatable of all.
(Healey 1992: 46–7)
Pitched at a potentially broad readership, Healey’s version of a literary
autobiography realistically acknowledges the formidable difficulties entailed in
learning Greek but provides a strong incentive for doing so. This gesture to the
reader is culturally democratic, in English prose asserting the difficulty but
overriding value of accessing poetry in ancient Greek. The assertion is democratic,
too, in that it is not an invitation from one on the inside to those on the outside.
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274 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
With Greek prose, there is far less difficulty because, as Healey would have it, of
the viable alternative of reading prose in translation: ‘Greek prose translates well
into English. You can enjoy Plato’s dialogues in Jowett’s translation or Thucydides
in Crawley’s translation almost as much as in the original Greek’ (1992: 47). This
chapter on Healey’s university education then goes on to extol philosophy as a
resource that has served Healey most in his political as well as intellectual life.
Ancient history, meanwhile, is said to provide coordinates that might
enlighten potentially everyone, including political leaders, with respect to the
present and possible futures: ‘In recent years the collapse and disintegration not
just of the Soviet Empire but of the whole culture of Communism – a New
Civilization, as the Webbs called it – could have come as a surprise only to those
who know nothing of Greek history’ (1992: 66). Since Greek history furnishes a
template, or at least precedents, for the collapse of communism, there is an
implication that Greek historiography is recursive enough to comprehend and
anticipate the collapse of Greek civilization itself; Ancient Greece, through the
words of its own historians, objectively, and plangently, knows and foretells its
own end. The displacement of democratic Athens by Philip II of Macedon, or,
later, of the Macedonian Empire by Rome, may be the kind of antecedent that,
from Healey’s perspective, prefigures the demise of communism. In the event, it
is that knowledge of historical vicissitude and finitude, imparted to others, such
as Healey, in posterity, that ironically guarantees a vivid afterlife to Greek history.
That historical tendency towards the dissolution of civilizations, towards
social and political entropy, also applies to Healey’s own attachments to history,
and particularly to his investment in communism during the febrile 1930s, when
political polarization was the norm.7 From 1937 to 1940, Healey was a member
of the British Communist Party at Oxford. Thucydides, again, provides a
statement that can limit communist self-representations, capturing here what
seems to be Healey’s contemporary ambivalence about a similarity between
communist and fascist methods: ‘neither I nor my comrades could swallow the
doctrine of violent revolution, which was fundamental to Marxism-Leninism.
Watching the tragedy in Spain I could not forget Thucydides’ account of the
revolution in Corcyra, which he saw as typical of the ideological conflicts then
tearing Greece apart’ (1992: 72). Greek historiography projects the end of Greece,
of communism, and of Healey’s youthful attachment to the latter, and it is this
epistemic power which he finds in ancient authors that assures his continued
attachment, by contrast, to that historiography.
Like Denis Healey, Michael Stewart extols Greek poetry, within his account of
his classical education, in the first chapter of his autobiography (1980). Stewart
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Yesterday’s Men 275
also resembled Healey, to some extent, in terms of his background. Though not
provincial, Stewart’s upbringing was of very modest means, not least because his
father died when he was four, necessitating his mother’s work as a teacher. These
modest means proved an advantage in the one respect that they rendered Stewart
eligible for entry to Christ’s Hospital in Horsham, which traditionally debarred
children of the wealthy. Having entered the school on a scholarship, Stewart later
won an open scholarship in classics to St John’s College, Oxford. Referring
initially to his undergraduate proficiency in classical studies, Stewart quickly
qualifies this impression with some self-deprecation and a correspondingly
positive claim about the impact that Aeschylus had on him:
My one difficulty in these studies was the writing of Greek verse. I mastered
the technicalities, but Apollo had not breathed on me. ‘Jupp’ [Stewart’s tutor]
sighed over one set of verses I presented to him. ‘The words’, he said, ‘must be
surprised to find that they scan.’ But if I could not write Greek poetry, my
appreciation of the real thing was immensely widened by attending Gilbert
Murray’s lectures on Aeschylus’ Oresteia trilogy. I was to remember
Aeschylus, and the present-day relevance of his teaching, all my life.
