People, places and identities: Themes in British social and cultural history, 1700s–1980s 9781526107572

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People, places and identities

People, places and identities Themes in British social and cultural history, 1700s–1980s Edited by Alan Kidd and Melanie Tebbutt

Manchester University Press

Copyright © Manchester University Press 2017 While copyright in the volume as a whole is vested in Manchester University Press, copyright in individual chapters belongs to their respective authors, and no chapter may be reproduced wholly or in part without the express permission in writing of both author and publisher. Published by Manchester University Press Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data applied for

ISBN 978 0 7190 9035 6 hardback

First published 2017 The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Typeset by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire

For Mike Rose with affection and gratitude

Contents

List of figures Notes on contributors

ix x

Introduction1 Alan Kidd and Melanie Tebbutt 1 Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’: place, practice and identity in eighteenth-century rural England 19 Alistair Mutch 2 Local history enthusiasts: English county historical societies since the nineteenth century 39 Alan Kidd 3 Memorial mania: remembering and forgetting Sir Robert Peel63 Terry Wyke 4 Fifty years ahead of its time? The provident dispensaries movement in Manchester, 1871–85 84 Martin Hewitt 5 Daddy, what did you find to laugh about in the Great War? The cotton cartoons of Sam Fitton 109 Alan Fowler 6 Voluntary action in the ‘welfare state’: the National Council for the Unmarried Mother and Her Child 132 Pat Thane 7 The continuing tradition of civic pride: municipal culture in post-war Manchester 152 Peter Shapely

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8 From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’: changing patterns of advice in teenage magazines: Mirabelle, 1956–77180 Melanie Tebbutt 9 ‘Hoping you’ll give me some guidance about this thing called money’: the Daily Mirror and personal finance, c. 1960–81202 Dilwyn Porter Index

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Figures

1 Mike Rose during the early part of his career in the History Department of the University of Manchester 8 2 A Merry Christmas. Cotton Factory Times, 25 December 1914113 3 Give Us A Chance. Cotton Factory Times, 12 November 1915 118 4 Pity the Poor Minder. Cotton Factory Times, 14 January 1916120 5 A Pace-Egging Spasm. Cotton Factory Times, 21 April 1916 122 6 Excessive Cotton Combing. Cotton Factory Times, 10 November 1916 123 7 Some Managers. Cotton Factory Times, 9 March 1917 126 8 Peace. Cotton Factory Times, 15 November 1918 128 These cartoons and others from the Cotton Factory Times by Sam Fitton are available at www.lancashirecottoncartoons.com. Used with thanks.

Notes on contributors

Alan Fowler taught Economic and Social History at the Manchester Polytechnic/Manchester Metropolitan University for 40 years. He has written on the history of the Lancashire cotton operatives and their trade unions, including Lancashire Cotton Operatives and Work (2003). He and Mike Rose collaborated as co-organisers of the Economic History Society and Social History Society conferences in Manchester in 1991 and 2002. Martin Hewitt is Pro Vice Chancellor and Dean of the Faculty of Arts, Law and Social Sciences at Anglia Ruskin University. His publications include The Emergence of Stability in the Industrial City. Manchester 1832–67 (1995), The Diaries of Samuel Bamford, 1858–61 (edited with Robert Poole, 2000) and The Dawn of the Cheap Press in Victorian Britain (2014). From his time as a postgraduate student research of Victorian Manchester in the 1980s, to his more recent role as Head of History at Manchester Metropolitan University, his work has been enriched by Mike Rose’s published scholarship and personal support and encouragement. Alan Kidd is Emeritus Professor of History at Manchester Metropolitan University. Having completed both masters and doctoral theses under the supervision of Mike Rose, he continued to benefit from Mike’s advice and guidance in the years that followed. He has published books and articles on various aspects of British social history especially poverty, charity and social welfare and the history of Manchester. Alistair Mutch is Professor of Information and Learning at Nottingham Trent University. Having studied nineteenth-century



Contributorsxi

rural Lancashire under the supervision of Mike Rose for his PhD, he has managed, after working on aspects of organisation theory, to work his way back to the study of history. Via the study of Liverpool pubs he has arrived at eighteenth-century church governance: his Religion and National Identity: Governing Scottish Presbyterianism in the Eighteenth Century, is published by Edinburgh University Press. Dilwyn Porter studied history at the University of Manchester in the 1960s and considers himself very fortunate to have been taught by Mike Rose. Later, when teaching at the University of Worcester, Dil and his colleagues benefited enormously from Mike’s advice and support as their external examiner. His research has focused on the history of financial journalism, the history of mail-order retailing and also on the social and cultural history of sport. He has recently retired from his post as Professor of Sports History and Culture at De Montfort University but remains an active researcher, reviewer and writer. Dil is a past editor of the journal Sport in History and is currently working on Amateur Football in England: A Social and Cultural History (Peter Lang) and English Gentlemen and World Football: The Corinthians, c. 1880–1939 (Ashgate). Peter Shapely is Senior Lecturer in contemporary British History and Head of the School of History, Welsh History and Archaeology at Bangor University. For his PhD, he worked on governance and voluntary charities in nineteenth-century Manchester, under the supervision of Alan Kidd with Mike Rose as second supervisor. He then worked on policy, governance and twentieth-century housing and was given further valuable help and support from Mike (even though he’s an Alty fan and Peter has always supported Stalybridge Celtic). His publications include The Politics of Housing: Power, Consumers and Urban Culture (Manchester University Press, 2007). He is currently completing a monograph on urban deprivation and the state, 1967–79, to be published by Ashgate. Melanie Tebbutt is Professor of History at Manchester Metropolitan University, where Mike Rose’s association with the Friends of the Manchester Centre for Regional History, as chair of the Centre’s Friends’ group, spanned more than a decade. Her most recent publications are Being Boys: Youth Leisure and Identity in the Inter-war Years, published in paperback by Manchester University Press in

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2014 and Making Youth, A History of Youth in Modern Britain, Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. Pat Thane is Research Professor in Contemporary History, Kings College, London. Her publications include: The Foundations of the Welfare State (2nd edn, 1996); Old Age in English History. Past Experiences, Present Issues (2000); The Long History of Old Age (edn, 2005); Women and Citizenship in Britain and Ireland in the Twentieth Century. What Difference Did the Vote Make? (edited with Esther Breitenbach, 2010); Sinners? Scroungers? Saints? Unmarried Motherhood in Twentieth Century England (with Tanya Evans, 2012). She succeeded Mike Rose as Chair of the Social History Society, 2001–8. Terry Wyke teaches social and economic history at Manchester Metropolitan University. When he first heard Mike Rose speak in the early 1970s, his understanding of and feeling for the literature and language of the Victorians were obvious, as was the time he took to offer research guidance to a young scholar. Mike has remained ever helpful, not least to those beyond the walls of the university – a beacon and barometer for historians.

Introduction Alan Kidd and Melanie Tebbutt

This book of essays on British social and cultural history, ­eclectic, yet connected by similar themes and approaches, is in honour of Michael Edward Rose, Professor Emeritus at the University of Manchester. Mike’s deep knowledge of social and economic history and his commitment to making his subject accessible and relevant inspired generations of both students and colleagues. He was committed to blurring distinctions between the public and the ­ academy long before it became fashionable in university and funding mission statements. Many aspects of the chapters which follow relate in broad ways to the interests which Mike sustained throughout his career and into retirement. Writers, all of whom know him and his work, draw attention to relatively neglected topics which include personal and collective identities, the meanings of place, especially locality, and the significance of cultures of association. They capture in various ways the cultural meanings of political and civic life, from their expression in eighteenth-century administrative practices, to the evolving knowledge cultures of provincial historical societies, the imaginative and material construction of place reputations and struggles to establish medical provision for the workingclass in the face of entrenched special interests. They also explore the changing relationship between the state and the voluntary sector in the twentieth century and the role of popular magazines and the press in mediating and shaping popular opinion in an era of popular democracy.

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Various aspects of civil society connect these themes. Alistair Mutch, for example, in Chapter 1, excavates the archaeology of administrative practices in eighteenth-century rural parishes, using the evidence of churchwardens’ records from the Deanery of Bingham, Nottinghamshire, complemented by details of parish life from contemporary diaries. Churchwardens were part of the ‘­middling sort’, elite parish office holders whose freedom in devising their own administrative practices meant that patterns of accountability often varied considerably between parishes. These practices depended much on the personal character of the office holder, whose degree of local autonomy, Mutch suggests, reproduced a very ‘Anglican form of authority’. Churchwardens’ stewardship of money and conduct of accounts meetings had a personal, sociable dimension which contrasted with the rigorous, disciplined ‘forms of accountability’ associated with kirk sessions in Scotland during the same period, and Mutch argues that these distinctive patterns of administrative order deserve greater attention, because of their potential to offer new perspectives on emerging notions of national identity and difference. Where Mutch takes as his starting point a ‘particular form of English identity’ associated with the country churchyard and the Anglican parish, in Chapter 2 Alan Kidd evokes a different sense of place and locality through his delineation of the cultural sphere of amateur local historians and the associational culture of the local historical societies, from their origins in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to their evolution in the twentieth century. The ‘first county histories’, as Kidd points out, were commissioned by a literate minority of the gentry in the eighteenth century as a celebration of their ‘wealth and power’, whereas the county societies subsequently established in the nineteenth century expressed the urban and middle-class interests of provincial, bourgeois culture. Despite the persisting deference of ‘provincial cultural life’ in some regions, the history of these societies gradually came under the influence of more democratic impulses. County identities were consolidated with the establishment of county record offices as important repositories for local records, and some universities recognised local history as a valuable form of scholarship. The shadow of ‘amateurism’ remained, however, and the real shift in attitudes towards the subject came in the second half of the twentieth century, with the growth of democratic trends influenced by Edward Thompson’s challenge to elite history and emphases on ‘history from below’, exemplified by the



Introduction3

History Workshop movement. Community history, family history, oral history and, more recently, public history emerged, making local history one history among many, although differences in approach and participation should not obscure commonalities, as all were responses to different types of social and cultural change. Just as the administrative practices of Mutch’s churchwardens helped to shape emerging notions of national difference, Kidd illustrates how the work of nineteenth-century county historical societies contributed to an imagined notion of Englishness whose rural associations were a steadying counterpoint to a rapidly developing urban reality. The transformations which took place in the urban environment during the Victorian period also gave the public space of towns and cities new meanings, as Terry Wyke suggests in his essay in Chapter 3 on Sir Robert Peel, which examines how political lives and reputations were shaped by the commemorative culture of public portrait statues and busts. Peel’s death in 1850 and his subsequent memorialisation marked the start of a significant trend in public life, expressed in the commissioning of outdoor portrait statues to celebrate prominent local and national figures. Peel’s image, ‘forged’ by the contemporary press, was absorbed by a broader Liberal bourgeois narrative in cities like Manchester as a public statement of the reputation and achievements of the Anti-Corn Law League, and the repeal of the Corn Laws with which Peel was so strongly associated. Such portraiture, replete with political symbolism, played an important part in defining a new civic landscape in the Victorian period, a material narrative of political life which, as Wyke points out, had been largely forgotten by the second half of the twentieth century, although it remains a rich source of evidence which deserves greater attention. Another source of historical evidence whose value has attracted greater attention in recent years is the newspaper cartoon, which Alan Fowler draws on in his essay on the Lancashire writer and comic performer Sam Fitton, whose cartoons were published in the Cotton Factory Times, the weekly newspaper of Lancashire cotton operatives, between 1907 and 1917. Fitton’s work has been largely overlooked by historians and Fowler makes a valuable contribution to the biographical scholarship on British cartoonists, using Fitton’s cartoons on the home front to explore a neglected aspect of First World War history, the conditions and preoccupations of Lancashire cotton workers. Fowler places these within the broader context of the Lancashire cotton industry with which Fitton, himself a cotton worker, was very

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familiar, and draws attention to the richness of these cartoons as a regional source whose evocation of a sense of belonging and place among its Lancashire readers was very different from the civic pride exemplified by the local history societies and public statuary of the Victorian period, on which Kidd and Wyke focus. It has been argued that the civic pride which Wyke reveals through the statuary of public spaces gradually disappeared after its heyday in the Victorian period but Peter Shapely contests this view in Chapter 7, illustrating how in Manchester a combination of civic pride, social reform and policy rooted in the Victorian period were redefined over the twentieth century, albeit retaining a ‘boosterish’ emphasis on the city’s image and reputation, particularly in the 1960s. Young planners in the post-war years aimed to construct their own version of a modern cityscape in Manchester – a discourse of modernity and transformation into a ‘great European city’ delivered through a programme of ambitious building projects whose civic ambitions would have been familiar to their Victorian predecessors. During Manchester’s industrial decline between the mid-1970s and late 1980s these aspirations faltered, when economic and social optimism dissipated in the face of a bleaker view of the city’s prospects. Civic pride was, however, furthered by the ambitions of the local press, politicians and prominent figures and was eventually harnessed to new regeneration projects as the city’s industrial and commercial identity was reconfigured to reflect an economy based on the service sector, retail, finance and leisure and Manchester’s image was reinvented through high-profile redevelopment schemes and festivals based on sport and the arts. There were, as Shapely argues, continuities in how governing elites and institutions defined the contours of Manchester’s civic pride and reputation, a cultural hegemony that persisted across two centuries. This was, however, distinct from the sense of civic pride which many ordinary local residents experienced, as was manifested in responses to community-based history projects, a focus on a different kind of local attachment and identity, much as Kidd suggests in his essay and as Fowler exemplifies, albeit rather differently, in his analysis of Fitton’s cartoons in the Cotton Factory Times. Manchester’s civic and social life is taken in another direction, towards social reform, in Martin Hewitt’s Chapter 4 on the history of the provident dispensary movement, initiated in the 1870s by the social reformer Dr John Watts. Provident dispensaries, unlike the Hospital Funds movement, have been largely neglected in the



Introduction5

scholarship of medical philanthropy, although, as Hewitt argues, those in Manchester were central to national debates over hospital reform and served as a model for similar initiatives in other parts of the country. The establishment of provident dispensaries in the city encapsulated many of the challenges which impeded the development of medical provision for the working classes, as in the tensions which Hewitt illustrates in relation to the professional status and expectations of medical men, concerned about the movement’s threats to their fees and status. Watt’s scheme of provident dispensaries, which aimed to promote ‘a general scheme of medical insurance’, was ahead of its time, symptomatic, Hewitt argues, of the pitfalls which faced those committed to the establishment of a comprehensive system of healthcare in the late Victorian period. State involvement in the provision of social and medical welfare did, of course, grow during the twentieth century, when it was often seen as antagonistic to the work of voluntary associations which had pioneered many different types of welfare provision. Pat Thane argues in her essay in Chapter 6 that such assumptions are a false dichotomy and she develops a case study of the National Council for the Unmarried Mother and Her Child (NCUMC), founded in 1918, as a means through which to assess the changing landscape of twentiethcentury social welfare and the relationship between voluntary action and public sector welfare. The work of organisations like the NCUMC actually intensified with the growth of state welfare provision from the inter-war years onwards – a pattern which Thane suggests was duplicated across the welfare sector more generally. The establishment of the welfare state caused the NCUMC some uncertainty, but it continued to support unmarried mothers and their children and, like other voluntary organisations, filled the gaps that the state could not afford to deal with. Such organisations often worked closely with local authorities and developed an important mediating role with users, guiding them through the complexities of the state system and campaigning on behalf of lone parents. Thane contests political arguments that the ‘big society’ should replace the supposed ‘stranglehold’ of state welfare by highlighting the extent to which the historical relationship between voluntary associations and the state has ­actually been creative and mutually sustaining. The landscape of public discourse about social welfare changed significantly over the twentieth century as the influence of the popular press grew and moral panics about a range of social and welfare

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issues, including unmarried mothers, became common. The format of popular newspapers and magazines changed significantly after the First World War, particularly from the 1930s, when they adapted to the expansion of a mass readership by focusing much more on ‘human interest’ stories. Yet, if popular newspapers sensationalised, they also mediated the social and cultural changes which became more marked after the Second World War, as Dilwyn Porter suggests in Chapter 9 in his assessment of the public advice culture of ‘expert’ financial ­journalists at the Daily Mirror between the 1960s and early 1980s. The Daily Mirror dominated the mass-circulation market after the Second World War and took the letters it received from readers very seriously. It was already publishing different types of advice pages in the 1930s, including financial advice targeted at small investors. This ceased during the war, but was reintroduced in 1960 as a weekly feature offering financial and investment advice about stocks and shares. The range of queries the column received was, however, broader than this, and it dealt with thousands of letters each year about financial matters from readers who found its advice more accessible and less intimidating than speaking to financial professionals. The social optimism of the 1960s dissipated in the 1970s, however, as the economic situation deteriorated and the Daily Mirror’s financial advice had to adapt to a climate in which its own circulation was declining. Its core readership started to age and the column became more conservative, dealing with queries from older readers and worries about unemployment, and focusing more on ‘mitigating’ the effects of inflation and redundancy payments. Porter argues that the Daily Mirror had, in fact, misinterpreted its readers’ interest in ‘popular capitalism’ during full employment and rising living standards in the 1960s, when its advocacy of financial investment reflected contemporary beliefs that the values and aspirations of the workingclass were changing, with greater opportunities to borrow, save and spend. As he points out, its financial journalists were forced over time to moderate their ambitions to the actual concerns of the newspaper’s readership, adapting to more pragmatic queries about family budgeting and personal savings rather than focusing on large investments. Melanie Tebbutt’s essay in Chapter 8 also uses advice columns as a means of tracing some of the changes which transformed workingclass culture after the Second World War, although her focus is on the personal advice pages of teenage magazines, an important expression of girls’ culture between the mid-1950s and late 1970s. Tebbutt



Introduction7

takes as her subject Mirabelle magazine, widely read by girls in this period, although its popularity has been largely over-shadowed by the most popular teenage magazine of the time, which was Jackie. Tebbutt stresses the importance of not over-generalising about the advice in such columns, and the need to know more about who wrote them. Advice pages in teenage magazines from the 1950s and 1960s have received less attention that those of the later decades of the twentieth century and Tebbutt traces the changes which took place in queries and answers from the time of Mirabelle’s first publication, in 1956, when its advice column was identified with a marriage bureau in central Manchester, to its cessation production in 1977, by which time discussion of sexual matters, including pregnancy outside marriage, had become more open. Magazines aimed at the teenage market tended to lag behind the more explicit advice of women’s magazines and the popular press, but they eventually became an important source of sexual information and trends for young people. Such correspondence was recognised as an important indication of readers’ preoccupations and concerns, and both Tebbutt and Porter illustrate how the relationship between readers and advice pages in popular newspapers and magazines was nuanced. Published letters were only the tip of an iceberg. They were edited and selected, but the great volume of unpublished letters was usually answered by a support team whose preoccupations helped to inflect the content of the publications to which they were sent and supported a more mutually sustaining relationship with readers than has often been recognised. It is fitting that several of these essays take Manchester or Lancashire as their theme, as the history of the city and its region has continued to occupy Mike Rose’s time and attention many years into his retirement. It is similarly appropriate, given his own work on poverty and the Poor Law and active involvement with a range of different voluntary groups, that the collection should include an essay like Thane’s on the voluntary sector and the welfare state and others, like Kidd’s, which examine the roots of local historical societies to which Mike has been so committed and has himself written about. We hope that Mike will enjoy this book and that it will achieve a wide readership among those who, like him, see social and cultural history as having much to offer both the enthusiast and the academic. Michael Edward Rose was an only child, born in 1936 to a clerical family.1 His mother came from a family with a Nottinghamshire mining background. His father was a Lancashire-born clergyman in

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the Church of England, firstly in charge of a parish in Sheffield and then in Masbrough, a suburb of Rotherham. This is where Mike was brought up and educated, at Rotherham Grammar School, where he became head boy. From an early age he was an enthusiastic follower of Rotherham United Football Club, whose matches he attended with his father, who was later moved to a rural parish, Burghwallis, near Doncaster, by which time Mike had gone up to Oxford University, having won a scholarship to study history at Jesus College. This was in 1957, after a two-year stint of national service where he served as an ammunitions examiner (first class) in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps.