(Stewart 1980: 20)
In the last sentence, the modal vibration of the verb ‘I was to’, amplified by the
adverbial phrase ‘all my life’, at the end, seems especially portentous, because it
projects a totalizing perspective that is proleptically beyond the present moment
of the autobiographical narrator. The ancient poet Aeschylus and his ‘present-
day relevance’ enable the autobiographer to complete his work by affording a
future perspective on the autobiographical figure as both past object and as
present subject; as both young character and mature narrator, Stewart is seen, by
himself and us, from the future. This transcendence certainly cancels the
preceding levity in the self-deprecation. Aeschylus, helped by Murray, empowers
the autobiography itself. There will appear a more poignant reference to
Aeschylus and the Oresteia in Stewart’s text, when we come to consider the
political application of classical sources, beyond Classics itself and Stewart’s
schooling in the discipline.
For all his interest in the Graeco-Roman classics, Stewart, as already
mentioned, proceeded from Classical Mods to PPE, and gives this succinct
account of doing so:
Having taken Moderations, I switched to the course in Philosophy, Politics
and Economics which was considered to be the modern equivalent of the
old Classical ‘Greats’. Now my work chimed in with my political activities
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276 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
and I learnt not only in the lecture room and the tutorial, but also from the
endless arguments which undergraduates and dons hold with each other.
(1980: 20)
This trajectory enacts a coming of age, and more, in terms of the several histories
invoked. Correlated here is a personal development, a cultural history
encompassing the process whereby ancient civilizations are superseded by their
modern counterparts, and the intellectual history in which classical studies are
eclipsed by the social sciences. These correlations are mediated through the
progressive narrative of Stewart’s maturation, not unlike Healey’s account of the
end of his communist affinities. From the cradle of civilization into an adult
modernity proceeds the young man, whose academic work and political play
come into single focus as he joins the company of his elders on a more equal
footing than heretofore. He enters a world of argument. Rather than learning
about Athenian participatory democracy, he participates in a current democracy
in the making, and requiring, as his life is told in its unfolding, much more work.
Even after Stewart has taken his leave of Classics, he insists on the value of
this phase of his education, in one of those reflective passages of autobiography
where the narrator is operating in the present tense of the narration, rather than
in ‘the past historic’ of the narrative. His own past relation with the ancient past
is animated in the present, as he reflects on Latin and Greek:
I have sometimes wondered whether an equal proficiency in French and
German would not have served me better, but I cannot bring myself to regret
my knowledge of the classics. I dismiss some of the conventional arguments
for classical education [. . .]. To my mind, there are two vital truths. First, if
one pictures all the knowledge of the Western world – science, politics,
literature, etc. – as a great library, there is scarcely a volume in it of which the
Greeks did not write the first chapter [. . .]. Second, the fierce and primitive
myths of the Greeks, transmuted into great poetry and drama, spell out in
the most unforgettable language the constraints and conflicts which
condition human life: the conflict between cleverness and wisdom, the
competing rôles of justice and mercy in the ordering of society, the extent to
which a man may escape from the bonds of heredity and environment.
(1980: 16–17)
The word ‘escape’ at the end here is perhaps the motivating factor in the political
modernity that Stewart narrates as having helped to construct. One of those
‘constraints and conflicts’ from which the ‘escape’ is effected might be the very
cultural and educational barrier that allows only some to understand ‘the most
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Yesterday’s Men 277
unforgettable language’ of Greek, while others cannot. This constraint is only
one, of course, among many, but it may serve to represent a larger complex of
resources denied to the majority by their socially real situations. Even so, since
the Greeks have set the challenge, the actual extent to which the bonds of heredity
and environment can be ‘escaped’ is something the young socialist will want to
test potently.
Of all the members of the group configured at the heart of our inquiry,
Richard Crossman was by far the most classically equipped. Although his father
was a barrister and ultimately a judge, Crossman followed in his path to
Winchester College as a scholarship boy, paying his way by that means, and
thence to New College, Oxford, with a scholarship in Classics, following his
father again. Crossman was elected to a fellowship at New College at the age of
twenty-three, specializing in Greek philosophy, particularly Plato. Despite his
longer and more immersive experience of the overall discipline of Classics as a
young scholar and university teacher, Crossman’s extensive writings communicate
less of his educational and cultural experiences with the discipline or the Graeco-
Roman classics themselves than those of either Healey or Stewart. There are a
few moments, such as the episode in his Diaries of a Cabinet Minister, when he
describes his reading while holidaying in Cyprus in 1967. The account begins
with his eschewing of newspapers:
Directly I’d arrived in Cyprus I’d decided not to buy one and I found it each
day easier and easier to concentrate on reading very slowly the Antigone in
Greek and rather faster the Iliad, and also finishing Elizabeth Longford’s
enormous book on Queen Victoria and a lengthy novel about life during the
crusades.
(II. 354)
Heartening though this episode is as an instance of a renewed acquaintance with
literary resources, it is evidently an exception in the normal course of Crossman’s
life. One external source on Crossman’s classical education is Tam Dalyell, who
remarks on how Crossman’s father, having distinguished himself in Mods and
Greats, gave his son a head start in Latin, and also on how Crossman attributed
his superiority over Dalyell in their common trade as political journalists to his
training in Greats.8 Dalyell had studied history and the distinctly modern subject
of economics. Beyond these isolated moments, there is little to register Crossman’s
classical education as such. The manifestations of that education are another
matter, however, as they figure very prominently in his directly political writings,
as we shall observe presently.
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278 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
There is a similar dearth of materials relating to the cultural impact of a
classical education on the two remaining members of our group, Douglas Jay
and Anthony Crosland.9 Like Crossman, Jay read Mods and Greats at New
College, but then won a fellowship at All Souls College, Oxford and proceeded to
school himself in economics, not unlike Crosland. While there is little evidence
of their classical backgrounds figuring in the subsequent cultural lives of these
two men, their political thinking features more traces of classical coordinates, as
we shall now observe in turning to this broad issue within the group.
Political foregrounds and classical presences
Given the broadly shared context of Classics behind this group, how do the
Graeco-Roman classics themselves play out within the more directly political
discourse of these individuals? Proceeding individually, we may begin with
Douglas Jay, whose classical background is otherwise quite opaque. Jay was a
contemporary of Crossman at New College and, from 1964 to 1967, served in
Wilson’s cabinet as president of the Board of Trade. His father was an elected
member of the London County Council, and the family was of comfortable
means, although a scholarship to New College seems to have been a necessary
condition of Jay’s attendance there.10
Like the other four Labour ex-classicists, Jay was an author. The second
paragraph of his first book, The Socialist Case, includes this sentence: ‘If there is
anything about which everybody, plain men and philosophers, ancient and
modern, have always agreed, it is that the mental and physical distress involved
in acute economic privation is an immeasurable evil’ (1936: 1). Once this axiom
has been established as such, the third paragraph opens by complicating it: ‘Ever
since the days of early Greek thought moralists have of course delighted to point
out that some poor men are happy and some rich men unhappy’ (1936: 1).
Having ventilated these converse counter-examples, this paragraph settles on a
conclusion:
But these two human freaks, the happy beggar and the discontented plutocrat
need not confuse us. For the vast majority of the human race poverty makes
happiness impossible. Indeed, when the argument has been carried to its
logical conclusion, it will appear that poverty in the end means nothing else
than the absence of certain means to happiness.
(1936: 2)
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Yesterday’s Men 279
The ‘argument’ here, and ‘its logical conclusion’, start from an axiom and then
establish it, both logically and empirically, as a first principle. The chapter itself is
titled ‘Poverty, Inequality, Insecurity’, and so a principled definition of poverty
seems utterly requisite here.
The thrust of Jay’s book is known as a socialist response to, and adaptation of,
Keynes’s ideas, as published in his General Theory of Employment, Interest and
Money, in 1936; these ideas are examined and the emphases within them often
modified towards political solutions that are broadly socialist.11 What is
significant for our purposes is that the logical foundations of the project,
including the definition of terms and the formulation of first principles, are
established with some immediate reference to ancient Greek sources. In one
sense, this fact is unsurprising, for the reason that Michael Stewart adduced (see
above): the Greeks have written ‘the first chapter’ of so much knowledge that
later first chapters, such as in Jay’s The Socialist Case, depend on them,
conceptually or historically. Invoking Greek antecedents as coordinates in later
works is a familiar means, rhetorically as well as logically, of authorizing a novel
project. To do so is not only to found the modern on the ancient but also to
repeat and thus capitalize on the Greek appetite for the new, as the Greeks wrote
those first chapters.12 Being new is thus part of an august tradition.