1. Mike Rose during the early part of his career in the History Department of the University of Manchester



Introduction9

At Jesus College, Mike was one of a cluster of ex-national service northern young men who felt themselves more mature than the younger undergraduates who had come straight from school. He was a hard-working and diligent student and obtained a first class degree. He became interested in politics and joined the Labour Party Young Socialists. Whilst at Jesus he moved in an elevated political circle that introduced him to Julia and Cressida Gaitskell, daughters of the then Labour Party leader and Griselda Grimond, daughter of the then Liberal Party leader. On one memorable occasion he breakfasted alongside Earl Atlee, the former prime minister. From Jesus he moved as a post-graduate student to Nuffield College, where Max Hartwell, then editor of the Economic History Review, and John Habbakuk, Chichele Professor of Economic History and Professorial Fellow of All Souls, supervised his doctoral thesis on the introduction of the New Poor Law in the West Riding of Yorkshire, 1820–55. Mike was awarded his D.Phil. in 1965. The interest in Labour politics continued at Nuffield, where he came into contact with such Labour luminaries as Harold Wilson, James Callaghan and Tony Benn. Whilst at Nuffield Mike renewed the acquaintance of a childhood friend, Christine Jones, then a staff nurse at University College Hospital. They subsequently married and have two sons and a daughter and three grandchildren. In 1962 Mike obtained his first university post as Assistant Lecturer in Economic History in Manchester University’s celebrated History Department. This was a most appropriate location for a historian of the Poor Law, since it has been observed in a festschrift for another of the University’s eminent economic and social historians that ‘Manchester University has played a major role in the development of economic and social history as well as of history in Britain’.1 This was the department that in the early twentieth century had been the academic home of the renowned medievalists T. F. Tout and James Tait. It was during this era that, in 1910, Manchester University appointed George Unwin to the first Chair of Economic History in Britain. Between the world wars Manchester’s eminent historians included Lewis Namier and A. J. P. Taylor, as well as notable economic historians such as T. S. Ashton and Arthur Redford. It was during the 1930s that T. S. Willan, who later became Professor of Economic History in the Department (1961–73), gained his first appointment as an assistant lecturer. When Mike took up a place among the group of economic historians, the sections of the Department (Ancient, Medieval, Modern

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and Economic) were distinct groupings. History students did not need to study all four areas. Economic historians lectured on the interdisciplinary BA(Econ) degree programme and, in addition, Mike taught a second-year course in English social history since 1850 on the BA(General Arts) degree. At this time the economic historians ran third-year courses (special subjects) of their own choosing. Mike’s first special subject was on the era of the Napoleonic Wars. His second was entitled ‘The Victorians’, and from 1976 he jointly taught with Colin Phillips a third-year course on the history of the English family since 1500. He contributed extensively to MA programmes, and to the Extra-Mural Department’s Certificate in Local History. This was in the 1970s and early 1980s. Mike’s interests in Victorian literature allowed him to interact easily with colleagues in the English Department, notably Alan Shelston, and from that developed interdisciplinary MA courses on nineteenth-century topics. He was a frequent contributor to field trips organised for new students and also to weekend study courses away from Manchester. In the mid1970s Mike supervised the History Department’s work in validating teacher’s certificate courses in teacher training colleges affiliated to the University. This was good experience for his later role as Chair of the History Validation Panel for the Council for National Academic Awards. W. H. Chaloner was a force to be reckoned with in the History Department in the 1960s and the 1970s (he retired in 1981), which was also the era of other eminent economic historians such as W. O. Henderson and A. E. Musson, who succeeded Willan as Professor of Economic History in 1973, serving until his retirement in 1982. Despite the threat of ossification in the 1960s, during Mike’s time at the Department, economic history was eventually joined by social history, due in no small part to Mike’s own efforts. The nomenclature was, however, slow to change. When Mike had joined the Department Harold Perkin was lecturer in social history, and when Perkin moved to Lancaster University in 1965 it was somewhat ironic that B. L. Anderson, an economic historian with a strong interest in bills and other financial instruments, was appointed in social history to succeed him. When Anderson moved to Liverpool in 1970 the social history lectureship lapsed. When Mike was promoted to lecturer in 1965, and later to senior lecturer in 1974, he kept his title in economic history. It has been argued that the rise of the new universities which were created or expanded during the 1960s, such as Sussex, Lancaster, East



Introduction11

Anglia, Essex, Warwick, Keele and York, posed a particular ­challenge to the established ‘redbrick’ universities such as Manchester, with their longer traditions and often entrenched ways. In all, around twenty new universities were founded in that decade. The exodus of staff to fill posts in these new, so-called ‘plateglass’ universities left some subject departments staffed mainly by professors and assistant lecturers, leaving few middle-career staff with the authority to challenge the views of the great professors, which had distinct i­ mplications for the character and scope of teaching and research and often stifled innovation. Mike himself commented on this phenomenon in an interview with Brian Pullan for the latter’s history of Manchester University. As Mike observed: ‘Every time a vacancy came up the tendency was to appoint somebody who would fill the gap that person had left, rather than thinking about new areas like social history or gender history or oral history, which were coming on the agenda in the late 1960s, early 1970s.’2 Mike never expected to stay at Manchester University – he thought it would be only a three-year post. He had not set out with a clear career plan and was not overtly ambitious. At Manchester he always preferred teaching to research. He was notable for the liveliness and enthusiasm of his teaching style and his ‘open door’ attitude to students, which made him approachable and likeable to generations of undergraduates and postgraduates. He showed a willingness to supervise many mature research students, which was characteristic of his commitment to people rather than to a predetermined career path. During the student unrest of the late 1960s, when undergraduates occupied the Whitworth Hall, amongst other protests, Mike as a young tutor felt sympathy with the demonstrators and was certainly not fazed by these events, as were some of his older colleagues. Over the years Mike became a central figure in the economic history section of the History Department, which included colleagues such as Douglas Farnie, Peter Gatrell, Joseph Harrison, Andrew Marrison and Colin Phillips. After Musson’s retirement the University appointed Mike to be in administrative charge of economic history, a post he held between 1982 and 1989. By this time the new generation of economic and social historians were a coherent presence within the department and an inclusive and unfussy aspect of the experience of students and outsiders alike. Mike’s office was often an informal gathering place for staff and students, or where lively and engaging seminars might be held, sometimes with guest speakers. Mike’s own

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career in the History Department progressed until he was awarded a personal chair in 1991, when he became Professor of Modern Social History, a post he held till his retirement in 1999. As the son of a clergyman, Mike’s early social life had revolved round the church and it is not surprising that when he and Christine first moved to Manchester they got involved in church affairs. She was employed as a nurse at the Manchester Royal Infirmary, and since neither knew Manchester well the church network provided a good way to get to know their adopted city and its people. In the early days they attended services at Manchester Cathedral, where their second son was christened. Given Mike’s propensity for involvement in community matters it is perhaps no surprise that for a while he acted as editor of the Manchester Cathedral News. Once they had settled in the south Manchester suburb of Sale the family attended the local parish church, although Mike’s attendance waned after his father died. Mike’s formal political engagement continued in Manchester. In the late 1960s he joined the Labour Party in Sale, was an active canvasser at election times and stood as Labour candidate in his own ward for two or three elections. This should not be taken to imply that he sought a political career. In fact Mike’s prime consideration was that the ward was unwinnable. It was always either Tory or Liberal territory and, had Mike stood a chance of being elected, he might have been less willing to fly the flag for Labour. In truth he thought he would not be able to dedicate the time necessary to be a good local government councillor. Nonetheless, his political commitment continued for decades, as did his reluctance to do more than assist in the wings. He resisted the requests to stand for a seat in Timperley in a more winnable ward but did agree to act as Labour Party agent for the Altrincham and Sale West constituency in the 1997 general election, a seat which Labour came close to winning, reducing a 12,000 Tory majority to just 1,500. Despite Mike’s minor part in the ‘New Labour’ landslide of 1997, he was never a Blairite and regards himself very much as ‘Old Labour’. Mike’s willingness to volunteer his abilities beyond the four walls of academe led him to adopt an outreach approach to learning. Mike was one of those who followed in the fine traditions of Manchester historians (especially social and economic historians) who gave extramural lectures, offered Workers’ Educational Association courses and later contributed to the History Workshop movement, that 1970s precursor of what we might today call public history. Mike ran the



Introduction13

Manchester branch of the History Workshop, which brought together academics, students and knowledgeable members of the public. He was involved in organising the 1977 History Workshop conference, appropriately held in the former boardroom of the Poor Law guardians of the Chorlton Union, which had become a conference centre run by Manchester Polytechnic. It was inevitable that he was an enthusiastic advocate of the remarkable and unique collection of books and materials gathered by Ruth and Eddie Frow, the basis of what later became the Working-Class Movement Library in Salford. He was to become a long-time ‘Friend’ of the Library. He was also an early and enthusiastic supporter of the National Museum of Labour History (later the People’s History Museum). Mike was also one of those who, in the mid-1980s, helped to save the Manchester branch of the Historical Association. The Manchester branch, which had been founded in 1907 and had a long association with Manchester University, faced a sharp decline in membership numbers and attendances in the 1970s and early 1980s, which was compounded by the difficulty in finding officers to organise events, invite speakers, chair meetings and so on. The branch faced almost certain collapse. At this point, Mike stepped in along with two others from the History Department (Frank O’Gorman and John Breuilly) and they effectively rescued the Historical Association in Manchester by agreeing to take turns acting as programme secretary. In addition, Mike was involved in the outreach work of local galleries, the Manchester Art Gallery and the Whitworth. This generosity with his time continued into retirement in such roles as an active school governor, listening to children’s reading at nursery and primary school, conducting very popular guided walks, getting involved in heritage conservation and more formally acting as a long-serving chair of the Friends of the Manchester Centre for Regional History. Much of this was local, but Mike’s commitment to the new subdiscipline of social history led him to volunteer his services to the Social History Society, the national society created to encourage this approach to the study of the past. He was an active member over many years from its foundation by Harold Perkin in the mid-1970s. This association began with the inaugural meeting of the Society on 3 January 1976, when Mike was elected as the Society’s first secretary, which reflected his standing at that time in the embryonic world of ‘Social History’. His service to the new society continued. He was appointed acting Chair for 1979–80 whilst Professor Perkin was

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People, places and identities

on sabbatical and the records show him as still being a committee member in 1997. He was Chair of the Society in his own right from 1998 until 2001, when he became an Honorary Vice President, a role which continues. The Society’s annual conferences, wherever held, would see Mike active in chairing sessions and making speeches. Mike and Eric Evans organised the annual conference at the University of York in January 1980 and he and Alan Fowler were the conference organisers for the ‘Vice and Virtue’ conference held in Manchester in 2002, a very successful event. This should come as no surprise, but is perhaps remarkable, since neither Mike nor Alan used e-mail or the internet. Mike is a self-confessed technophobe who doesn’t type or use computers (despite attending a three-month long computer course at Trafford College, at the behest of Christine) and has been known to boast that he has only to stand by a photocopier for it to break down. As his editors will know, he still submits his contributions in long hand. Mike was also an active and long-time member of the Economic History Society, serving as a member of Council between 1975 and 1990. He co-organised the Society’s 1991 conference, held in Manchester, again with Alan Fowler. Mike is a keen athlete who was a cross-country runner in early life and still jogs every day. He has completed several charity and 10-kilometre runs. This activity began whilst he was on an extended exchange visit to the United States at Columbia University in 1981– 82. On this same trip he learned to drive and, although he was briefly qualified to operate an automobile in the US, he has never acquired a licence in the UK, where he is an inveterate user of public transport. His enthusiasm for football remains undimmed since the days when he watched Rotherham United with his father. University colleagues recall him as goalkeeper in the staff five-a-side team during the 1970s and early 1980s. When he first moved to Manchester he attended Manchester United home games but, as his sons grew up in the 1970s and 1980s (an era of violence between rival groups of fans), rather than take them to a big city club like United he preferred the family atmosphere of games at Altrincham Football Club, a team he supports avidly. As one might expect, given his life-long propensity for getting involved, Mike has served on the committee of Altrincham Supporters Trust and has been active with the youth team. His engagement with his local community of Timperley is exemplified by his involvement in the Larkhill Centre Community Association, of which he is a trustee.



Introduction15

Michael Rose was arguably the foremost expert on the Victorian Poor Law writing during the second half of the twentieth century, although his academic interests and teaching encompassed many other varied aspects of British social history. His doctoral thesis was on the Poor Law and it is in this area of social and economic history that the main stream of his published work has subsequently come. The first publication appeared in the Economic History Review in 1966. Entitled ‘The Allowance System under the New Poor Law’, this influential article undermined the extent to which the Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 could be seen as a watershed in welfare history. Mike found that the allowance system that had been so severely condemned by the Poor Law Commissioners, whose Report underpinned the reform, was still in operation in West Yorkshire in the decades following 1834. This pioneering study, later confirmed by the research of other historians in other localities, led to a new view of nineteenth-century welfare policy that emphasised the absence of uniformity in the New Poor Law and the extent to which local poor law authorities could resist or even subvert the orders of the central authority in London. It was not long before Mike became an accepted authority on the English Poor Law in the nineteenth century. In recognition of this he was commissioned by the Economic History Society to write the volume on the New Poor Law in its prestigious series, Studies in Economic and Social History. Thus the Relief of Poverty was published in 1972 (2nd edition, 1986) and soon became the standard text on the subject. A year prior to this saw the publication of The English Poor Law 1780–1930 (1971), a book of selected documents with commentary that further endorsed Mike’s standing as the leading historian of the Poor Law and provided an invaluable sourcebook both for teaching and for research. Other articles and book chapters that appeared at this early stage of his career similarly strengthened his reputation. Most notable were: ‘The Anti-Poor Law movement’, in J. T. Ward, ed., Popular Movements 1830–1850 (1970); ‘The New Poor Law in an industrial area’, in R. M. Hartwell, The Industrial Revolution (1970); and an essay on the laws of settlement and removal under the Poor Law that has become the standard account of the subject, ‘Settlement, removal and the New Poor Law’, in D. Fraser, ed., The New Poor Law in the Nineteenth Century (1976). Mike’s early publications had thus undermined what he himself was to call ‘the Whig theory of welfare’, and together formed one of

16

People, places and identities

the key building blocks of a new model of poor-relief policy. His next major contribution was to shift the focus of research to a later period than the 1830s. In another book essay, ‘The crisis of poor relief in England, 1860–1890’, in W. J. Mommsen, ed., The Emergence of the Welfare State in England and Germany (1981), he proposed the notion that it was only after the 1860s that there was a sustained effort to enforce the ‘principles of 1834’ in a determined attempt to reduce the numbers of able-bodied persons in receipt of poor relief. Unlike the situation immediately after 1834, this policy focused on urban rather than rural areas and appeared to be more effective in reducing welfare costs. The documentary sources for Poor Law history are numerous and many research students have been sent to scour the mountains of evidence to be found in the MH12 classification of the National Archives and the plentiful documentary trails of local Poor Law administration, such as board of guardians’ minute books, to be found in county record offices. Social historians have supervised many such dissertations over the years, Mike more than most. Few, however, made such effective use of this experience as he did. In 1985 he brought four of these students to print in an excellent and well-received collection of extended essays entitled The Poor and the City: the English Poor Law in its urban context, 1834–1914. Focusing on the latter part of this period and influenced by Mike’s own reassessment of the urban Poor Law after the relief crisis of the 1860s, the book heralded a shift of focus in Poor Law studies, away from ‘1834 and all that’ and towards a recognition of the significance of the latter decades of the nineteenth century. One of the essays in that book explored the relationship between the Poor Law and charitable provision. This reflects the growing understanding that the Poor Law could not be treated in isolation and that what another historian called ‘a mixed economy of welfare’ prevailed. Mike’s later essay, ‘Poverty and self help: Britain in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries’, in A. Digby et al., New Directions in Economic and Social History Volume 2 (1992), exemplified this trend. It is a measure of the value of his writing that to this day no account of the nineteenth-century poor law would be complete without at least one (and usually several) citations of his work. Mike’s contribution to our understanding of the politics of poor relief extended not only to his essay on the Anti-Poor Law movement mentioned above but also to a spirited account of unrest during the Lancashire Cotton Famine of the 1860s. When the prevailing



Introduction17

view was of a quiescent and long-suffering cotton workforce that willingly accepted the privations of the Famine, it was original and illuminating to read Mike’s account of unrest and riot in protest at relief cuts. ‘Rochdale Man and the Staleybridge riot’ appeared in A. P. Donajgrodski, ed., Social Control in Nineteenth Century Britain (1977). Mike’s research interests extend beyond the Poor Law. In 1985 he published an insightful essay, ‘Culture, philanthropy and the Manchester middle classes’, in A. J. Kidd and K. W. Roberts, eds, City, Class and Culture: Studies of Cultural Production and Social Policy in Victorian Manchester. The theme of middle-class culture and voluntarism continued when he was commissioned to deliver one of a series of public lectures to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the founding of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire. This was later published as ‘Clio, culture and the city: historical societies in their nineteenth-century urban context’, in volume 147 of the Transactions of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire. An association with the history of Ancoats, the inner-city industrial suburb of Manchester that acted as a powerhouse of the steam age and which contains some of the world’s oldest steam-powered factory buildings, began in the 1990s when, with Anne Woods, Mike was commissioned to write a small book on the history of the Manchester University Settlement in its centenary year, Everything went on at the Round House: A Hundred Years of the Manchester University Settlement (1995). This was a fruit of research on the university settle­ ment movement in general, which found Mike in various archives and repositories on both sides of the Atlantic. The link with Ancoats persists. In retirement Mike’s commitment to the salvation and restoration of the remnants of the built environment of this historically important district found expression in research work that he did on behalf of the Ancoats Buildings Preservation Trust (now part of Heritage Works), culminating in an English Heritage book, Ancoats: Cradle of Industrialisation, published in 2011. The list of his publications does not touch on the impact Mike has had at all levels in the profession and beyond. The goodwill and affection this evokes is a testament to his commitment to innumerable students over the years and the contribution he has made to involving a wider audience in the development of public history. One is reminded of the compliment paid to one of Mike’s most i­ llustrious predecessors at Manchester, James Tait, Professor of Ancient and Medieval History 1902–19, whose festschrift records with gratitude ‘the unstinted and

18

People, places and identities

kindly help he has given to f­ellow-workers within and without the universities’.3 It is fitting that these words can be applied with equal accuracy to the life and work of another of Manchester University’s great historians, Michael Edward Rose. Acknowledgements The editors are grateful to Christine Rose, Colin Phillips (who acknowledges the guidance of the University of Manchester’s archivist), Linda Persson, Alan Fowler and Terry Wyke, who provided some of the information used in writing this section of the introduction. Gratitude is further extended to Terry Wyke for compiling the index to the book and also to Donald Rae who assisted him. Notes 1 C. Wrigley, ‘Manchester’s historians: archives and industry’, in J. F. Wilson ed., King Cotton: A Tribute to Douglas A. Farnie (Lancaster, 2009), p. 23. 2 B. Pullan with M. Abendstern, A History of the University of Manchester 1951–73 (Manchester, 2000), p. 99. 3 J. G. Edwards, V. H. Galbraith and E. F. Jacob, eds, Historical Essays in Honour of James Tait (Manchester, 1933), p. v.