The third chapter of Jay’s important book on political economy invokes one
of the most powerful classical coordinates, which is Plato. It does so as part of an
effort to think through philosophically the relations between ‘Needs and
Happiness’, which is the title of this early chapter. This effort is undertaken largely
to provide a substantive answer to the question: ‘But can we construct a clear and
positive meaning for the conceptions of economic action and economic
progress?’ (1936: 26). Against this effort stands, inter alia, the notion that our
individual actions are motivated, even in the most complex instances, by a mere
conflict of desires in which the strongest ultimately prevails. Jay challenges this
denial of ethical agency and of the will not with his own argument, but with
another’s:
But the most convincing argument against it is perhaps the argument from
experience, which is as old as Plato. There must be something more than a
conflict of desires, Plato maintains, because in the cases when we resist desire
(as in the case of a reformed dipsomaniac), the element in us which opposes
desire must be something other than desire. For though the same element in
us (ie desire) might be attracted to two different things at once, it could not
be both attracted and repelled from the same thing. Or, in other words, we
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280 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
may desire strawberries and raspberries at once, but if we desire strawberries
and decide not to eat them, the faculty that impels us not to eat them must
be something other than desire.
(1936: 28)
The introduction of Plato here is intriguing in that his name is used, along with
a footnote drawing attention to Book IV of the Republic, as a means of turning
the argument from experience into an argument from authority, which should,
by rights, be the antithesis of the former argument. Any rhetorical interference
in this way with logical methodology is quickly defused, however, as the very
next sentence, beyond the quotation, declares that ‘These [are]. . . arguments
which everyone must consider and evaluate for himself in the light of reflection
on his own experience’ (1936: 28–9). Plato is an authority, but also one that
usefully admits of being tested logically. Jay goes further, in asserting that this
testing should be undertaken by ‘everyone’, and, crucially, on the basis of
individual experience, as the content of the logical argumentation. A shared, or
dialogic, logical method is thus brought into contact with empirical method to
produce a logical experience particular to each of us.
There seems to be a significant methodological opening here. Jay invites us by
his text into the text of the Republic so that we can operate, potentially, in
constructing the model that is Plato’s Republic. Just for a moment, the emerging
outlines of a socialist utopia are suggested by way of the very method
recommended for dealing with Plato, and only partly proposed by Plato himself.
And such an active method may be necessary, for reasons that Jay implies here:
Plato possesses a historical authority, as an ancient source; and he wields a
philosophical authority, both because of his powerful logic and because of his
rhetorical format of the loaded dialogue, driving ineluctably to his own
conclusions. Together, these authorities enable Plato to write, in Stewart’s terms,
a ‘first chapter’ of knowledge, which therefore cannot be ignored, and, in the
process, to found ‘experience’ as a logical category, in the ‘argument from
experience’ which is coeval with him.
While Jay’s book has recourse to Plato as an early moment in the larger project
of engaging Keynes’s new ideas to the socialist cause, Crossman confronts Plato
extensively in a book that was published in the same year as Jay’s: Crossman’s
Plato Today also appeared in 1937. Like all five members of the group of
modernizers that we are considering, Jay and Crossman came of age politically
and intellectually in the 1930s and during the Second World War. These leading
socialist and social democratic thinkers and reformist policymakers of the 1960s
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Yesterday’s Men 281
were thus incubated in the 1930s. Jay’s momentary methodological opening of
Plato’s argument from experience appears more significant in the exactly
contemporaneous context of Crossman’s treatment of Plato.
Crossman’s Plato Today, a hugely influential book still prescribed for Oxford
Philosophical Greats to Edith Hall in 1980, is arranged largely as a series of
dramatic encounters between a time-travelling Plato and some interlocutors of
the 1930s, who are, in sequence, a British educationalist, a communist, and a
Nazi academic. Nobody emerges well from these encounters. Plato is
characterized as an inquisitorial figure, with an agenda, interrogating democracy,
communism and fascism in turn, and revealing inconvenient common factors
among them, specifically because of his virulent critique of democracy. It is
Plato’s antagonism towards the British political system, in so far as it is democratic,
that dramatizes liberal democracy as not the norm, not a historical given, but,
rather, as an achievement, especially precarious in the 1930s, which will need to
be fought for. In the same moment, the notion that democracy is the least bad of
the available political dispensations is revealed in the claim that the democratic
tradition already contains, capaciously, discernible elements of the worse
ochlocratic (‘crowd-governed’) alternatives. Those alternatives, in the 1930s, are
fascism and communism.