1

Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’: place, practice and identity in eighteenth-century rural England Alistair Mutch

One of the quintessential sites for a particular form of English ­identity is the country churchyard. Here the social structure of the village is preserved in death with, for the eighteenth century, the poorer villagers being notable by their absence. The surviving headstones mark the resting places of the more prosperous, those we have come to know as the ‘middling sort’.1 In the Vale of Belvoir on the Leicestershire/Nottinghamshire border there was a particularly strong tradition in the mid to late nineteenth century of finely carved slate gravestones.2 When these are compared to the records of parish office holding there is a considerable correlation with those who held the office of churchwarden. For example, at Screveton, Pevsner and Williamson note a particularly fine example of a slate headstone with masonic emblems by Wood of Bingham.3 William Gibson, who is commemorated by the stone, was a churchwarden from 1795 to 1801. In another Nottinghamshire churchyard, Langar, is a Grade 2 listed headstone to Gervas Howe who died in 1783. He, too, was a long-serving churchwarden. The cluster of family headstones commemorating the Howes lies close to the south porch of the church, but this is as far as our churchwardens get, for the interior of churches is reserved for the memorials to incumbents and landowners. However, churchwardens leave their marks here in other ways. In Langar it is in an inscription on one of the beams supporting the roof of the nave, which associates William Wells and Henry Wright as churchwardens with the re-roofing of the nave in 1750. At the west end of another

20

People, places and identities

church, that at East Bridgford, is a series of tablets bearing the details of charitable donations to the parish, including one recording: Mr JOHN WILSON bequeathed by will dated Janr 20 1792 to JOHN WILKINSON & Jno MILLINGTON Churchwardens and their successors in the same office, the sum of Forty Pounds the interest arising therefrom he directed to be given in Bread yearly on the 12th of January to the poor of this Parish. Mr THOS HOLLAND Bequeathed by will to JOHN WILKINSON and HENRY STOKES, churchwardens and their successors in the same office the sum of 40 pounds. The interest arising therefrom to be given to the poor of this parish at the discretion of the Churchwardens Janr 1st 1828.

Similar plaques and headstones could be found in many rural churches, so much so that they fade into the background, being part of the taken-for-granted furniture. This chapter seeks to bring them into sharper relief by using them to tell us something about the nature of the ‘middling sort’ in eighteenth-century rural England. The work of Henry French has shown the importance of parish office holding in the identity of the parish elite. He notes that ‘there can be little doubt either that parish office was the administrative experience par excellence of the “middling”, or that it reinforced certain values’.4 However, he tells us very little about the content of this experience. By contrast, Keith Snell has explored the role of the parish overseer in some detail, albeit for the nineteenth century. This is part of an agenda to ‘infuse cultural meaning into administrative history, to extend such history to show how it has many cultural and social causes and ramifications’.5 In this chapter, I seek to show, drawing upon archival and printed sources, that the practices of parish administration, specifically those associated with the office of churchwarden, reproduced and reinforced a particular form of authority. That form of authority was very much a personal one shaped and guided by custom. So, the East Bridgford bequest is one to personally named wardens, rather than to a corporate body. This was a form of accountability which rested very much on the personal character of the office holder and, in this, reproduced a very Anglican form of authority. That is, while the Church of England had a strongly hierarchical form of authority, as exemplified in the figure of the bishop, it was one which also allowed a considerable degree of autonomy in practice.6 The incumbent holding his benefice as a freehold was subject to little effective discipline in practice and the same could be said to be true of the churchwardens.



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’21

This reinforces a particularly English focus on character, as opposed to system or education, in the formation of leadership.7 This discussion, therefore supports that of French on the importance of gentility as a status to be aspired to. Records of accountability The discussion presented here is based on two types of sources. At its core is a systematic analysis of the surviving churchwardens’ records from 20 parishes in the deanery of Bingham, Nottinghamshire.8 This area was selected for analysis because of its largely rural character in the eighteenth century. Lying to the south of Nottingham, it was affected by the industrial development of that town with the growth of framework knitting later in the century.9 However, it remained largely agrarian, with only small towns at Bingham and Radcliffe on Trent. Some of the pastoral land close to the Trent was an early target of enclosures to support stock rearing, but much of the land lay in open fields until the second half of the century. Even with the enclosure movement, agrarian practices in the area remained conservative.10 Likewise, the religious complexion of the area was overwhelmingly Anglican, with Methodism only starting to make limited inroads at the end of the period.11 This makes it a good area to study the nature of administrative practices that might obtain in rural parishes, shielded as it was from urban or commercial influences. This study was guided by the nature of practices to be examined, rather than by the survival of records. The parishes all belonged to the same administrative unit of the church and so offered the possibility of transfer of practices. In many other studies, which have focused on rich investigations of specific parishes, much has been guided by the availability of records.12 However, this means that we are unsure about how representative such parishes are of wider practices. Examining a set of contiguous parishes, as Pitman did for Norfolk for an earlier period, allows us to draw some conclusions about how common certain practices were in the local area.13 The disadvantage of selecting this focus on one connected group of parishes is that we are at the mercy of the survival of records. Of the 55 parishes in the Deanery, only 22 useable sets of papers survived and very few of these were continuous runs. In addition, very little record of any formal vestries survives, with the records being overwhelmingly in the form of sets of accounts. This body of material enabled some useful conclusions to be drawn, pointing in

22

People, places and identities

particular to the personal form of accountability noted above, but the limitations created by the form of the records and the local focus of the investigation need to be corrected by the use of other forms of evidence. That form of evidence is the surviving and published diaries of the period. The most famous of these is the diary of ‘Parson Woodforde’.14 Incumbent of Weston Longville in Norfolk from 1776 to 1803, these diaries are famous for their detail, especially of Woodforde’s eating habits! Their meticulous recording of the mundane details of everyday life suggests that they might be a valuable source of information on parish life, specifically on interactions with parish officers. They have been published in full and an analysis of them for details of parish life helps to supplement the findings drawn from Bingham. Of even more value, however, is another published diary, that of Thomas Turner of East Hoathly in Sussex.15 Turner, a shopkeeper, was both a meticulous diary keeper and a conscientious parish officer. His diary takes us into the world of the vestry and provides a valuable secular counterpoint to Woodforde’s clerical concerns. These two major sources have been supplemented with the other published eighteenth-century diaries, mainly from clerics, that are used in the major works of church history of the period.16 Of course, there are many limitations to diaries as a source. They are inevitably selective in what they cover and many are of the form of commonplace books or journals, rather than diaries. In addition, many show the marks of retrospective completion. However, in what they record, or perhaps more importantly don’t record, they give us an insight into priorities, as well as, sometimes, content which complements the material drawn from the accounts. In the discussion that follows, therefore, the evidence from the diaries is interwoven with the analysis of the accounts in order to explore whether the patterns found in Bingham were of wider relevance. A brief outline of the key findings from this analysis is presented before some key themes are selected for further discussion. Practices of accountability On the 20 April 1778 Woodforde notes in his diary, ‘I sent a note to the Gentlemen at the Heart at their Easter meeting, nominating M. Burton my Churchwarden.’17 This brief note encapsulates much of the ‘ideal type’ of the selection of parish officers – the meeting at Easter



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’23

and the selection of two churchwardens, one for the incumbent and one for the people. In East Hoathly Turner records a clear pattern for the selection of parish officers: churchwardens and the overseer of the poor at Easter and surveyors for the upkeep of roads in the parish in December. He does not mention the other parish officer, the constable, perhaps because this was regarded as of much lower status and was the office most likely to be occupied by those below the rank of farmer. In the hierarchy of office the churchwarden was at the apex, although in many cases the role was blurred with other functions, notably the care of the poor. The main functions were the maintenance of church discipline, the care of the fabric of the church and the support of the incumbent in the provision of materials (such as those for communion). However, in many cases these functions overlapped with others. Many churchwardens’ accounts in Bingham record matters such as the provision for the poor, most notably in the supply of materials for the poor to work on. This was taken furthest in the parish of Shelford, where from 1729 the separate sets of accounts were replaced with one unified set under the control of a ‘parish officer’ who combined the roles of churchwarden, overseer and surveyor. Here, too, accounts were presented every six months. This was atypical, but it reminds us that it is dangerous to assume that the ‘typical’ pattern as laid down in works such as Tate obtained everywhere.18 A closer examination of practices across a particular set of parishes and over time enables us to test this pattern. For Tate, the post-Reformation church settled on a pattern of annual office holding, with two wardens being selected at a vestry of the substantial inhabitants at Easter. Although not specifically laid down in the legislation, by custom one of the wardens represented and was selected by the incumbent, the other by the people. They served for a year and presented their accounts to the meeting in the following year. They were responsible for getting agreement to the setting of a church rate, if needed, to cover expenditure, and for its collection. They were confirmed in office by the archdeacon at his half-yearly visitation, which they were required to attend. At the next visitation they were to present any concerns about parishioners, the fabric of the church or the conduct of the incumbent. They in turn faced the possibility of presentation by the incumbent if he felt they were neglecting their duties. In the Bingham deanery some of the smaller parishes departed from this pattern, with five having only one warden. One parish,

24

People, places and identities

Langar, had three churchwardens. The majority of parishes, therefore, had two wardens, but the patterns of selection could be complex. In only four of the parishes was there a classic pattern of single-year office holding. In many we see the emergence of extensive periods of office holding by one warden, with others serving shorter periods. In Bingham, for example, William Petty served as warden from 1771 until past the end of our period. Because of disputes in the parish we know that he was the incumbent’s warden.19 In this case his counterpart generally served an annual term of office, until George Baxter, his bitter rival, served a six-year spell. In this case we know that Petty ‘had refused to have anything to do with him [Baxter] since his appointment and “always turned away from him”’.20 Other parishes also had long-serving wardens. Richard Watt, for example, served single handed at Stanton in the Wolds from 1780 to 1815; in Flintham, John Jebb’s term of office as what appears to be the incumbent’s warden of six years was followed by the ten-year tenure of Charles Neale.21 Their counterparts over the same period generally served two-year terms. In Wiltshire Spaeth notes that ‘Landholders shared the office of churchwarden between them, with each farm taking its turn, a procedure that ensured that the richest farmers did not monopolise parish office.’22 We see below that the motive for this practice, also noted in Tate, might be as much about the avoidance of office as a desire to occupy it. In 1757 Turner notes that William Piper was selected as overseer, ‘but as it was proved Will. Piper had served it very lately, it was agreed Ed. Hope should serve it’. This did not settle the matter, as six days later, ‘Called a vestry to consult about the overseers that were nominated on Monday last, they both declaring they will not serve it, but (as is the custom of our vestries) we came to no resolution concerning it.’23 This indicates some of the conflicts over serving, and customs of the rotation of office could help ease such conflicts. In the parish of Screveton, for example, examination of office holding over the years 1761 to 1780 indicates two patterns. The first is a regular pattern of office holding, separated by about seven years. Within this, there is a practice of serving for two years, first as the people’s warden, then for the incumbent. What emerges from this is the variability of practice across the deanery, with the system employed being shaped by local custom, something Pitman also points out for a much earlier period.24 It was noted above that vestry minutes are fragmentary for the Bingham parishes examined, but we might be able to glean some



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’25

patterns from the dating of the accounts. In the same 1757 meeting on Easter Monday where Turner notes officers being selected, he also records, ‘I made up my accounts with the parish.’25 Similarly, albeit for a period just beyond our time-frame, William Holland, incumbent of Over Stowey in Somerset, notes a parish meeting held in the rectory on Easter Monday 1814, ‘where we signed’.26 However, analysis of the accounts from Bingham parishes does not confirm this pattern. Only 379 of 672 of the balanced accounts bear the date of agreement, perhaps reflecting the local nature of the accounts as discussed more below. Of those which are dated, very few are in March or April, when Easter falls. A slim majority (199 or 52 per cent) were dated in May or June, but the rest were scattered through the year, with 15 per cent being signed in October and November. Of course, it may be that officers were chosen at the Easter meeting, with accounts being appoved later, but at the least the Bingham sample indicates a considerable decoupling of the two events, with the lack of a smooth transition between the two. This mattered for wardens, given the likelihood that they were owed money at the end of their term of office. When Turner made up accounts following his term as overseer the result was that, ‘there remains due to me £25 14s 10½d’.27 This pattern of indebtedness is also demonstrated in the Bingham sample and it has considerable implications for those who held parochial office. Of the 672 balances, 53.27 per cent were negative – that is, wardens were owed money at the end of their term of office. This varied considerably from parish to parish, with 81 per cent of the unfortunate officers of Shelford being owed money. In Langer, Gervas Howe, whose fine headstone we have already noted, served with Mathew Dextor in 1756; when accounts were settled two years later he was owed £22 16s 2d. Despite this (or perhaps to ensure he recovered his money) he served another two-year term of office with Dextor, at the end of which he was still owed £10. Despite having this balance agreed in December 1760, he was not reimbursed by his successors until June 1762.28 It would be only the wealthier inhabitants who could stand this level of indebtedness (as well as a fine slate headstone). This brief summary suggests some features of the system of parochial office holding, with specific reference to churchwardens. One outstanding feature is that practice varied considerably from parish to parish, with no clear template. There are some standard underlying features, but considerable variability around the pattern of two

26

People, places and identities

wardens holding office for annual terms. What was common was the personal nature of accountability, something which is explored further below. Here three aspects are selected for further discussion, all concerned with the ways in which accounting for actions was carried out in practice. We look at the forms in which accounts were presented, the places in which this occurred and the involvement (or lack thereof) of the incumbent. Before that, however, Turner’s diary gives us a good insight into the operation of the system that we have outlined. As a conscientious parish officer, he opens a door to the otherwise hidden world of the parish meeting, showing us the debate and contention that lay behind the signed accounts. He also gives us more detail of the pattern of meetings, particularly when, as in 1756, he records what appears to be a comprehensive list of meetings. There were two meetings to select officers: the churchwardens and overseers were selected at the Easter meeting and a meeting was held in late December to select the surveyors.29 William Cole, incumbent of Blechley, also notes the surveyor being regularly chosen at a Vestry on St Stephen’s day (26 December), although in Over Stowey this meeting was held in October.30 It was the best-attended meeting in East Hoathly, with Turner noting attendances of 16 in 1755 and 13 in 1756. Attendance at other meetings ranged from 12 to 6, with a median attendance of 7 or 8 at the 14 meetings for which Turner gives us the details. This is certainly a healthier attendance pattern than that indicated by the signatories to the accounts in one Bingham parish, West Bridgford, where attendance never got beyond six in the period 1769 to 1800, with the median value being four. In 1756 Turner records five meetings at East Hoathly in the year. In March there was a ‘public vestry’ to set a poor rate, although this ended (as did so many of the meetings Turner records) in disagreement. At the April meeting the churchwarden and overseer were selected. Here Turner refers to an ‘electioner’, presumably a deputy, for each office. Interestingly, he mentions only one warden and there is no mention of the selection or confirmation of the incumbent’s warden, either at this meeting or at any that he records. In May and October there were vestries called to consider the affairs of specific people, with the year concluding with the election of surveyors after Christmas. The other meetings that Turner records (some more comprehensively in some years than in others) are entirely secular in their concerns and show very little involvement of the incumbent, something we will return to.



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’27

Forms of accountability The accounts of the Bingham parishes bear some of the marks of the process by which they were rendered. Throughout the century we have references to the ‘giving up’ of accounts. So at Edwalton in 1725, when the accounts note, ‘Paid for ale when these accounts was given up.’31 This continues late into the century and in other parishes, so in Willoughby on the Wolds in September 1786 we have 2s 6d ‘Spent when the accounts was gave up.’32 Part of the process may then have been the oral ‘giving up’ of accounts, but there was also allowance, as at Orston in May 1783, ‘for Transferring the Accounts into the Book’.33 Turner records in 1758 that he attended the parish meeting where ‘I made up the accounts between Mr Joseph Burges the present overseer and the parish, and there remains due to the parish £11 7s 6d’.34 His skills from keeping his shop seem to have been transferred for the assistance of his less able peers. The marks of this uneven practice are clearly visible in the Bingham parish accounts, where there is a bewildering range of account formats. In many cases, especially at the beginning of the century, we have a simple record of the amount either owing to or due from the wardens. Although there is a clear process of greater detail during the course of the century, so that many more accounts give full details of transactions and when they were incurred, this was by no means a linear process. So, in 1799, for example, we can still find the bare statement in Wysall: ‘William Case in Hand on the Church account 15s 7d.’35 This suggests the local nature of accounts, where details were conveyed orally and were approved at the time, with participants not seeing the need to record details for further scrutiny. After all, the accounts did not go elsewhere for scrutiny. There is just one mention of accounts at the annual visitation of the archdeacon, when in 1777 William Hutchinson, late churchwarden of Bingham, was presented for ‘not passing his Accounts of all and Singular his Receipts and Disbursements of Money by him received and Disbursed as Churchwarden of the said Parish in 1775’.36 Unfortunately, a settlement was reached and the case was dismissed before proceeding to a hearing, so we have no further detail. This exception does rather point up the lack of scrutiny that these accounts were subject to outside the circle of the parish elite. However, this did not preclude the keeping of records, at the centre of which was ‘the book’. In Hickling in May 1800, for example, William Mann’s accounts for the year 1799 include the sum of 2s 6d ‘Spent

28

People, places and identities

when I Received the Book’.37 Wardens frequently charged sums of money for entering up their accounts. In Orston, for example, in May 1783 there was a charge of 1s ‘for Transferring the Accounts into the Book’.38 What we have therefore is a process in which much of the conduct of the churchwardens was in their hands during the course of the year, with them maintaining records in whatever manner they found suitable until they were to be transferred into the accounts book. This also meant that their stewardship of money during the year was relatively opaque, with little recorded connection between their actions, perhaps as agreed by a vestry, and the transactions they recorded. Whether decisions at a vestry were minuted is also difficult to ascertain because of the lack of surviving records. The Shelford book records decisions taken in 1723 about the use of a house owned by the parish and records that it was ‘Agreed that no Officer shall have power to give any thing on the Parish Account to any Travellour whatsoever.’39 There are also notes in Bingham, but these are very much fragments. This is where Turner’s diary is so valuable in giving us an insight into the conduct of such meetings. From his records, these were often fractious affairs, fuelled by considerable volumes of alcoholic drink. All the vestries he records took place at ‘Jones’s’, otherwise the village inn the Crown (until at the end of the period concerned Jones failed and the vestry moved to the Maypole). We get here confirmation of the social nature of these occasions, conveyed by the spending on ale and food recorded in the Bingham parish accounts. In October 1756, Turner notes that a number left a vestry meeting which had already run from 4.30 until 7 as ‘they found if they stayed they must spend their own money and not the parish’s.… The rest of the company stayed on until gone 11 having spent 3s 6d of the parish’s money and a 1d of their own.’40 This sociability often had predictable results, with Turner frequently bewailing the poor behaviour that too much drink led to. At Easter 1760 he records that ‘We had several warm arguments at our vestry today and several volleys of execrable oaths oftentime resounded from almost all sides of the room, a most rude and shocking thing at public meetings.’41 Not all meetings ended this way and Turner does record more agreeable and sociable events. In April 1764 he records a meeting which started in the afternoon and continued ‘till near 3 o’clock in the morn before we broke up and spent 10s allowed out of the poor book and a halfpenny each’.42 Turner often regretted the consumption of alcohol



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’29

that these events led him to, but he often fell back into temptation. His diaries confirm the focus on the inn that we get from other records. Woodforde notes parish meetings at the (variously recorded) Hart or Heart public house in Weston Longville. In East Bridgford in the Bingham deanery the ‘giving up’ of accounts frequently happened at John Hose’s inn.43 This sociability, and the venue for it, might have prevented the full involvement of the incumbent in parish matters. Jacob notes that the vestry ‘was chaired by the incumbent’, but evidence for this is very patchy both in the Bingham sample and in the broader diaries.44 This is not to say that incumbents were completely absent. In East Bridgford at mid-century ‘The Rev. Peter Priaulx was an active rector in many ways, as a man of business and a disciplinarian. He insisted on full and precise details in the parochial accounts of overseers, constables, and churchwardens at the vestry meetings.’45 Turner notes the presence of Thomas Porter, the incumbent, at 3 of the 14 meetings he records, but none of these was the parish meeting at which accounts were approved. Some accounts are signed by incumbents in the Bingham sample, but very few. In Somerset, Holland records calling a number of vestries to do with concerns about parishioners. In 1803 he recorded an Easter Monday vestry: After dinner the Parishioners met. I represented the Altar in the Chancel and the Cloth that covered the Communion Table as shabby and rotten and proposed repairs and a new one. Farmer Morle agreed to rectify them at once. Mr James Rich objected with some warmth. I told him that I would present them, which fired him still more. I believe he had been drinking, however I gave him some strong replies and appointed Farmer Morle for my Church Warden and he partly declining for the other Church Warden, Farmer Dibble was chosen in his stead.46

Eleven years later he noted ‘I had Prayers in the afternoon to take in the Farmers who were coming to settle Parish matters. They retired to my house where we signed and I gave them a Jug of Strong Beer.’47 Cole in Blechley also notes two Easter meetings, both held after Matins, at which wardens were chosen.48 However, by contrast, many of the other clerical diaries are simply silent about parish matters. Benjamin Rogers of Carlton in Bedfordshire notes his son losing his way back from a fair on Easter Monday, but nothing of a parish meeting.49 The strongest evidence for the lack of clerical involvement comes from the

30

People, places and identities

diaries of James Woodforde and it is worth looking at this evidence in more detail. We have already noted Woodforde sending his selection of warden down to the meeting at the Hart. In his first full year he had noted. ‘Could not attend our Parish Meeting to day, but desired Mr Dade to nominate John Bowles my Churchwarden.’50 And this was followed the next year by the similar passage we have already noted. There is then a two-year gap until the note of ‘A Parish Meeting at the Hart to day. I did not attend, but nominated Mr Mann to be my C. Warden.’51 This is the last mention of the selection of churchwardens. Woodforde’s diaries are famous for their attention to mundane detail, but parish matters are rarely featured. The only detail of involvement comes in 1784, when two meetings are recorded. On 26 May that year he attends a meeting in the church ‘held for examining things belonging to the Church’.52 Two months later another meeting was held in the church about ‘moving the Singing Seat’. Eight parishioners attended and there was some debate: Mr Peachman with some others were for letting of it remain where it is – but they all said they would agree to have it placed wherever I pleased – Accordingly I fixed to be a proper place for it behind the Font and so inclose the Belfry – was concluded on and so the Vestry was dissolved – They all behaved extremely obliging to their Rector.53

This is the only comprehensive entry about parish business, and afterwards notes are restricted to his provision of extracts from the registers that the wardens needed for visitation purposes. That parish meetings continued is seen from the entry in January 1789: ‘Mr Howlett & Mr Forster called here this Afternoon as they were going to a Parish meeting at the Heart to speak to me respecting the Rent due for the Poor Cottage where Dick Buck &c live, which belongs to the Widows Charity – I told them that I expected the Parish would pay the arrears.’54 But there is no sign that Woodforde had any interest in parochial affairs, nor any desire to be involved in them. This perhaps supports the lack of mention in other clerical diaries, where the emphasis is more on ecclesiastical preferment than parish business. In 1757 a letter from George Woodward, rector of East Hendred in Berkshire, noted: the poor people have had a bad time of it, and as to corn and firing it is not much better still: we have set a collection on foot for their present relief, but I am afraid it will be of little service, as there are but few in



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’31 our parish, who are able to contribute much; I gave them a guinea to begin with, and did intend to go round the town my self yesterday with the officers, but it was so very snowy, that I did not care to venture, so how it has turned out, I have not yet learned.55

This was his only mention of parish business (as published) and it seems something of a grudging and limited engagement. The holding of parish meetings in the village inn might have been something of a stumbling block. It was not that incumbents were averse either to drink or to some types of inn. Visitations were also social occasions, such as that attended by William Cole in 1766, where 44 clergy dined with the archdeacon. Cole was not averse to functions in inns, attending a meeting of the licensing justices at the White Lion in Little Brickhill and one of surveyors of roads at the Bull at Stony Stratford.56 We have noted that the Rev. William Porter in East Hoathly was also not averse to meetings in village pubs (nor to drinking heavily at more private functions), but the general attitude displayed towards farmers might have been a considerable barrier.57 This comes across from the comments about the attitudes and behaviour of farmers at the annual tithe dinner. Given when the tithes were collected at the end of each year, this generally took place in the rectory, with the most respectable farmers in the parlour, the rest in the rectory kitchen. A dinner and beer would be provided, and some incumbents dreaded these events. George Woodward complained to his correspondent in 1758 that: Next Monday is our farmers’ tithe feast, which is but a troublesome time, and I am always heartily glad when it is over; for it’s very disagreeable sitting for half a day amongst such sort of folks, in a cloud of tobacco, attending to the price of corn and fat hogs, and almost stunned with the noise of their rustic mirth.58

Woodforde recorded that at his tithe ‘frolic’ in 1781 ‘Stephen Andrews and John Pegg very soon got quite drunk by strong Beer – The latter was quite beastly so and spued about the Passage &c. – very shameful in him.’59 On the other side of the country, in Somerset, William Holland noted of his 1804 tithe dinner: The rest of the Farmers came and paid very well and were cheerful. Some of them at the other end of the table helped themselves to the strong beer rather too plentiously and Bristow I was obliged to check once or twice for swearing and he spat on the floor every word he spoke,

32

People, places and identities

a vulgar dirty dog. However they left me very tolerable, Old Charles Selleck who is seventy seven in high glee, Mr Rich and our part of the table were sound as Rocks.60

Incumbents were therefore dependent on farmers, both for their income and for their support as parish officers, but there is an increasing feeling of social separation from them. Evans observes this in the context of the enclosure movement, from which many incumbents benefited as their tithes were converted into consolidated glebes.61 Alongside this came their participation in the ranks of the magistracy and the elevation of their social status. Incumbents were critically aware of this in their diaries. When William Cole moved from Blechley to Waterbeach in Cambridgeshire in 1767 his main complaint about being surrounded by Dissenters was not their theology but their lack of social deference. He complained in a letter that ‘I can’t cross the Yard to go into my poor Business of a Garden, but this mechanical Teacher [a collar maker and presumably lay preacher], with the usual puritanical Assurance and Forwardness, must needs greet me every Time he sees me with Good Morrow! or How d’ye Neighbour?’62 He was one of the incumbents who did seem to be involved in parish business and was certainly not averse to engaging with those who worked his land, provided the proper relations were observed. So, in 1766 he records: I was in the Clay Pit Close between 6 & 7 in the Morning. Will Travel mowed this day for me. We carried 2 Loads. Tansley drunk, & quarelled with his Companions all Day long. The Chancellor of Lincoln called upon me, having dined with Mrs Willis, who asked me to meet him: but I chose to be among my Hay People, it being a particular Pleasure & Amusement to me: however I drank Tea with them.63

The other clerical diarists pay considerable attention to their own agricultural affairs, even when they tell us nothing about parish business. So, James Newton of Nuneham Courtney in Oxfordshire has nothing on his relations with parish officers but extensive records of farming matters, such as in March 1759 ‘Draw’d Faggots Home from Forewood & begun plowing the Turnip Land. Employ’d Howse at Bab Whyatts Close & took Him with me to the Crofts etc.’64 Similarly, Benjamin Rogers of Carlton in Bedfordshire notes in April 1729 ‘Sow’d my Home Close; it took about 12 Bushel of Seed. We Harrow’d it for 2 days, and loaded the Harrows well, and afterwards rak’d the loose Turf that was turn’d up with the Harrows into the Furrows.’65



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’33

It was not an aversion to farming but one to farmers that conditioned clerics’ responses to and distance from their parochial officers. Conclusion This relative distancing of incumbents from their parish officers reinforced the patterns of accountability noted above and paralleled the pattern of authority in the church more generally. That is, whilst there was a clear hierarchy of authority, with structures laid down for its exercise, in practice the system allowed for a considerable amount of discretion and autonomy at every level. So, several writers on the church in the eighteenth century have commented on the ineffectiveness of church discipline as expressed in the annual archdeacon’s visitations. They note the frequent recording of ‘omnia bene’ in churchwardens’ returns in response to the questions posed by archdeacons before their visitations.66 Cole, for example, was scathing of his archdeacon, recording after the visitation dinner in 1766 that he ‘ended, most quaintly, (in the State of the Church-Wardens’ Presentments, to which he alluded), that he was very glad to find, as he hoped he always should do, ‘That All was well’.67 This complacency meant that incumbents in their turn were free to engage with their churchwardens as they chose and it would appear, both from the evidence in the Bingham accounts and from that in diaries, that in practice this meant for many involvement only when the fabric of the church was involved. Because of this, the parish elite were free to devise their own practices of accountability, resulting in widely varying practices, shaped in large part by custom and tradition. The evidence presented here about the form and content of administrative practices suggests that some of the classic accounts, such as that of Tate, need a little refinement. The greater availability of records now makes it possible to carry out more systematic comparative analyses. We need more of these to be able to account for the variation which might occur between regions. One way of doing this might be by using the diaries we have examined as a guide to sample selection, although this will, of course, be conditioned by the survival of records. However, the argument here about the variability of practice and the personal nature of accountability might be thought to have broader application. Gregory has argued that we need a greater focus on taken-for-granted practices when considering the formation of national identity in our period.68 He suggest the Book of Common

34

People, places and identities

Prayer as one vehicle for such practices. Given their centrality to the concerns of the ‘middling sort’, another vehicle might be the type of administrative practices we have examined. This is particularly the case if we contrast the personal nature of the practices we have examined to the more systemic forms of accountability to be found in Scotland in the same period.69 If we explore the Scottish experience in brief against the dimensions we have examined, then the English experience is thrown into sharp relief. In Scotland, the kirk session, a group of four to six elders, held office for life. It could not convene without the presence of the incumbent, for the minister was the moderator, or chair, of the meeting. It met on a regular basis, in the church or, more infrequently, in the minister’s house. Indeed, it was a point of pride to some in the Scottish system that it lacked the sociability that was such a feature of the English system. Conscious of this contrast, the Reverend Charles Skene Keith, minister of Keithhall, declared in his survey of the agriculture of Aberdeenshire that The Elders, or Church-wardens, receive no recompence – not even a dinner from the funds of the Church Session, which are applied solely to the relief of the poor. The parochial clergymen, in country parishes, generally give them their dinner twice or thrice a year: and the only reward of these worthy men, who manage the poor’ s funds in Scotland, arises from the general esteem of their neighbours, and the approbation of their own minds.70

The results of the decisions of these bodies were recorded in considerable detail, with registers being completed against detailed national guidance and being subject to an archiving process involving local universities. The record of decisions was used as a check against the recording of financial transactions, which were generally noted in detail throughout the century. This detail was then used in the six-monthly reconciliation of money on hand against tranasction records and the minutes of decisions. On top of this local process was a regular system of ‘revision’ of the session’s records by more senior bodies, part of a system of ‘discipline’ that ran from top to bottom of the church. The consequence of this system of accountability was that very few balances (under 5 per cent) were negative at year end. The contrast with England is stark and indicates the differences that could exist under the cover of a shared commitment to Protestantism. This suggests that we need to pay attention to differences within the



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’35

emerging identity of Britain, as well as to those forces making for shared ­identity.71 Looking at this through the lens of routine administrative practices can be a revealing way of identifying such differences. Notes  1 For another perspective on gravestones, see K. D. M. Snell, Parish and Belonging: Community, Identity and Welfare in England and Wales, 1700–1950 (Cambridge, 2006).  2 P. and B. Heathcote, Vale of Belvoir Angels (Lowdham, 2009).  3 N. Pevsner and E. Williamson, Nottinghamshire (Harmondsworth, 1979), p. 304.  4 H. French, The Middle Sort of People in Provincial England 1600–1750 (Oxford, 2007), p. 252.  5 Snell, Parish and Belonging, p. 14.  6 On the eighteenth-century church see J. Gregory, Restoration, Reformation and Reform, 1660–1828: Archbishops of Canterbury and their Diocese (Oxford, 2000); J. Gregory and J. Chamberlain (eds), The National Church in Local Perspective: The Church of England and the Regions 1660–1800 (Woodbridge, 2002); W. M. Jacob, Lay People and Religion in the Early Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, 1996); M. F. Snape, The Church of England in Industrialising Society: The Lancashire parish of Whalley in the Eighteenth Century (Woodbridge, 2003); D. Spaeth, The Church in an Age of Danger: Parsons and Parishioners, 1660–1740 (Cambridge, 2000).  7 A. Mutch, ‘Weber and Church Governance: Religious Practice and Economic Activity’, Sociological Review, 57:4 (2009), 586–607.  8 A. Mutch, ‘Custom and Personal Accountability in Eighteenth Century South Nottinghamshire Church Governance’, Midland History, 36:1 (2011), 69–88.  9 S. Chapman, Hosiery and Knitwear: Four Centuries of Small-Scale Industry in Britain c. 1589–2000 (Oxford, 2002). 10 J. D. Chambers, Nottinghamshire in the Eighteenth Century: A Study of Life and Labour under the Squirearchy (London, 1966 [1932]); D. V. Fowkes, ‘The Progress of Agrarian Change in Nottinghamshire c. 1720–1830’ (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Liverpool, 1971). 11 J. Beckett (ed.), A Centenary History of Nottingham (Chichester, 2006). 12 A. Mitson, ‘The significance of kinship networks in the seventeenth century: south-west Nottinghamshire’, in C. Phythian-Adams (ed.), Societies, Cultures and Kinship 1580–1850: Cultural Provinces and English Local History (London, 1993), p. 25, examines eleven contiguous parishes in south-west Nottinghamshire. By contrast, French, Middle Sort, examines parishes in Essex and Lancashire, while J. Kent ‘The Rural “Middling Sort” in Early Modern England, circa 1640–1740: Some Economic,

36

People, places and identities

Political and Socio-cultural Characteristics’, Rural History, 10:1 (1999), 20 examines three parishes in Hertfordshire, Norfolk and Staffordshire, recognising that these were diverse but hoping that they ‘may not be unrepresentative as settings for a study of the rural middling sort during the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries’. Closer to the area and time of this study, Chambers examined the accounts of six Nottinghamshire parishes, although the selection criteria are not clear: Bleasby, East Bridgford, Laxton, Sutton Bonington, Kingston on Soar and St Peter’s, Nottingham. Chambers, Nottinghamshire, p. 59. 13 Pitman examined eight contiguous parishes in Norfolk, where an exploration of patterns of office holding indicates differences that ‘were influenced by the presence of particular approaches to participation, distinct parochial traditions’. This work suggests the contribution that can be made by systematic comparisons between parishes in a defined area. J. Pitman, ‘Tradition and Exclusion: Parochial Officeholding in Early Modern England, a Case Study from North Norfolk 1580–1640’, Rural History, 15:1 (2004), 27–45. 14 J. Woodforde, The Diary of James Woodforde, vol. 1 and vols 8–17 (Norfolk, 1991–2007). 15 D. Vaisey (ed.), The Diary of Thomas Turner 1754–1765 (Oxford, 1984). 16 Those consulted were: D. Gibson (ed.), A Parson in the Vale of White Horse: George Woodward’s Letters from East Hendred, 1753–1761 (Gloucester, 1982); G. M. Ditchfield and B. Keith-Lucas, A Kentish Parson: Selections from the Private Papers of the Revd Joseph Price Vicar of Braborne, 1767– 1786 (Kent, 1991); G. Hannah (ed.), Diary of an Oxfordshire Rector: James Newton of Nuneham Courtenay, 1736–86 (Stroud, 1992); C. Linnell, Diary of Benjamin Rogers 1720–1771, Bedfordshire Historical Records Society, 30, 1950. J. Ayres (ed.), Paupers and Pig Killers: The Diary of William Holland a Somerset Parson 1799–1818 (Gloucester, 1984); F. G. Stokes (ed.), The Blecheley Diary of the Rev. William Cole, 1765–67 (London, 1931); P. Brassley, A. Lambert and P. Saunders, Accounts of Reverend John Crakanthorp of Fowlmere 1682–1710, Cambridgeshire Records Society, 8 (1988); D. Stoker, The Correspondence of the Reverend Francis Blomefield (1705–52), Norfolk Record Society, LV, 1990 (the Bibliographical Society, 1992); D. Slatter, ‘The Diary of Thomas Naish’, Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Society, XX, 1964, (Devizes, 1965); C. Linnell, The Diaries of Thomas Wilson D. D., 1731–37 and 1750, Son of Bishop Wilson of Sodor and Man (London, 1964). 17 Woodforde, Diaries, vol. 8, 1778–1779 (1998), p. 34. 18 W. E. Tate, The Parish Chest: A Study of the Records of Parochial Administration in England (Chichester, 1983). 19 A. Henstock, ‘A Parish Divided: Bingham and the Rev. John Walter 1764–1810’, Transactions of the Thoroton Society, 85 (1981), 90–101.



Administrative practices and the ‘middling sort’37

20 Ibid., 96. 21 Nottinghamshire Record Office (hereafter NRO), PR15640, Stanton on the Wolds; PR19566, Flintham. 22 Spaeth, Age of Danger, p. 100. 23 Vaisey, Thomas Turner, p. 95. 24 Pitman, ‘Tradition and Exclusion’. 25 Vaisey, Thomas Turner, p. 95. 26 Ayres, William Holland, p. 262. 27 Vaisey, William Turner, p. 95. 28 NRO, PR6916, Langar, 14 June 1762. 29 Vaisey, Thomas Turner, pp. 35–79. 30 Stokes, William Cole, p.168; Ayres, William Holland, p. 47. 31 NRO, PR2590, Edwalton, 1725. 32 NRO, PR799, Willoughby on the Wolds, 29 September 1786. 33 NRO, PR19469, Orston, 5 May 1783. 34 Vaisey, Thomas Turner, p. 143. 35 NRO, PR789, Wysall, 1796. 36 University of Nottingham, Southwell Archdeaconary Act Books, AN/A 82/1, 21 January 1777. 37 NRO, PR15483, Hickling, 31 May 1800. 38 NRO, PR19469, Orston, 5 May 1783. 39 NRO, PR2865, Shelford, 3 July 1723. 40 Vaisey, Thomas Turner, p. 67. 41 Ibid., p. 204. 42 Ibid., p. 290. 43 A. Du Boulay Hill, East Bridgford, Notts: The Story of an English Village (Oxford, 1932). 44 Jacob, Lay People, p. 11. 45 Du Boulay Hill, East Bridgford, p. 94. 46 Ayres, William Holland, p. 80. 47 Ibid., p. 262. 48 Stokes, William Cole, pp. 29, 204. 49 Linnell, Benjamin Rogers, p. 85. 50 Woodforde, Diaries, vol. 1, 1776–1777 (1991, 2nd edn), p. 121. 51 Woodforde, Diaries, vol. 9, 1780–81 (2000), p. 30. 52 Woodforde, Diaries, vol. 10, 1782–84 (1998), p. 244. 53 Ibid., p. 261. 54 Woodforde, Diaries, vol. 12 1788–9 (2001), p. 112. 55 Gibson, George Woodward, p. 94. 56 Stokes, William Cole, p. 59. 57 Vaisey, Thomas Turner. 58 Gibson, George Woodward, p. 114. 59 Woodforde, Diaries, vol. 9, p. 200.

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People, places and identities

60 Ayres, William Holland, p. 97. 61 E. Evans, The Contentious Tithe: The Tithe Problem and English Agriculture 1750–1850 (London, 1976), p. 106. 62 Stokes, William Cole, p. 311. 63 Ibid., p. 68. 64 Hannah, James Newton, p. 16. 65 Linnell, Benjamin Rogers, p. 7. 66 Spaeth, Age of Danger; Gregory and Chamberlain, National Church. 67 Stokes, William Cole, p. 34. 68 J. Gregory ‘“For All Sorts and Conditions of Men”: The Social Life of the Book of Common Prayer During the Long Eighteenth Century: Or, Bringing the History of Religion and Social History Together’, Social History, 34:1 (2009), 29–54. 69 A. Mutch, ‘Systemic Accountability and the Governance of the Kirk: The Presbytery of Garioch in the Eighteenth Century’, Northern Scotland, 3 (2012), 45–65; ‘“Shared Protestantism” and British Identity: Contrasting Church Governance Practices in Eighteenth-century Scotland and England’, Social History, 38:4 (2013), 456–76. 70 G. S. Keith, General View of the Agriculture of Aberdeenshire (Aberdeen, 1811). 71 J. C. D. Clark, ‘Protestantism, Nationalism and National Identity, 1660–1832’, The Historical Journal, 43:1 (2000), 249–76.