For all the contemporary fragility of democracy, the democratic tradition, in
Crossman’s account, has a durable quiddity, emanating from classical Athens,
because democracy already incorporates, within its very workings, the struggle
for power between political ideologies. Yet democracy, or the democratic
tradition, is not only the logical whole of such struggles, having internalized
them, but is also, in the 1930s, one political part competing with Nazism and
Bolshevism within that larger whole. A crucial argument in Plato Today is this:
were democracy to be overcome, by one or both of the looming competitors,
specifically as a part of state, society and culture, it would also cease to function
as the larger, containing whole, which is the democratic tradition. Against this
all-too-likely eventuality, Crossman’s text proposes a counter-offensive, especially
against fascism, whereby British democracy will be required to adopt many of
the means characteristic of the opposition: a centrally planned economy geared
to war is one such means, as is a political elite, resembling the ruling class in
Plato’s Republic, which will here be tasked with creating and sustaining that
economy. A version of Plato today, as a temporary, instrumental evil, will be
necessary, in Crossman’s view, if democracy is to be saved. Plato Today is acutely
aware of the ghastly implications of this counter-offensive and proposes powerful
safeguards against it, as I have indicated elsewhere (Simpson, 2013).
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282 Greek and Roman Classics in the Struggle for Reform
Like Jay’s book, Crossman’s text is a world, and a world war, away from the
ebullient, transcendently post-war 1960s in Britain. Even so, the presence of
Plato, and specifically of the Plato of the Republic, persists in Crossman’s political
thinking. A minor excursus on the Platonic shadow that lingered over his ideas
is in order here. Only a year before Labour came to power on a modernizing
agenda, Crossman published, in 1963, an edition of Walter Bagehot’s The English
Constitution, along with an extensive introduction by himself. Magisterially
summarizing Bagehot’s thesis, Crossman broadly agrees that the Reform Act of
1832 was a vital moment in the secret transmission of power from the monarchy
to the representative branches of government, thus crystallizing a concealed
distinction between the ‘dignified’ and the ‘efficient’ parts of the constitution.
Crossman’s introduction then seeks to bring Bagehot up to date, in part by
referring back to Plato Today, in 1937:
It has often been observed that when they were plunged into total war in
1940, the British people readily put their democratic constitution into cold
storage, and fought under a system of centralised autocracy. The Nazi
totalitarian state was defeated because we were ready to accept a more far-
reaching totalitarianism. What is not so often noticed is the extent to which
the institutions and the behaviour of voluntary totalitarianism have been
retained since 1945 (1963: 55).
In so far as Plato Today itself promoted a self-aware ‘freezing’ of Britain’s
democratic constitution for the duration of the war, Crossman’s introduction to
Bagehot updates his own earlier book as well as Bagehot’s work.
In the introduction, Crossman’s developing claim is that political power,
having passed, in Bagehot’s account, from monarchy to parliament and cabinet,
is now concentrated in and around the office of prime minister, such that the
House of Commons and the cabinet have joined the monarchy and the House of
Lords as part of the ‘dignified’ component of the constitution, all, as in earlier
developments, without public knowledge of this transformation. Prime-
ministerial government is thus said to remain as virtually the only ‘efficient’ part
of the apparatus in the second half of the twentieth century. This proposition,
and others, are strategically tested within Crossman’s ministerial experience, as
part of a larger intellectual design in which that experience, and the related
Diaries, are employed as source materials for the book on the British constitution
that Crossman intended but did not live to write.13
At a crucial juncture in the introduction, having reviewed Bagehot’s overall
argument, Crossman addresses a series of critical questions to it, starting with
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Yesterday’s Men 283
this one: ‘First, is Bagehot’s analysis – in particular his distinction between the
realities and the appearances of British politics – a sound one?’ (1963: 26).
Crossman ventures two answers. One is that Bagehot is quite accurate. Crossman’s
second answer is intriguing:
But there are a number of passages in which he [Bagehot] seems to have
quite a different purpose – one not so dissimilar from that of Plato when he
wrote the Republic.
Plato’s primary concern was philosophic. But because he was convinced
that Greek civilisation was being destroyed by democracy, he was passionately
interested in teaching an élite of young aristocrats how to establish a city
state immune to its debilitating effects. The Republic is a description of how
the Guardians of civilisation should be educat