2

Local history enthusiasts: English county historical societies since the nineteenth century Alan Kidd

Today almost anyone who is seriously interested in the history of his or her local community would soon become aware of the numerous and varied societies, clubs and groups devoted to the study of our communal pasts. These historical societies with their programmes of lectures and activities, their newsletters and journals, constitute a rarely acknowledged dimension of civil society and an understudied element in the national cultures of history.1 This chapter is intended as a modest contribution to our understanding of their significance and will focus on the early history of the most durable of the types of local history society to be found in England, the county historical societies, some of which can look back on almost two centuries of activity. However, before turning to the origins, character and surprising longevity of the county societies, it is useful to consider the evidence for the size of this sector of civil society as a whole. A listing of historical societies compiled by M. Pinhorn and published in 1986 identified over a thousand historical, archaeological and kindred societies in the United Kingdom.2 This figure does not include the 67 national societies and 54 societies covering more than one county also identified in the same survey. This was an increase in numbers from a previous survey, conducted by S. E. Harcup in 1965, that had listed around 800 such societies for the British Isles.3 The majority of those listed were local societies, specific to a town, county or region. Allowing for problems of comparability and definition, the impression is of an active and growing element in the voluntary

40

People, places and identities

culture of association. In 1979 the Blake Report estimated that there were 875 local history societies in England and Wales alone with a combined membership of over 130,000. The boom in family history since then has added to the number of local history enthusiasts.4 The societies identified in the Harcup (1965) and Pinhorn (1986) lists encompass a variety of broad types: archaeological, historical, antiquarian, genealogical and architectural. They vary in geographical coverage from single communities to county and regional societies. Many on the Pinhorn list are of comparatively recent origin, founded since the 1950s. This category includes the family history societies, those with the phrase ‘local history’ in the title, specialist societies for industrial archaeology or transport history and the like. Indeed, since the Pinhorn list was compiled in the mid-1980s the range and variety of groups has increased further from community history societies and heritage conservation groups to more informal memories and reminiscence groups. The older societies on these lists betray their ancient origins in their names: particularly those that retain the words ‘antiquarian’ or ‘archaeological’. A number of these can trace a continuous history back to the middle of the nineteenth century. Indeed, if we compare the Pinhorn list to two further listings of local historical societies (Mullins, Guide to the Historical and Archaeological Publications of Societies in England and Wales 1901–1933 and Levine, The Amateur and the Professional: Antiquarians, Historians and Archaeologists in Victorian England 1838–1886, pp. 182–3), we can identify those that have been in existence for a century and more. A comparison with the county and local societies listed in Levine is most revealing. Of the 56 s­ ocieties Levine identifies as founded between 1838 and 1886, Pinhorn lists 38 (68 per cent) as being extant in 1986. Of these it is the longevity of the county societies that stands out. All 27 of the county societies listed by Levine as existing in 1886 also appear on the Pinhorn list for 1986 (see Appendices I and II below). County historical societies: origins County societies predominated among those historical societies founded in the nineteenth century. Why was this? To begin to answer this question we must turn to the history of the English county system. The ancient counties of England had their origins as key administrative units in an emerging English state in the ninth to eleventh



Local history enthusiasts41

centuries. These shires (the Anglo-Saxon term) often reflected preexisting settlement patterns, themselves determined by geographical realities such as river systems and hill ranges.5 Indeed, despite the political origins of their boundaries, it has been argued that up to the mass urbanisation in the second half of the nineteenth century, outside of London the county was ‘the most relevant named entity above the level of township to which the individual could feel some sense of belonging’.6 Certainly, the durability of the counties across the centuries must reflect a degree of local acceptance and identification. Although the strength of this sense of belonging (‘county consciousness’) may have fluctuated over time and may have been most significant as an indicator for the landed class, there is little doubt that the county has been a remarkably durable ‘­imagined community’.7 The extent to which the county retained a cultural resonance had much to do with the ability of local landed elites to determine cultural priorities among the literate. It was they who identified most clearly with their county and it was they who commissioned the first county histories that, in time, helped to cement county identities. From the sixteenth century onwards, counties attracted the interest of antiquaries who wrote the first English county histories, in which they described the great propertied estates, charted the genealogies of the county’s noble families and remarked upon the county’s ancient monuments and Gothic architectural remains. Their patrons and subscribers (and sometimes the authors themselves) were from the gentry and great landed families of each shire. In particular the county elites were keen to celebrate their noble lineage and the presumed (although often illusory) continuity of their county status across the centuries. This was a celebration of landed wealth and power.8 By 1800 only five counties were without a history, although by this time the class appeal was broader, with the publication of many county histories being dependent on middle-class subscribers.9 If the county histories began as a reflection of gentry culture, by the eighteenth century middle-ranking groups were also expressing county identities in various ways. This was most clearly revealed in the rise of the provincial press, with 68 provincial newspapers by 1800, and also in a variety of countywide associations, such as the county agricultural societies promoting innovation in farming techniques. During the Hanoverian period voluntary associations proliferated – including improvement societies, debating clubs,

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People, places and identities

medical charities and a variety of learned societies. This reflected a flowering of provincial cultural life and a decline in the importance of London as a ‘forcing ground’ for the associational life of the nation.10 County-based antiquarian and historical societies were not to materialise until the nineteenth century. The Society of Antiquaries of London (originally founded in 1572, suppressed by James I, refounded in 1707) and the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (founded in Edinburgh in 1780) were the associative embodiment of eighteenth-century antiquarianism. Both were conceived as national, patriotic ventures in which historical scholarship and the study of antiquities were part of the construction of national honour.11 It was not until the Victorian period that the county emerged as a locus for the formation of antiquarian societies as part of a general resurgence of county identities. County historical societies and provincial culture By the time the Reverend Hume published his study of the learned societies and printing clubs of the United Kingdom12 there were a growing number of provincial societies, mostly founded in the 1820s and 1830s. Several were devoted to antiquarian or archaeological matters. However, it was from the 1840s that local societies appeared in profusion. For example, following the formation of the British Archaeological Association in 1844, numerous county archaeological societies were founded. Levine has described the origins and development of three overlapping communities of antiquarianism, archaeology and history and the extent to which these terms were interchangeable for much of the nineteenth century.13 After the national societies, the county was the preferred unit of organisation. Many of the early county societies reflected the cultural leadership of the gentry and the priorities of rural Anglican England and, influenced by the Oxford Movement, evinced a special interest in ecclesiastical architecture.14 (A prime mover here was the Cambridge Camden Society, which renamed itself the Ecclesiological Society in 1845.) Some of these were exclusively architectural societies but others combined ecclesiology with broader archaeological concerns.15 Characteristic of this type were the county societies formed in the 1840s and 1850s in Northamptonshire (1844), Bedfordshire (1847), Buckinghamshire (1847), Sussex (1847), Somerset (1849) and Leicestershire (1855). But the antiquarian and archaeological



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societies of the 1840s to 1880s were founded not only in the agricultural counties and rooted in Anglicanism but also in the manufacturing towns of the industrial revolution, where nonconformity played a significant role in religious life (notably Birmingham, Bradford, Huddersfield, Leeds, Liverpool, Manchester, Newcastle and Sheffield). Thus the loosely articulated local history network that emerged in these years was urban and middle class as well as rural and aristocratic. It was arguably an important constituent element in ­provincial bourgeois culture.16 A community of societies developed and, although the focus of interest was generally local, a network was facilitated by the formation of associations that connected the various groups, notably the Royal Historical Society (1868, 1872) and the Congress of Archaeological Societies (1888). These helped to cement links between disparate and geographically separated societies. There were broadly two types of society: first, those in which sociability was a key element, with regular meetings (the county archaeology societies conformed to this type), and second, the printing clubs, in which members received publications of original historical documents in return for their annual subscription and in which meetings and excursions played a smaller role. The earliest and most influential of the English printing clubs were the Surtees Society (1834) and the Camden Society (1838). One purpose of these and others that followed was to develop the private printing of historical records in the wake of the poor quality and eventual demise of the official Record Commission documents (1800–37) and the uncertain future of public records. The situation improved with the passage of the Public Records Office Act of 1838, which created a Public Record Office. However, it was not until 1851 that premises were built and not till 1862 that the new Public Record Office opened in Chancery Lane. The creation of a Public Records service led to the publication of the Calendars of State Papers and the Rolls series, which greatly assisted the historian of national government and politics. State support of historical enquiry received a further injection later with the appointment of the Historical Manuscripts Commission in 1869, intended to identify and publish manuscript sources held in private hands. The printing clubs either were concerned with specific subjects such as civil, ecclesiastical and literary history (Camden Society, 1838–97, amalgamated with Royal Historical Society in 1897), discovery and travel (Hakluyt Society, 1846–present), ballads

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and popular literature (Percy Society, 1840–52) or were regionally specific, concerned with getting documents of local interest into the public domain. The most successful of these founded during this period were the Surtees Society, 1834–present (North East England and the Border Country) and the Chetham Society, 1843–present (Lancashire and Cheshire). Whilst government involvement in the documentation and preservation of public records assisted the emergence of raised standards of scholarship in record keeping,17 the state more belatedly laid the foundations of legislation on the built environment with a series of Ancient Monuments Protection Acts, beginning in 1882, which established the post of inspector of ancient monuments (unpaid), with General Pitt-Rivers in post.18 The first Act was voluntary and covered only a limited range of prehistoric structures, but later Acts (1900, 1910, 1913 and so on) eventually established the principle of statutory responsibility. The first thing to say about the county societies founded in the middle decades of the nineteenth century is that they were all urban based. Location mattered less with the printing clubs, where accessibility for meetings and the like was not the key benefit of membership (here the advent of a national postal service in 1840 may have been of greater significance). However, it was central to the success of those societies (the majority) in which meetings, lectures, soirees and excursions were an important attraction that members were able to attend society events. Whilst all county societies sought to leave a published record of their transactions and proceedings, it was the element of sociability that did most to attract membership. So there are two key features that contribute to an understanding of why so many societies were founded between the 1840s and 1880s. First, the nature of provincial society had changed since the early eighteenth century, when many county towns had been the social capitals of the county aristocracy. The provincial towns of the industrial era were being transformed, whether or not they were locations of industry, by rising population and the increasing prominence of commercial and professional occupations, plus increasing numbers of ‘town gentry’ (‘gentlemen of fortune’ but without landed property).19 Together these social groups encouraged the development of towns as cultural centres.20 It was they who provided the core readership for provincial newspapers and it was they who constituted the memberships of the literary and philosophical societies and other learned associations



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and enabled local cultural leaders to build upon that provincial cultural tradition with the foundation of the various county societies in the middle decades of the nineteenth century. If the county societies were urban based, one might expect them to be located in the respective county towns. However, this was not always the case and this is further evidence of the extent to which these societies reflect the blossoming cultural life of the provincial towns. The new industrial towns of the North and the Midlands emerged as cultural centres in their own right and many county societies originated or were based in these towns and cities. This was the case in Yorkshire. Although the Yorkshire Architectural Society was founded in York as early as 1842, it was the Huddersfield Archaeological and Topographical Association (founded in 1863) that transformed itself in 1870 into the Yorkshire Archaeological Society. Other societies were formed in Sheffield (1868) and Bradford (1876). Birmingham was the unrivalled focus for the Midlands (Birmingham and Midland Institute, 1867; Birmingham and Warwickshire Archaeological Society, 1870). County societies in the North West were based in either Liverpool or Manchester. A second, and related, factor in the emergence of the county historical societies in the mid-nineteenth century was the travel possibilities opened by the advent of the world’s first national rail network. Beginning with the first inter-city passenger service between Liverpool and Manchester in 1830, by 1854 all the major cities and most of the county towns of England (and North and South Wales and lowland Scotland, and east coast Ireland – Belfast to Dublin) were connected by rail lines. Moreover, commuter lines were increasingly linking the surrounding suburban hinterlands of the major cities with the citycentre stations, making possible short journeys for leisure as well as for work. The implications for travel time are well known. The railway transformed communications in less than a generation and, in doing so, greatly extended the geographical reach of the learned societies. The Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, based in Liverpool and founded in 1848, is a useful example. This learned society provided a base for lectures and gatherings devoted to a wide variety of subjects, and was divided broadly into sections archaeological, scientific and literary. Nonetheless, in its roots and pre-eminent focus the Historic Society approximated to the model of a county historical society, with numerous papers dealing with antiquarian and historical subjects.21 Whilst the majority of members in the early years were

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resident in Liverpool a number were from farther afield, chiefly other north-west towns including Manchester, Preston, Warrington and Lancaster. In order to assess the extent to which railway transport facilitated the proceedings of groups such as the Historic Society it is possible to identify the likely rail journeys involved for those members who read papers to Society meetings held in Liverpool. In the session for 1855–56 those speakers who lived outside Liverpool can be identified by reference to the list of members included in the Transactions for that session. Some speakers were travelling long distances. Thus Thomas Wright’s rail journey from London to lecture on the ethnology of Roman Britain would have taken in the region of five hours and John Hodgson Hinde’s trip from Newcastle upon Tyne to speak on the kingdom of Northumberland before the Norman Conquest would have been of a similar duration. Each of these journeys would necessitate an overnight stay, but other speakers could undertake the outward and return journeys without seeking local accommodation. John Fitchett Marsh could have travelled by train from his home in Warrington, to arrive in Liverpool in around 45 minutes. His subject was the Boteler’s Free Grammar School at Warrington. The Reverend John James Moss of Upton by Chester could reach Liverpool in 50 minutes once he had boarded the train at Chester. With him he brought a case of historic watches from his collection to exhibit to members. Charles Hardwick, who lectured on some Roman remains found at Walton-le-Dale, and William Dobson, who gave a short talk on monumental brasses, could each benefit from the excellent connection provided by the East Lancashire Railway Company between their home town of Preston and Liverpool’s Tithebarn Street Station (opened in 1850 and renamed Exchange Station in 1888). Travel time was as little as 55 minutes. Thomas Wilkinson’s journey from Burnley was slower (over two hours) and involved changing trains at Accrington and Preston, although all services were run by the expanded lines of the East Lancashire Railway. This perhaps gave him extra preparation time for his subject of geometrical analysis in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Lancashire. Living nearer to Liverpool, R. A. Tudor of Bootle could have used the services of the Liverpool, Crosby and Southport Railway (opened in 1848) to reach the meeting at which he spoke on the natural history of the shores of the Mersey. Residents of suburban Bootle Village like him could travel to Tithebarn Street Station in under ten minutes. Speakers who had no need of rail travel included Thomas Moore, who



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could travel by ferry from his home at Seacombe on the Wirral to lecture fellow members on that oft-ventured topic, the English Poor Law in relation to education and morals. Similarly, a vice-president of the Society, John T. Danson, could journey to meetings by taking the Birkenhead Ferry. Danson read two original and interesting papers on regional population history, based largely on census data for 1801 and 1851 and dealing respectively with Liverpool and the 15 towns of what he called the ‘Manchester district’. On a more characteristically antiquarian note, another Birkenhead resident, Percy M. Dove, addressed members on some unpublished letters in his possession written by Benjamin Franklin.22 The railway network also enabled Historic Society members to become excursionists. In June 1856 around 50 to 60 members participated in a day excursion to Preston, leaving Liverpool by the early morning train and arriving in Preston shortly after 9am. The party was soon joined by members who had travelled from other points of origin, including Manchester, Lancaster, Warrington and Burnley. A day’s activities in and around Preston were concluded by a formal dinner at the Assembly room of the Bull Hotel, with the Mayor of Preston as host. In due course ‘members from a distance retired in time to meet their respective trains’.23 The burgeoning railway network thus aided the activities and stimulated the growth of learned societies like the Historic Society in a variety of ways. The evidence of other comparable organisations supports this contention. Leicestershire Archaeological Society was founded in 1855, following the development of the local railway system which, by that year, had linked Leicester to the neighbouring towns of Melton Mowbray, Loughborough and Oakham plus regional destinations such as Rugby, Nottingham and Derby.24 Attendance at Society meetings was undoubtedly easier for those with access to a railway station. As in Liverpool, the railway assisted visiting speakers like Matthew Holbeche Bloxam, the expert on the Gothic revival, who regularly travelled from his home in Rugby to lecture to the Leicestershire Archaeological Society. The accounts of the Society’s excursions make it clear that members relied on a combination of railway train and horse-drawn transport to reach their destinations within the county – places it would have been impossible to visit easily within a day’s travel prior to the railway age.25 So it was perhaps ironic that the burgeoning cultural life of the provincial towns of England and the advent of a new mode of transport

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that shrank time and distance were factors in the revival of ancient county identities in the era of urbanisation and the age of bourgeois culture. To an extent, this had much to do with the continued deference to aristocratic authority that was characteristic of the English political compromise of the nineteenth century following the Reform Act of 1832 and the repeal of the Corn Laws in 1846. This deference extended to provincial cultural life – indeed it may have been strongest in this quarter. It was related to the interest in church architecture prevalent in several of the early societies. Thus in many cases county societies were founded through the combined efforts of local gentry and clergy. Leicestershire Archaeological Society was typical in this regard. A committee composed of members of the gentry, clergy and higher professions managed the Society. The choice of patrons was made from the secular and spiritual leadership of county society: the Duke of Rutland and the Bishop of Peterborough, in whose diocese Leicester then lay. Meetings were held in premises in Leicester and, although members were chiefly drawn from the town gentry and the professions, clergymen comprised around a quarter of its membership. 26 The county societies reflected growing urban spheres of influence. Outside the industrial regions they continued to express the cultural importance of the county town. In the North and the Midlands the county societies were a sign of the emerging cultural significance of the industrial and commercial middle class and the new professions. This should not surprise us, since an effect of the industrial revolution was to increase regional difference within the United Kingdom, demarcating the economy and cultures of specific regions, especially those north of the River Trent most affected by industrialisation. This led to the growth of economically and culturally coherent regions around the major industrial cities such as Manchester (cotton), Leeds/ Bradford (wool), Newcastle (coal) and Birmingham (metals and engineering).27 Diversity between regions became more marked and regional consciousness more palpable (constructions of ‘North’ and ‘South’ emerge as metaphors for what was happening). In the industrial North West, Manchester and Liverpool were the regional centres for historical and antiquarian societies, rather than the county towns of Chester or Lancaster. The Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire was based in Liverpool, the Chetham Society for the Publication of Historical and Literary Remains Connected with the Palatine Counties of Lancaster and Chester and the Lancashire



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and Cheshire Antiquarian Society were both located in Manchester. In the outlook and interests of its members, the Chester Archaeological Society focused sharply on the ancient medieval city and looked westward towards Wales and the borders, facing away from the industrial North. Members were drawn chiefly from the city and its western environs and demonstrated little concern for the heritage of the east of the county. A proposed excursion in 1855 to the industrial town of Stockport, by then the largest place in Cheshire, was abandoned for lack of interest. The Chester Archaeological Society had been founded in 1849 as the Chester Architectural, Archaeological and Historic Society and changed its name in 1886 to the Archaeological and Historic Society for the County and City of Chester and North Wales. It assumed its current name as late as 1966. It has played a long and vital role in preserving the history and heritage of Chester. 28 In the North East, organised activity began with the Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, 1813 and was extended by the formation of the Surtees Society in 1834. The intended purpose of both these bodies was to promote the study of the history and antiquities of the northern region as a whole rather than simply a single county. What is striking is the failure to establish any such broader remit, despite increased economic and cultural integration within the emerging city-regions. The attempt to imagine such a cultural unit in the North East and its failure in the face of a much more geographically limited form of localism is instructive. The Surtees Society, established in honour of Robert Surtees, the author of the History of the County Palatine of Durham, had as its stated object ‘the advancement of public education in the region that constituted the ancient kingdom of Northumbria, especially by the transcription, editing, translating and publication of original historical documents’. The ‘region’ envisaged by the Surtees Society encompassed those parts of England and Scotland between the Humber and the Firth of Forth on the east, and a lesser but still extensive stretch of territory between the Mersey and the Clyde on the west. These were lands that once comprised the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Northumbria. This was an attempt to imagine a region stretching far beyond the contemporary county boundaries. The county of Northumberland encompassed a much smaller area and was the northernmost shire in England, stretching from the towns of Tyneside and the Tees to the Cheviot Hills, the most imposing natural boundary between England and Scotland. The ancient ‘cultural province’ conjured up in

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1834 would today cover the counties of Yorkshire, Northumberland, Durham, Cumbria and much of Lancashire north of the sands. This initial claim to territory has never been reduced, although in the event the content of the volumes published by the Society has been concerned overwhelmingly with the twin counties of Northumberland and Durham.29 The imagined topography of a greater region of ‘Northumbria’ had no secure foundation in economy or culture. Historical societies in Scotland and Wales: cultural nationalism The extent to which the county was the dominant form for English historical societies in the nineteenth century is emphasised by comparison with the situation in Scotland, where the county system had been imposed from London and the ancient Scottish sheriffdoms were reorganised, with the powers of the hereditary sheriffs removed. This dates to the Act of Union of 1707 and the subsequent integration of Scotland into the political system of the United Kingdom that followed the failed Jacobite rebellions of 1715 and 1745. The county system that resulted had no very deep roots in Scottish culture and was rarely a focal point for antiquarian and archaeological societies when they emerged in the nineteenth century. However, although the county was less prominent as a focus for clubs and societies than it was in England, this did not mean an absence of activity. The Society of Antiquaries of Scotland (1780) was a self-consciously ‘national’ association that viewed itself as comparable to the Society of Antiquaries of London. Over half a century later, in the wake of Scott’s Waverley novels, a renewed concern for the history and antiquities of Scotland found expression in a number of societies, including the publishing clubs founded in the 1820s (the Abbotsford Club, the Bannatyne Club and the Maitland Club) and focusing on Scottish literary and historical texts. Other societies had a more regional focus such as the Northern Institution (1825), based in Inverness, and the Iona Club (1833), both established to promote interest in the history of the Highlands, whilst the Spalding Club (1839), based in Aberdeen, focused on the north-eastern counties. Of these and the other Scottish historical societies only the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland survived beyond 1870 (although the Spalding Club was re-founded in 1886). Later in the century a revival of interest in the historical identity of Scotland saw the formation of several durable archaeological



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and historical associations, most notably the Scottish History Society, another publishing club, founded in 1886 (and still active), and a few county-type societies such as the Dumfries and Galloway Natural History and Antiquarian Society, founded in 1862. Piggott suggests that the absence of the Anglican ecclesiological enthusiasms that played such a part in the county societies in the agricultural south of England may have contributed to the relative lack of county societies north of the border. However, it would not be true to say that ecclesiological interests were absent in Scotland, and indeed a more likely explanation was that the sparse distribution of the population north of Glasgow inhibited the formation and restricted the life expectancy of Scottish local societies. But the most important factor in the formation of Scottish archaeological and antiquarian societies was the spur of cultural nationalism, in which the search for a distinctive national heritage was more instrumental than the mere uncovering of the materials for local history.30 Similarly in Wales, cultural nationalism was the predominant influence. During the Romantic period attention focused on the roles of language and literature in recovering Welsh national identity, with a revival of interest in Celtic bards and eisteddfodau. The Cambrian Archaeological Association, founded in 1846, introduced a scholarly and historical dimension on the path to Welsh nationalism with the periodical Archaeologia Cambrensis. This gave the Welsh claim to nationhood stronger foundations, as did the re-formation of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion in 1873. These were all essentially national concerns and the county was only belatedly a focus of activity. The earliest county historical society in Wales was the Powysland Club (1867). The Carmarthenshire Antiquarian Society followed in 1905 and Cardiganshire Historical Society in 1909. County identities in nineteenth-century England In England, although there were supra-county groupings incorporating more than one county (e.g. Durham & Northumberland, Bristol & Gloucestershire, Cambridgeshire & Huntingdonshire, Chester & North Wales, Cumberland & Westmoreland, Devon & Cornwall, Lancashire & Cheshire, London & Middlesex), these most commonly represented co-operation between adjacent counties rather than threatening to supersede the identity of individual counties. There were also instances of county societies acting together, such as the

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union of ‘associated societies’ that published a joint annual volume of Reports and Papers, formed in the 1850s between the architectural and archaeological societies of Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, Yorkshire, St Albans, Leicestershire and the archdeaconry of Northampton and others. Despite the emergence of the city-regions that were to develop and grow into the conurbations of the mid-twentieth century, the mantle of the county remained as the chief imaginative figure and new county societies (including record societies) continued to be founded into the twentieth century. The durability of county identities is all the more remarkable when one considers the extent to which major reforms in the 1830s and after had undermined the traditional role of the counties in political and civil administration. The ancient county constituencies did not survive the Great Reform Act of 1832 (although there were county and borough constituencies in the reformed House of Commons). Further reforms in the 1830s created sub-county districts for Poor Law and civil registration purposes that often crossed county boundaries. Later the advent of sanitary authorities ignored county divisions. Nonetheless, the central state reconfigured rather than abandoned the counties as administrative units during the nineteenth century. The civil registration authorities devised registration counties and these county registration districts were also used in presenting the statistics of the decennial census between 1851 and 1911. The county police forces were established following legislation passed in 1839 and 1856. The Local Government Act of 1888 created county councils and county boroughs as a new tier of local state administration. Thus, in the age of great towns and cities and the emerging metropolitan regions, the county was retained as an arm of the local state. However, the administrative counties created in 1888, although based on the traditional or ‘historic counties’, often transcended or transformed them. The new administrative counties were legally separate from the ancient or historic counties and the latter retained certain statutory and customary functions represented by such institutions as the lieutenancy and the militia. Herein lies a clue to the continuing role of the county as the imagined local community. The ancient counties could represent a nostalgic notion of Englishness, as opposed to contemporary urban realities and local government reorganisations. Despite repeated reforms, the age-old county identities survived. There were indicators of the continued resonance of county allegiances. That distinctively English sport of cricket is a case in point.



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Although cricket has an ancient lineage and there are references to cricketing elevens in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the county was adopted as the chief unit of organisation in the early to mid-nineteenth century and the county cricket club was born. The county cricket championship was put on a formal footing in 1890 with the advent of the county championship. Few other sports were organised around the counties, however, and the clubs of the more mass-appeal sport of association football were predominantly town based. However, the county could still intrude in unsuspected places, as in the case of the cyclists’ map. In the age of the bicycle, mapmakers like Bartholomew’s democratised county maps, that traditional preserve of the elite mind, and transformed them into a leisure aid for the people. But the maps still utilised a cartography that represented England by her counties rather than her towns in which, for example, the typesetting allowed ‘LANCASHIRE’ to predominate over ‘Manchester’.31 Twentieth-century nostalgia for the ancient or historic counties was to survive successive phases of reform that, especially since the 1960s, have further transformed the geography of local government in England. This nostalgia had much to do with the vociferous and ultimately successful opposition to new creations such as Humberside and Avon, and also with perhaps the most remarkable reversal of legislative enactment, the re-emergence of Rutland, the tiniest county of all. However, the survival (and in some cases revival) of the old county names alongside entirely new creations is now part of a radically reformed administrative map of the United Kingdom. Organisations such as the Association of British Counties exist today to resist further reform and to maintain, enhance and promote what it sees as the role of the historic or traditional counties in the cultural life, geography and history of the nation.32 However, it must be said that in the modern UK state, county consciousness is generally a weaker root of identification than a particular town or even, in some instances, region, and considerably weaker than the more obvious indicators of ethnicity, national identity, religion or belief and sexual identity. Local history societies in the twentieth century and after How have the local historical associations, including the county societies, fared in the modern era? What has been the impact of the rise of history as a university subject from the late nineteenth century

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onwards? In the mid-Victorian world of history, archaeology and antiquarian studies there were no sharp and clear lines of demarcation between notions of the ‘professional’ and the ‘amateur’. History as a university subject had no real existence in the United Kingdom until the so-called ‘Oxford School’ of scholars established the scientific foundations of English historiography in the 1880s. The pioneers of university history in England had learned from the methodology of documentary research established by the ‘German School’ of Ranke, Niebuhr and Mommsen. The documents studied by this first generation of English university historians were predominantly constitutional, legal and political. The study of the national state was the priority. The local and regional were deemed lesser, the preserve of the amateur rather than the professional. The term ‘provincial’ was disparagingly used to marginalise such studies.33 Classical archaeology was recognised as a university discipline around the same time as history, although pre-historic archaeology, especially indigenous studies, took much longer to be accepted. The attitude to the local and regional societies was similar. The equation was made between amateur and antiquarian as the new professionals defined their intellectual territory and laid claim to specialist methodologies and a unique qualification to act as authorities on historical and archaeological subjects. ‘Provincial’, ‘amateur’, ‘antiquarian’ each became terms of abuse. The division of interest between the societies and the university establishment was in part a matter of social class in which the polite respectability of the antiquarians rooted in provincial status hierarchies could be contrasted with the ‘higher’ (and ostensibly more sophisticated) status attributes of those who educated the national elite. Nonetheless the societies continued to grow. Many new associations were founded between the 1880s and 1914, precisely as the growing stature of university historians and their journals, such as the English Historical Review, set new standards for academic rigour. Not that local history was entirely neglected by professional historians. Indeed the positivist optimism of the generation that thought it was dealing in determined and definitive certainties based upon Rankean notions of verifiable truth was applied to county history through the vehicle of the Victoria County History (VCH) project.34 This private, independent enterprise set out to be a ‘scholarly comprehensive encyclopedia of English local history in all periods, a repository of essential information, and the starting point for further



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research’.35 The VCH, its editors and contributors, sought to write scholarly, well-documented multi-volume sets for each English county. The VCH became part of the Institute of Historical Research of the University of London in 1933 and this heralded an academic respectability for local history that was to be confirmed and developed in the post-war period. The impact of the VCH was significant. It served to reinforce the county as a major unit of organisation in the local history of England. The VCH series itself was to evolve in the post-war years to reflect a growing awareness of the need to provide an account of the varied communities within each county, as well as its more traditional emphasis upon manorial and church histories.36 As provincial universities increased in number during the twentieth century and as history as a university discipline extended its purview into economic and social subjects as well constitutional and political history (the first chair in Economic History was at Manchester in 1910) some academics looked to their local societies and occasionally became active in the county societies established in their university cities. The Leeds University professor A. Hamilton Thompson is a prime example. Between 1907 and 1949 he contributed over 30 papers to the Transactions of the Leicestershire Archaeological Society and acted as president of the Society from 1937 to his death in 1952.37 He also wrote an introduction to local history for the Historical Association.38 However, during these decades, apart from such examples and a general acknowledgement of the importance of the VCH, ‘local history’ was frequently consigned to the ‘amateurs’ and remained excluded from the specialised and validated body of knowledge deemed appropriate for university study. Indeed it was not until after the Second World War that university historians more generally turned to local history and began to create it as a formal academic subject. During this post-war period the academic study of local history came to be dominated by the perspectives and methodologies developed by the ‘Leicester School’. The first university department of English local history was established at Leicester University in 1947. Over the following years historians in this department such as W. G. Hoskins, H. P. R. Finberg, Joan Thirsk, Alan Everitt and Charles Phythian-Adams created an academic form of local history in reaction to what they saw as the fact-gathering, particular and socially conservative perspectives of ‘amateur’ historians and antiquarians. In his inaugural lecture as professor in 1952, Finberg claimed that local history could be approached

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only once the broader context (English and European history) was understood. Thus ‘local history is not an elementary study. It is one to which the amateur or young student can, and often does, make a valuable contribution; but in its higher reaches it demands mature scholarship and a wide background of general culture.’39 It was not something to be safely left to the amateurs in their societies. His was a department for the ‘local’ history of the whole of England which saw research on individual locations as ‘case-studies’ for the knowledge they gave of the whole. The division between local and national was exploded in this methodology. A particular emphasis of the Leicester School was the need for a conceptual approach and the emphasis it laid on the central significance of ‘community’ over ‘place’. Equally, there was an emphasis (especially in the work of Hoskins on landscape) on local history as practical method (fieldwork) as much as documentary research.40 Most of the Leicester School historians’ work has sought to define and understand the local communities of the period prior to industrialisation. In this they have themselves been charged with nostalgic conservatism about a ‘lost’ pre-industrial (rural) past or with espousing a liberal/romantic conception of community.41 The post-war years proved to be something of a watershed in English local history. As well as the rise of local history in the universities there were a number of other important developments. First, the creation of a network of county record offices made primary sources much more accessible than ever before. They soon became the repository in each county for such records as parish registers, family and estate papers, probate records, local judicial and taxation records and so on. This, perhaps more than anything else, democratised local research, increasing the range of available sources and making them accessible to a wider public than ever before. However, it also reinforced the place of the county (alongside the parallel but more variable local collections garnered by municipal and university libraries) as a central figure in the organisation of the archive materials available to the local historian, whether amateur or professional. Second, the formation of the Standing Conference for Local History (1948) and the launch of a new journal, The Amateur Historian, demonstrated the energy and enthusiasm to complement and co-ordinate the work of local societies. However, the chosen journal title also reveals a willingness to accept the designation ‘amateur’. The influence of the Leicester School has been immense, not only on the place of local history within the universities but also on the activities



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of non-professional, leisure-time historians too. Hoskins was an active figure in the Leicestershire Archaeological Society, and other Leicester School historians attended its meetings and contributed to the pages of the Society’s journal. Indeed the decades since the 1940s have seen an increasing tendency for the transactions of county societies to include articles written not by ‘amateur’ historians but by the professionals themselves, urgently seeking outlets for the results of their researches. In The Amateur Historian the intention was to provide a forum for what its founder called the ‘spare-time researchers into local, family and institutional history and archaeology’.42 After 1961 it joined forces with the Standing Conference for Local History, becoming its house journal. They both reflected the priorities and interests of the non-professionals. In 1968 The Amateur Historian was renamed as The Local Historian, and in 1981 the Standing Conference assumed the title of the British Association for Local History. This more professional title has been taken as evidence of an abandonment of antiquarianism for an increased professionalism among the ranks of the amateur; as a reflection of growing confidence about the quality of the work produced by these ‘spare-time researchers’.43 However, it has also been maintained that too much of this local history is fetishist about primary sources and is conceptually unaware in a way that undermines analysis and is ultimately ‘antiquarian’. Thus the problem for local history has been characterised as the ‘tyranny of the discrete’.44 The author of this critique was a proponent of regional history, an approach reflected in postgraduate courses at a few universities and adult education colleges. In 1978 tutors on these courses formed their own organisation, the Conference of Teachers of Regional and Local History (CORAL). Separate from these developments has been a movement for local history as ‘liberation’: a people’s history. In part this grew out of the History Workshop movement founded in the 1970s by Raphael Samuel and based on the notion that ‘history is or ought to be a collaborative enterprise, one in which the researcher, the archivist, the curator and the teacher, the “do-it-yourself” enthusiast and the local historian, the family history societies and the individual archaeologist, should all be regarded as equally engaged’.45 Following on from this and equally influenced by the growth of family history, oral history and population studies has seen the emergence since the 1990s of the self-styled ‘community history’. Concerned with what it calls ‘micro-history’

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rather than local history and self-consciously interrogative of the concept of community (which few local historians are) the new community historians set out to bridge the gap between institution based and independent researchers. Influential has been the work of the Open University, and a result has been the Family and Community Historical Research Society (and its journal, Family and Community History), which set out to provide a forum for researchers regardless of professional or amateur status.46 Community history, like oral history and family history, has had a ‘democratising’ effect, widening access to sources and broadening the constituency of active researchers. Equally the term ‘public history’, originating in the United States in the 1980s, has gained a lively currency in the UK since 2000. Variously meaning an emphasis upon communication and access, it too sets out to democratise historical research. The intention of those active as public historians is to promote the notion of historical research as a tool available to everybody for understanding the world and our place within it. Along with this stress on utility goes a selfconscious awareness of how our knowledge of the past is constructed, how such knowledge is used in society and the various ways it can be presented and communicated. Although much of this implies an interest in the local it is by no means confined to such studies. Universities and museums have made professional appointments in this field outside the usual academic settings. For example, the potential high profile of this development has led Manchester University to appoint the well-known television historian Michael Wood as its first professor of public history. Other universities, partly with museum and archive professionals in mind, have created master’s degrees in public history.47 What sort of history has local history become? Today the traditional county societies still exist (albeit frequently with uncertain finances and ageing memberships), but they have been joined by a variety of other groups concerned with subjects such as family history, oral history, heritage conservation and the history of particular ethnic communities. However, the sheer longevity of many of the county societies is itself worthy of remark, with records of meetings and published transactions extending back to the Victorian era. In the twenty-first century the member is as likely to be a woman as a man, although the evidence suggests that the societies remain resolutely middle class in social composition. This chapter has been an attempt to draw attention to some aspects of the county societies’



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history and to note their value as communities of like-minded enthusiasts drawn to the need to record, promote and conserve the history and heritage of their particular part of the world. In this sense they share a common bond with the pioneers who established these societies over 150 years ago. Appendix I English county societies founded by 1886: Bedfordshire, Berkshire, Bristol & Gloucestershire, Buckingham, Cumberland & Westmoreland, Derbyshire, Dorset, Durham & Northumberland, Essex, Hampshire, Lancashire & Cheshire, Leicestershire, Lincolnshire, London & Middlesex, Norfolk & Norwich, Oxfordshire, St. Albans & Hertfordshire, Shropshire, Somerset, Staffordshire (William Salt Society), Suffolk, Surrey, Sussex, Warwickshire, Wiltshire, Worcestershire, Yorkshire. Source: Philippa Levine, The Amateur and the Professional: Antiquarians, Historians and Archaeologists in Victorian England 1838–1886 (Cambridge, 1986), App. IV, pp. 182–3. Appendix II English county societies active in 1986: Bedfordshire, Berkshire, Bristol & Gloucestershire, Buckingham, Cambridgeshire & Huntingdonshire, Chester & North Wales, Cornwall, Cumberland & Westmoreland, Derbyshire, Devon, Devon & Cornwall, Dorset, Durham & Northumberland, Essex, Hampshire, Hertfordshire, Isle of Man, Kent, Lancashire & Cheshire, Leicestershire, Lincolnshire, London & Middlesex, Norfolk & Norwich, Northamptonshire, Nottinghamshire, Oxfordshire, Rutland, St. Albans & Hertfordshire, Shropshire, Somerset, Staffordshire (incl. William Salt Society), Suffolk, Surrey, Sussex, Warwickshire, Wiltshire, Worcestershire, Yorkshire. Source: M. Pinhorn, Historical, Archaeological and Kindred Societies in the United Kingdom (Isle of Wight, 1986). Notes   1 Most attention has been given to the nineteenth century, where a key study is P. Levine, The Amateur and the Professional: Antiquarians, Historians and Archaeologists in Victorian England 1838–1886 (Cambridge, 1986).

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Mike Rose has made a valuable contribution to the literature, see M. E. Rose, ‘Clio, Culture and the City: Historical Societies in Their Nineteenth Century Urban Context’, Transactions of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, 147 (1998), 139–52. See also, S. Piggott, ‘The origins of the English county archaeological societies’, in Ruins in a Landscape: Essays in Antiquarianism (Edinburgh, 1976); A. J. Kidd, ‘Between antiquary and academic: local history in the nineteenth century’, in R. C. Richardson, ed., The Changing Face of English Local History (Aldershot, 2000); A. J. Kidd ‘“Local History” and the Culture of the Middle-classes in North West England, c. 1840–1900’, Transactions of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, 147 (1998), 115–39; D. Wetherall, ‘The growth of archaeological societies’, in V. Brand, ed., The Study of the Past in the Victorian Age (Oxford, 1998). There are also some useful studies of individual societies, most notably A. Crosby, ‘A Society with No Equal’: The Chetham Society, 1843–1993 (Manchester, 1993); A. Crosby, The Chester Archaeological Society: The First One Hundred and Fifty Years 1849–1999 (Chester, 1999).   2 M. Pinhorn, Historical, Archaeological and Kindred Societies in the United Kingdom (Isle of Wight, 1986).  3 S. E. Harcup, Historical, Archaeological and Kindred Societies in the British Isles (London, 1965).  4 See J. Beckett, Writing Local History (Manchester, 2007), p. 190. The figures are from the Report of the Committee to Review Local History, 1979 (Blake Report).  5 F. A. Youngs, Guide to the Local Administrative Units of England, 2 vols (London, 1979, 1991).  6 C. Phythian-Adams, ed., Societies, Cultures and Kinship, 1580–1850 (Leicester, 1993), p. 19. See also, Phythian-Adams, ‘Local History and National History: The Quest for the Peoples of England’, Rural History, 2 (1991), 1–23.  7 See D. Eastwood, Government and Community in the English Provinces, 1700–1870 (London, 1997), pp. 91–4; P. Clark, British Clubs and Societies 1580–1800: Origins of an Associational World (Oxford, 2000), ch. 8.  8 R. Sweet, Antiquaries: The Discovery of the Past in Eighteenth Century Britain (London, 2004), pp. 37–8.   9 G. Parry, Trophies of Time: English Antiquarians of the Seventeenth Century (Oxford, 1996); S. A. E. Mendyk, ‘Speculum Britanniae’. Regional Study, Antiquarianism and Science in Britain to 1700 (Toronto, 1989); C. R. J. Currie and C. P. Lewis, eds, English County Histories: A Guide (Stroud, 1994); J. Simmons, ed., English County Historians (Wakefield, 1978). 10 Clark, British Clubs and Societies, p. 467. 11 See Sweet, Antiquaries, pp. 83–4 and 111. A likely model for the London



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society was the Academie des Belle Lettres created under the patronage of Louis XIV. 12 A. Hume, The Learned Societies and Printing Clubs of the United Kingdom (London, 1847). 13 Levine, Amateur and the Professional. See also Piggott, ‘Origins’; Wetherall, ‘The growth of archaeological societies’. 14 See Piggott, ‘Origins’. 15 See lists in Levine, Amateur and the Professional, p. 181. 16 Rose, ‘Clio, Culture and the City’; Kidd, ‘“Local History”’’; Kidd, ‘Between antiquary and academic’. 17 Levine, Amateur and the Professional, pp. 123–34. 18 J. Carman, Valuing Ancient Things: Archaeology and Law (Leicester, 1996). 19 A. Everitt, ‘Country, County and Town: Patterns of Regional Evolution in England’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th series, 29 (1979), 95–8. 20 P. Borsay, The English Urban Renaissance: Culture and Society in the Provincial Town 1660–1770 (Oxford, 1991). 21 Rose, ‘Clio, Culture and the City’. 22 Transactions of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, Vol. VIII, 1855–56; Bradshaw’s General Railway and Steam Navigation Guide for Great Britain, 259, February 1855. 23 Transactions of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire, Vol. VIII, 1855–56, 256. 24 See map 5 in D. Turnock, Railways in the British Isles: Landscape, Land Use and Society (London, 1982). 25 The Leicestershire Archaeological Society 1855–1955, published by the Society (Leicester, 1955). 26 Ibid.; Levine, Amateur and the Professional, pp. 184–5. 27 J. Langton, ‘The Industrial Revolution and the Regional Geography of England’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 9 (1984); E. Royle, ‘Introduction: regions and identities’, in Royle, ed., Issues of Regional Identity (Manchester, 1998). 28 See Crosby, The Chester Archaeological Society. 29 A. Hamilton Thompson, The Surtees Society 1834–1934, Part II: Publications (London, 1939); R. Sweet, ‘“Truly historical ground”: antiquarianism in the North’, and R. Colls, ‘The new Northumbrians’, in R. Colls, ed., Northumbria: History and Identity 547–2000 (Chichester, 2007). 30 Piggott, Ruins in a Landscape, pp. 191–2; D. V. Clarke, ‘Scottish archaeology in the second half of the nineteenth century’, in A. S. Bell, ed., The Scottish Antiquarian Tradition (Edinburgh, 1981). For an overview of Scottish societies in the nineteenth century see C. S. Terry, A Catalogue of the Publications of Scottish Historical and Kindred Clubs and Societies (Aberdeen, 1909), pp. vii–x.

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31 R. Colls, Identity of England (Oxford, 2002), p. 222. 32 See www.abcounties.com. 33 The literature on the rise of university history in England is extensive but the key points are summarised well in R. D. Anderson’s entry in I. Porciani and L. Raphael, eds, Atlas of European Historiography: The Making of a Profession 1800–2005 (Basingstoke, 2010), pp. 166–72. 34 See R. B. Pugh in The Amateur Historian, I (1952). 35 C. Elrington, ‘The VCH’, Local Historian, 22 (1992), 128. 36 See, for example, J. Beckett, ‘W. G. Hoskins, the Victoria County History and the Study of English Local History’, Midland History, 36 (2011), 115–27, and Beckett’s other various articles on the VCH. 37 See the obituary in Transactions of the Leicestershire Archaeological Society, Vol. XXIX, 1953, 12–14. 38 A. Hamilton Thompson, A Short Bibliography of Local History (London, 1928). 39 Richardson, Changing Face of English Local History, p. 116. 40 See for example, W. G. Hoskins, Fieldwork in Local History (London, 1967) and his classic study, The Making of the English Landscape (Leicester, 1955) and subsequent editions. 41 D. Matless, Landscape and Englishness (London, 1998), pp. 274–8; G. Sheeran and Y. Sheenan, ‘Discourses in Local History’, Rethinking History 2 (1998). 42 Quoted in A. Crosby, ‘The Amateur Historian and the Local Historian: Some Thoughts after Thirty Years’, Local Historian 32 (2002), 146–55. 43 Ibid. 44 J. D. Marshall, The Tyranny of the Discrete: A Discussion of the Problems of Local History in England (Aldershot, 1997). 45 R. Samuel, ed., History Workshop: A Collecteana, 1967–1991, Documents, Memoirs, Critique and Cumulative Index to History Workshop Journal, 1991. Ruskin College. 46 See www.fachrs.com. 47 For differing introductions to some of the themes of public history see H. Kean and P. Marin, eds, The Public History Reader (Abingdon, 2013); P. Ashton and H. Kean, Public History Today: People and Their Pasts (Basingstoke, 2009); J. Black, Contesting History: Narratives of Public History (London, 2014).

3

Memorial mania: remembering and forgetting Sir Robert Peel Terry Wyke

Millions of people enjoyed listening to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band on its release in 1967. For social historians, especially those studying the nineteenth century, there were additional pleasures. The historical references in the songs resonated, whilst among the faces that stared out from Peter Blake’s dazzling collage were eminent, indeed pre-eminent Victorians. The leonine Karl Marx, the outrageously precocious Aubrey Beardsley and the aesthete’s aesthete, Oscar Wilde, were instantly recognisable. But not everyone was as easy to identify, and it was a surprise to discover later that the only politician included in this gallery of the revered and infamous was Sir Robert Peel. Why was Peel, one of the political giants of the nineteenth century, not immediately recognisable? Did Peel, whose extensive art collection included an acclaimed gallery of portraits of recent and contemporary politicians,1 cultivate a personal visual anonymity at a time when the technology to make and distribute images was changing at an unprecedented rate? If so, he certainly had good reason to be thankful for it, as in 1843 he escaped certain death when an assassin killed his private secretary, believing him to be the prime minister.2 Peel appears to have been sensitive about his personal image – there are a surprisingly small number of portraits and no known daguerreotypes, whilst a request for a death mask was refused. The public image of politicians began to matter more in the nineteenth century, a subject that historians and others have begun to examine in the wider literature on visual culture and its relationship to communal identities and memory. This

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essay meets that literature at an obtuse angle, being concerned with a set of highly public yet largely overlooked images of Peel, namely the public statues that were raised after his death.3 These are used, in particular those in the north of England, to explore the processes involved in the commemorating, remembering and, equally important, the forgetting of the second Sir Robert Peel. Historians are in general agreement that the unexpected death of Peel in July 1850 created a mood of widespread public grief. ‘The only English statesman for whose death the poor have cried in the streets,’ was G. M. Young’s observation of what he regarded as one of the pivotal events of the age.4 ‘Unfortunately we are in deepest sorrow’, wrote Prince Albert, ‘Peel is a loss for all Europe, a terrible loss for England, an irreparable one for the Crown and for us personally.’5 Peel’s refusal of a peerage and a state funeral further increased his public stature. If not the most robust of evidence of his popularity, it is worth noting that one London sweet seller informed Mayhew that his lettered sugar sticks containing Peel’s name were among his best sellers, whilst in an act we associate more readily with radical heroes, parents expressed their respect for Peel by naming their children after him.6 There was an overwhelming sense that the country had lost a statesman prematurely; a man who had been in policy-making circles, both in and out of government, under four monarchs, and a prime minister whose decision to repeal the Corn Laws validated a new political landscape, acknowledging as it did the urban industrial society that had come into existence during his own lifetime. The press did much to forge the image of Peel the statesman, admired by all classes, who had put country above party. Newspaper obituaries and reminiscences were followed by longer essays in the magazines. The Illustrated London News published a double number, whilst printsellers rushed to find old plates or have new ones engraved. Street ballads were composed,7 commemorative pottery was produced8 and even though culinary historians are silent on the point we may presume that sales of Crosse and Blackwell’s ‘Sir Robert Peel’s Sauce’ increased.9 Measuring Peel’s popularity among the classes is, of course, problematic. Even so, the tributes seemed to go beyond the expected, and one has to go back to Canning to find similar expressions of public grief. That there was immediate discussion of a public memorial was to be expected, but what was different was the extent to which the idea was taken up in communities outside London. Politicians had been



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memorialised before Peel – Spencer Perceval (Northampton, 1817), Pitt the Younger (London, 1831), Earl Grey (Newcastle, 1838) – but it was the sheer scale of the memorialisation that has led art historians to identify Peel’s death as the beginning of the statue mania that was to establish the outdoor portrait statue as one of the most common commemorative forms for national and local worthies.10 Statue mania Discussions about a memorial were already underway in many towns before Peel’s funeral. Private meetings preceded the public ones which saw the naming of committees drawn from the leading inhabitants and the opening of subscription books. In London a statue of Peel was to be expected, but the metropolitan memorial schemes produced not one but three statues. The expected national tribute was a marble statue – the work of John Gibson – to be placed in Westminster Abbey. A second statue – the work of William Behnes – was financed principally by the leading merchants, bankers and businessmen in the City of London. It had been intended to place it close to the Mansion House, but after further discussion, including the erection of a dummy monument, a site was found in Cheapside.11 Carlo Marochetti was chosen to produce a bronze statue to stand outside the Houses of Parliament, a scheme promoted by leading Peelites (Earl of Aberdeen, Graham, Sidney). It proved to be a tortuous commission, both of Marochetti’s efforts being deemed unsatisfactory. Belatedly, the commission was given to Matthew Noble, whose statue of Peel was finally erected in Parliament Square in 1876. Glasgow was the location of the major Peel monument in Scotland. A public subscription was opened for a statue soon after Peel’s death, the commission being given to the Scottish sculptor John Mossman. Its importance was evident by placing it in George Square, which, with its fine statues of Watt and Scott, was becoming the city’s ‘outdoor pantheon’.12 It was not finally unveiled until 1859.13 Other, smaller Scottish towns completed their public tributes more quickly. These included Forfar (population 9,300 in 1851), where a monument to Peel was sited near the borough’s recently opened cemetery.14 Montrose (population 15,200 in 1851) collected sufficient funds for a full-size portrait statue in stone, sculpted by Alexander Handyside Ritchie. It was unveiled in 1852, occupying a prominent location in the High Street.15

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In the Midlands, Birmingham turned to a local sculptor, Peter Hollins, and a local foundry, Elkington and Mason, for its statue of Peel. It was inaugurated in August 1855, located close to the city’s much-admired town hall.16 Tamworth had special reason to provide a memorial, as it was the constituency Peel had represented from 1830, following his father’s death, and only a short distance from the family home, Drayton Manor. In Tamworth the Peel statue, by Matthew Noble, was unveiled by Frederick Peel in July 1852.17 It was placed in front of the town hall, a space where Peel had contested elections. Statues of Peel were also raised in the West Riding industrial towns of Leeds, Bradford and Huddersfield. William Behnes, an established and trusted London sculptor, produced the Peel statues for Leeds and Bradford. The Leeds statue was paid for by public subscription, some £1,750 being contributed by 5,000 subscribers. It was placed near Park Row, on the edge of the space that was to become City Square, but was later removed to Victoria Square in front of the Town Hall.18 Bradford’s Peel, the town’s first public statue, was unveiled in November 1855 in what was renamed Peel Place.19 It was a more substantial tribute than Leeds’s, in that it was linked to the wider project of the town’s first public park. The inscription on both pedestals simply read ‘Peel’. By contrast, Huddersfield’s Peel became an excessively lengthy affair in which committee members and subscribers argued and fell out over the form of the memorial, with the result that a Peel statue was not unveiled until 1873.20 Overlooking St George’s Square, the statue – the work of William Theed – was in marble rather than the harder-wearing bronze. But it was in Lancashire that the heaviest crop of Peel memorials was to be found. By August 1850 Lancashire towns were awash with subscription books for memorial schemes. Manchester, as the cradle of the Anti-Corn Law League, led the way, raising the money by a public subscription that canvassed outside as well as inside the town. William Calder Marshall’s winning design was impressive – a statue of Peel on a stepped pedestal, flanked by two allegorical figures representing the Arts and Sciences, and Manufacturing and Industry. What was the city’s first outdoor public statue was unveiled on the recently landscaped Piccadilly esplanade in 1853.21 In neighbouring Salford the site of its Peel statue was easily settled – Peel Park having been named in honour of the prime minister because of the support, financial and political, he had given to this innovative public project.



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The statue, again chosen in competition, was the work of a relatively unknown sculptor, Matthew Noble, whose Peel commissions started a career that was to make his studio one of the busiest in Victorian London. Liverpool’s Peel was unusual in that it was placed indoors. The Corporation agreed in August 1851 to accommodate the proposed statue in St George’s Hall, then under construction. The decision to include the statue may have led Cockerell, who completed the hall after the death of Emes, to introduce niches in the great hall. It was here that in September 1854 Matthew Noble’s Peel was unveiled as part of the celebrations that marked the opening of one of the most brilliant of all Victorian public buildings. In the following years the hall became home to an important collection of marble statues.22 Preston’s Peel was modest by comparison. Limited funds meant the employment of a local rather than London sculptor, and a work in stone rather than bronze.23 The statue was officially unveiled in 1852, sited at the entrance to the Georgian Winckley Square, the heart of the town’s most fashionable residential district.24 Bury’s contribution to the commemoration of the Bury-born Peel was especially noteworthy in producing two substantial monuments. The first memorial was a bronze statue which was erected near the Market Place. The London sculptor, Edward Hodges Baily, was chosen in a competition which attracted entries from twenty sculptors and architects. Money was also collected to build a 120-foot-high memorial tower on Holcombe Hill between Bury and Ramsbottom. Both schemes were inaugurated in September 1852.25 Memorials were also raised in some of the smaller cotton towns, though here the dominant note was the by now familiar distinction between the useful and the ornamental. Given Manchester’s call for subscriptions from across the region and the cost of erecting a statue (a simple bronze portrait statue from a known London sculptor was around 1,000 guineas), many of the smaller towns decided on more practical memorials. Public parks and baths featured heavily in these discussions. Oldham was prompt in its memorial project. John Platt and others pushed forward a scheme which resulted in the memorial funds being put towards the building of public baths, in the entrance hall of which was displayed a marble bust of Peel.26 Darwen also used its testimonial funds to open public baths, though these were soon handed over to the local board of health.27 In other towns the subscription schemes remained undefined until the money was either

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promised or paid over. A year after Peel’s death, Accrington had raised the not inconsiderable sum of £1,056, only to become bogged down in arguments on what was the most appropriate way to spend it. The original idea of baths and washhouses was replaced by a more ambitious project in which the funds went towards building the Peel Institution. Eventually opened in 1858 and easily the grandest public building in this still small town, it was home to the local mechanics’ institute before becoming the town hall.28 In other communities memorial projects seem to have run out of steam. Blackburn opened a memorial fund and some £632 was collected, almost one quarter coming from workplace collections.29 But the scheme made slow progress and when the council approached the memorial committee in 1855 with a view that the funds might be used to support the building of baths, there was still no agreement on the form of the memorial.30 An observatory in Corporation Park was another memorial scheme mooted. But the prevarication continued.31 In a separate move around this time a statue of Peel was placed atop the newly built Peel Buildings in the town centre.32 When enquiries into the whereabouts of the Peel memorial money were raised in the early 1880s, it was discovered that £75 9s 7d remained in a bank account, a larger sum being unaccounted for.33 The surviving trustees decided to pass the funds over to the local hospital. Belatedly, Blackburn did honour Peel, but this was not until the end of the century, when it established educational scholarships in his name.34 As already noted, not all the Peel testimonials were directed towards raising a public statue or building. One of the most publicised and the only national memorial scheme took the form of a working man’s testimonial which asked individuals to donate no more than one penny towards an unspecified tribute.35 Based in London, it was supported by Cobden, Bright, Wilson and other AntiCorn Law League leaders who were able to assist in organising collections through their contacts in provincial towns. Joseph Hume, Sir James Graham and Lord John Russell were the original trustees. It eventually attracted some 400,000 separate donations. The money was invested and it was decided to use the interest to provide books for mechanics’ institutes, lyceums and the new public libraries – Manchester Free Library and Salford Royal Museum and Library being among the institutions given priority in the d ­ istribution of funds.36



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Commemoration and identity In examining this outburst of public commemoration for Peel, a number of themes emerge. First, the Peel statues were more than respectful acts of commemorating an important politician: they were expressions of an economic ideology – free trade. At the centre of this image making and image raising of Peel were leaders of the former Anti-Corn Law League. The League, having manufactured public opinion during the repeal campaign with the same adroitness that its supporters could spin cotton, was now seen proclaiming its version of the history of repeal in bronze and marble as well as in print. Lancashire free traders in particular moulded their own biography of Peel in which the League took full credit for the momentous decision of 1846. In the construction of this life narrative, Peel was portrayed as a man who had come from an obscure Lancashire family, whose business was cotton not corn and whose place of birth according to one tradition was not the family home of Chamber Hall but in a nearby cottage. This emphasis on his Lancashire roots side-stepped the issue of just how much time Peel spent in Bury and his direct experience of the family business. As is well known, the first Sir Robert Peel, building on his own father’s business, was among those entrepreneurs who had made colossal fortunes in the factory-organised cotton industry, in his case in both manufacturing and the finishing trades.37 His determination to see his eldest son pursue a public career meant that not only was Peel’s childhood, like John Stuart Mill’s, fleeting, but his direct experience of the family business was limited. Peel was brought up as a gentleman, not as a businessman, his father able to buy his eldest son a seat in Parliament as readily as any of the great landed aristocrats. Peel visited Bury only occasionally after the family moved to Staffordshire. He is probably best regarded as a nominal Lancastrian. That it was the League that had created and directed the pressure that compelled Peel to repeal the Corn Laws was central to the narrative. It was expressed in the iconography of the statues, the League having long recognised the power of visual symbols in its campaigning.38 Manchester’s Peel, by far the most substantial and expensive of the Lancashire statues, showed Peel flanked by two allegorical female supporters. The figure of Manufacturing and Industry, her right hand resting on a bale of cotton and the other holding a spindle, was also

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read as Mancunensis, the personification of Manchester. Cultural historians will recognise this as a further example of the conventional representation of the female in sculpture, or, more specifically, women playing a supporting role in the repeal movement.39 However, the symbolism that mattered to most Victorian Mancunians was another part of the composition in which the borough’s crest was placed on top of a sheaf of corn – a direct declaration of the victory of Manchester’s mill-lords over the country’s landlords. Although there had been debate over the design of the statue, there was an inevitability, in a statue committee which included such prominent free traders as Thomas Bazley, Alexander Henry, Joseph Heron, William Nield and Salis Schwabe, that it would favour a composition featuring ‘figures emblematic of commerce and the blessings of free trade’.40 Likewise in Bury, where Peel stood on a plinth decorated with corn sheaves, mounted on a pedestal with two bas-reliefs representing Commerce and Navigation. Huddersfield’s long-delayed statue evoked the Sermon on the Mount with a relief of Christ feeding the poor, amplified by the inscription: ‘He gave the people bread, And they did eat thereof with joy.’ But, for those who may have been puzzled by such symbolism, the memorial statues literally spelt out their meaning by quoting the final part of Peel’s resignation speech in 1846: ‘but it may be that I shall leave a name sometimes remembered with expressions of goodwill in the abodes of those whose lot it is to labour and to earn their daily bread by the sweat of their brow, when they shall recruit their exhausted strength with abundant and untaxed food, the sweeter because it is no longer leavened by a sense of injustice’.41 This was inscribed on the pedestals of many of the Peel monuments, condensing a diverse political career into a single act. That it was also to be read as one entered the Peel Tower on Holcombe Hill and on the inside of the books stamped ‘Working Men’s Memorial of Gratitude to Sir Robert Peel Bart’ should not come as a surprise. Cobden had been among the earliest to suggest that this line from the speech would provide an appropriate inscription for the proposed national working men’s memorial.42 It was quoted in many obituaries, and was guaranteed to bring loud cheers in speeches made at the public meetings to raise funds for a memorial. It proved to be an apt choice and it became what one Victorian historian described as ‘one of the golden sentences in the history of Free Trade’.43 It had not come directly from the mouth of one of the leaders of the League, but, as Archibald Prentice observed,



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when people paused and considered the inscription they would acknowledge that it was the League that had been responsible for the adoption of ‘an enlightened commercial policy, which has set an example to all the nations of the earth’.44 In short, Peel’s final words as prime minister were appropriated by Lancashire free traders, ensuring that these memorials were not simply a heartfelt public tribute to a statesman who had died too soon. Second, it should be recognised that the memorials, raised almost entirely by public subscriptions, were portrayed by the urban middle classes as community-wide projects involving all social groups, not least a working class which in 1848 had been wreathed in revolution. Much was made of the contributions from those who had ‘cried in the streets’. Named donations of a penny are found on the surviving subscription lists. Collections in factories and workshops were trumpeted in a sympathetic press. Yet, in recognising that many donations were given willingly, other workers must have felt under pressure from their gaffers and managers who organised the collections. One can only guess at just how many of the City of London Police would have voluntarily supported a Peel memorial in the city, had they not ‘agreed’ to donate half a day’s pay to the fund. Yet, the rhetoric of the various memorial schemes was of class cooperation. By the time of Peel’s death an increasingly confident middle class, many of whom had consolidated their place in the arenas of politics and culture following the reform of the 1830s, found themselves in positions that enabled them to proclaim their status by their own images. This was part of a wider process of constructing, presenting and communicating civic identity, a process that in terms of art had been confined largely to the commissioning and display of portraits and busts inside public buildings.45 The Peel statues are part of an important moment when the political and civic history of the urban middle classes begins to be taken outdoors and communicated to a far larger public. At its most fundamental, the purpose of such statuary was to encourage an active and responsible citizenship – the individual placed on the pedestal being the moral exemplar, a reminder of a secular gospel which proclaimed the openness and possibilities of the new industrial society. One speaker at the unveiling of the Bradford Peel might well have been a member of a mutual improvement society at which Samuel Smiles had lectured: ‘Let them remember that in descent the late Sir Robert Peel was one of themselves (hear, hear) – his grandfather was a working man; and that every man in this

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borough, when he came past this statue, might look up and say, “If I have talent and industry, there is no position in this country to which I may not raise myself”. (Loud cheers).’46 Unveiling ceremonies were carefully orchestrated public occasions, red-letter days presented as further evidence of community purpose and cohesion. Yet, looking across the large and generally well-behaved crowds, it is clear that the key line of inclusion and exclusion was that separating the public platform on which sat the leading inhabitants – the memorial committee, councillors and their guests – from the standing masses. This demarcation continued in the accompanying banquet where the local elite toasted the project and themselves. It was the memorial committee, drawn almost entirely from the new urban middle classes, that was largely responsible for organising the competition, determining the site and selecting the design. Much was made of the workplace collections for Peel (as had been the case with funding the first public parks in the mid-1840s), but these were ultimately under the direction of the middle classes. Symptomatic of the superficial social cohesion around the projects was the occasion when workers in Bury, having been allowed to view the models of Peel submitted in the competition, were asked to remove their boots before entering the room.47 Closer study of the extant subscription lists will be required to confirm the extent to which free traders dominated these memorial schemes. But this seems to be the case if one checks the names of the prominent subscribers (over £50) against those of the prominent supporters of the League identified in histories from Prentice to Pickering and Tyrrell.48 The individuals, for instance, who featured in J. R. Herbert’s commemorative painting of the League Council are also to be found in the subscription lists. These individuals, of course, represented a tiny fraction of all subscribers, the majority of whom made donations in shillings, not pounds. Many of these smaller donors, even allowing for the proximity of the 1851 Census, will remain politically if not sociologically anonymous. In the case of Bury’s statue, over half of the individual subscribers (56.7 per cent) gave no more than one shilling to the fund, though this does not include those who made workplace donations, the largest of which was £11. 17s. 1d. Sixpence was the most popular sum given by named subscribers. Of the 115 female subscribers, threequarters (74.1 per cent) were unmarried. But it was the 39 subscribers of five guineas and above – the largest single donation was £200



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from Thomas Norris of Howick Hall, near Preston – who provided the majority of the funds and who sat on the organising committee.49 Unprecedented as this outburst of commemoration was, it did not dissolve fundamental political differences. Conservative Protectionists were quick to condemn the old Leaguers for turning Peel’s death into ‘a demonstration in favour of cotton philanthropy and Manchester politics’.50 Similarly, the Conservative Morning Post was not alone in depicting projects such as the working men’s testimonial as yet another League trick to boost its own position, just as the proposed industrial exhibition needed to be opposed because it was a Manchester bazaar that would ruin Hyde Park. Nothing could expunge the betrayal of 1846. Working-class radicals also regarded the idea of raising memorials to Peel as preposterous, though their critique went back to Peel’s approval of the use of the Yeomanry in the Manchester Massacre of 1819. When Bronterre O’Brien and other Chartists spoke at a meeting addressed by Hume, Cobden and Bright for the working man’s testimonial, they made it clear that working people had little to thank Peel for, and that it was absurd to speak of them benefiting from repeal when so many remained in poverty. Raising and financing Peel memorials should be left to the merchants, manufacturers and bankers who had benefited and were continuing to benefit from his policies. Similar criticisms were voiced in other parts of the country: Dundee’s radicals opposed the idea of a memorial, arguing that Peel was unworthy of such a tribute and that if a statue was to be commissioned, then it ought to be for their first MP, George Kinloch, who had been forced to leave the country in the wake of Peterloo.51 Bolton Chartists also remembered 1819, arguing that if the town was to have a public park it should be named after Henry Hunt, not Robert Peel.52 G. W. M. Reynolds summed up the feelings of many radicals about a Peel memorial in that ‘he looked on any working man who put his hand in his pocket to support it as a traitor to his own order’.53 Third, it is important to note that the efforts to shape the public history of the League in bronze and marble did not stop with Peel. Other memorial statues followed. Its high points included the unveiling of a bust of Cobden in Westminster Abbey, and the inclusion of life-size marble statues of living leaders of the movement – Bright and Villiers – in Manchester’s new town hall. Outdoor portrait statues of Cobden were also raised in Manchester, Salford and Stockport. Manchester Town Hall also displayed busts of Wilson, Smith and

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other League supporters – commissions that upheld the classical purpose of such statuary, namely celebration and promotion by the victors. Neither was this memorialisation confined to Cottonopolis: Bradford Wool Exchange displayed a marble statue of Cobden, whilst a bronze statue of the League’s poet, Ebenezer Elliott, stood in the centre of Sheffield, the latter being one of the few public statues ­honouring a working man in the Victorian period.54 Finally, the contribution made by the Peel statues in raising civic identity, particularly by defining and elevating urban space, should be recognised. A shortage of public spaces was a recognised feature of the Coketowns of the industrial revolution. As William Fairbairn’s visionary plan for the Piccadilly area of Manchester suggested, statuary ought to be an essential element in defining and dignifying these much-needed spaces.55 The Peel statues, being in many provincial towns the first outdoor statue, were important in helping to establish what was to be a new civic landscape. In Manchester the Peel monument confirmed the narrow strip of land in front of the Infirmary – the city’s foremost charity – as its principal public space. In the following decade the need to find a location for the Albert Memorial resulted in the creation of the entirely new public space of Albert Square.56 Peel Place in Bradford was created for its statue, the project viewed as the beginning of a new aesthetic in the city.57 In Leeds the Peel statue was placed on the edge of what eventually became City Square, though it was later removed to become a key element in a new square in front of Brodrick’s town hall. The inclusion of such statues in local guidebooks is a further reminder of their prominence as objects of civic import to draw to the attention of visitors. Forgetting Peel The statues helped to keep Peel’s memory current longer than was the case for most politicians. But as living memories of Peel came to an end, he became a more remote, marginal figure, even in the debates raging between free traders and protectionists. Popular attitudes towards portrait statuary were also changing. By the 1880s, long before the more virulent anti-Victorianism of the twentieth century, advocates of the New Sculpture were dismissive of ‘coat and trousers’ commemorative statues. These were regarded as objects that contributed little to the embellishment of public spaces. Individual statues may still have been recognised, but to the man travelling to and from



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Manchester on the Levenshulme omnibus they were no longer the heroes that they had once been. Statues, which mayors had taken into their safe keeping with promises to maintain in perpetuity, became more obviously neglected. In the twentieth century civic spaces became vulnerable to improvement schemes. Statues, once expressions of local pride and listed in guidebooks as notable sights, were particularly vulnerable, finding few defenders in schemes that promised to improve the flow of city-centre traffic. The Peel statues were amongst those on the move. Bradford removed its bronze Peel from the city centre to Peel Park in 1926, whilst Behnes’s Peel in Leeds made the journey to Woodhouse Moor in 1937. When Birmingham’s Peel was damaged in a traffic accident in 1927, the opportunity was taken to relocate it to Calthorpe Park. Theed’s Peel in Cheapside was also removed, succumbing to the arguments of the traffic lobby. Others fared worse. Blackburn’s Peel statue, which had become a minor landmark in the town centre, was declared unwanted and broken up.58 Huddersfield’s Peel was taken down in 1949, the stone having deteriorated to such an extent that it was scrapped. Its pedestal, however, inscribed with the golden sentence that a young Harold Wilson contemplated and recalled, was saved and, eventually, found a home in Ravensknowle Park.59 Such piecemeal removals, however, did not go far enough for those critics for whom the outdoor portrait statue represented Victorian vacuity.60 In 1938 – the 150th anniversary of Peel’s birth – the Manchester alderman George Hall floated the idea of exiling all of the statues in Piccadilly and Albert Square in order to create modern, attractive public spaces.61 These attitudes continued in the 1940s, and Manchester’s Peel was to feature in a war-time British-Pathé news film as an example of highly public yet clearly expendable metal that could be put to better use.62 In fact, few statues were sacrificed for the war effort, though the salvage drives did claim some of their defensive ornamental railings.63 Arguments continued to flare up over the relevance of public statues. Just how far anti-Victorianism had seeped into the marrow of some institutions was demonstrated in Salford. Here, in the early 1950s, the statues of Peel, Cobden and Brotherton were removed from Peel Park to make way for new educational buildings. The council showed little interest in re-erecting them, and they remained in storage until 1968, when the Peel and Brotherton statues were sold to a private collector, Raymond Richards, for an undisclosed price

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that was later said to have been less than their scrap value. Peel, although damaged, was put on display at Richards’s Cheshire home, Gawsworth Hall, along with other Victorian treasures. The cultural amnesia exhibited in this sale was compounded by selling to Richards the busts of other individuals no longer considered worthy of display in the municipal art gallery. Sir Elkanah Armitage (Matthew Noble, 1861), Joseph Brotherton (Matthew Noble, 1856), Thomas Davies (Albert Bruce-Joy, 1887), Thomas Goadsby (Matthew Noble, 1860), George Langworthy (Matthew Noble, [n.d.]) and Edward Waugh (Edward Geflowski, 1878) were among the unwanted.64 The extant records point to minimal discussion about the sale, and in a single transaction Salford managed to dispose of, for a fraction of the price they would have fetched at auction, busts and statues of individuals who had been central to its modern history. Arguments could be made for each of the works culled, but the inclusion of the Peel statue in the sale – it had stood at the main entrance of the eponymous park – seems especially crass, bringing to mind the iconoclasm associated with regimes in newly independent countries. Salford, however, was not alone in this cavalier treatment of Victorian statuary.65 The post-war years also saw a shift in the historical narrative of Peel. The centenary of the repeal of the Corn Laws should have been an anniversary widely remembered, not least in Manchester, where it had become an important part of the city’s historical narrative. Instead, it slipped by, almost unnoticed, people being far more concerned about the imminent introduction of bread rationing than of a remote anniversary of the advent of ‘cheap bread’. Similarly, in arguments over the rebuilding of the blitzed Free Trade Hall emphasis was given to the building as a temple of music rather than as the cradle of the Manchester School. Although Peel might receive a passing mention in the long, rumbling battle between protectionists and free traders, the only persistent defender of his fiscal reputation was Arthur George Villiers Peel. In 1950, some 55 years after he had contributed the entry on his grandfather to the Dictionary of National Biography, he was continuing to argue against the flawed logic of protectionism, reminding people of Peel’s importance as an economic reformer.66 By the middle of the twentieth century, Peel was firmly in the hands of the historians. The politics culminating in 1846 remained central to the researches of political and economic historians. However, more attention began to be given to his earlier reforms, especially his role in establishing the police. The entry on Peel in the 1911 Encyclopaedia



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Britannica, for instance, had made only the briefest reference to the Metropolitan Police Act. By the mid-twentieth century the emphasis had changed. This shift was evident within the police, who had begun to take a greater interest in their own history. This awareness of Peel helps to explain their willingness to provide new homes to threatened statues: Birmingham’s Peel was moved from Calthorpe Park to the Police Training Centre in Edgbaston in 1965, whilst the Peel statue originally sited in Cheapside was relocated to the Police Training College in Hendon in 1974.67 By the 1960s the popular historical narrative of Peel was one that cast him in the role of father of the modern police, and it may have been this perception, combined with the almost continual presence of the police in their own lives, which prompted the Beatles to include him on the original list of individuals whom Peter Blake was asked to portray in the gallery of faces featured on the acclaimed cover. Beardsley, Marx and Wilde were also on that list, choices rather easier to account for in the counter-culture of the time, individuals whom they recognised and admired, to be numbered among the ‘friends’ who helped them get by.68 No conclusive answer is provided in the huge library of books and websites about the group as to which one of them chose Peel, but it seems likely that Peel was a conceit, probably suggested by John Lennon, reflecting a widespread resentment, ­especially among the youth, with policing methods. But such interest in Peel was somewhat unusual. In most northern towns the Peel statues, especially if they had been moved out of the centre, were generally ignored. Vandalism, especially graffiti, was a long-running problem. Students in Leeds added new layers of meaning to the Peel statue by renaming it after the recently deceased disc jockey, John Peel, who, unlike Sir Robert Peel, was included among the 100 Great Britons of all time in a 2001 nation-wide poll.69 Bury was one of the few towns that showed a positive interest in its Peel statue, highlighting it in its municipal literature promoting heritage tourism. Baily’s statue also became swathed in myth, guided tours of the town centre claiming that the sculptor had committed suicide because he had placed the buttons of Peel’s waistcoat on the wrong side.70 The Peel brand was exploited elsewhere in the town. A public house near the statue was named after Peel, whilst long-suffering fans of Bury football club were entertained by their mascot, Robbie the Bobbie. A more unexpected use came from the region’s most successful but historically minded entrepreneur, John Whittaker.

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Whittaker was born in Bury and his early business interests centred on the local Peel Mills, from which his company took its name. Peel Holdings also adopted the Peel Tower for its logo and, presumably to the surprise of international businessmen, featured Sir Robert Peel in its promotional literature.71 Historians of the Victorian period have an abundance of primary sources and hardly need more. Yet, as this essay has argued, it is important, not least as studies into material culture increase, to pay more attention to the portrait statue and bust. Ironically, public statuary remains among Strachey’s ‘obscure recesses’ of the Victorian world, a place where to open a guidebook to London or Bombay was to be invited to visit the squares and streets in which were to be found its memorialised heroes: military leaders, statesmen, philanthropists and others. It was a surprisingly largely populated and, royalty apart, heavily masculine world. Fortunately, the ongoing research of the Public Sculpture and Monuments Association National Recording Project is producing a colossal database of extant and lost works to assist social historians and others to navigate this world.72 Peel’s death sparked off a burst of commissioning and raising public monuments that did much to make the portrait statue part of the grammar of public commemoration. The commissioning of portraits for display inside public buildings had long been part of a process of establishing a historical narrative, but the commissioning of statues, paid for by the many not the few, and placing them in public outdoor spaces where they were open to the scrutiny of a larger public, made them an important part of a wider narrative. They became as much a part of the civic landscape then under construction as did town halls, law courts and market halls. Statues played an important part in helping to define public spaces, and in some cases were directly responsible for establishing those spaces. Each statue was the product of a combination of particular social, political and cultural forces. The Peel statues can be read as a heartfelt tribute to a politician who had died prematurely but, as this essay has argued, they were pre-eminently political symbols, used in particular by the Anti-Corn Law League to provide a highly visible statement of its achievements. Peel’s momentous decision was their triumph. Had there been no League it is doubtful whether the Peelites would have done as much to fix their leader into the pantheon of ­nineteenth-century politicians, especially outside London. The League made Lancashire, and Manchester in particular, the



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spiritual home of free trade. Free trade came to define the city. To visit Manchester in the second half of the nineteenth century was to be in the mother city of free trade, and like a pilgrim one could tour the city centre acknowledging the monuments honouring Peel, Cobden and Bright, before visiting the movement’s cathedral, the Free Trade Hall, itself decorated with a series of superb marble panels that expressed the axioms of free trade as eloquently as Cobden and Bright had ever done inside the building. Lower down on the façade, the civic badges of Lancashire towns proclaimed the wider community of the League. The repeal of the Corn Laws also strengthened a further trait in what was to become the dominant Liberal biography of the city, namely the notion of Manchester as a forward-thinking, challenging, modern city. This, of course, competed with other narratives, not least that of Manchester as a city of working-class radicalism. The Free Trade Hall had been built on St Peter’s Field, the site of Peterloo, yet that was not directly memorialised on the site. If the Victorian visitor wished to find a memorial to that cardinal event in Manchester’s history, then one had to leave the buildings and spaces associated with Liberal bourgeois Manchester and enter the backstreets of Outcast Ancoats.73

Notes  1 J. Mordaunt Crook, ‘Sir Robert Peel: Patron of the Arts’, History Today, 16:1 (January 1966), 11.  2 N. Gash, Sir Robert Peel. The Life of Sir Robert Peel after 1830 (London, 1972), pp. 364–6.  3 But, thankfully, not entirely overlooked. I have drawn on D. Read, Peel and the Victorians (Oxford, 1987), ch. 7 and R. A. Gaunt, Sir Robert Peel. The Life and Legacy (London, 2010), ch. 8 in writing this essay.  4 G. M. Young, Victorian England: Portrait of an Age (Oxford, 1936), p. 79. Young reprinted The Times’s obituary of Peel in this seminal work.  5 Quoted in J. A. Auerbach, The Great Exhibition of 1851. A Nation on Display (New Haven, 1999), p. 46.  6 H. Mayhew, London Labour and London Poor, vol. 2 (New York, 1968), p. 203. This is from the interviews conducted in 1850–51. Robert Peel Blatchford is probably the best-known example of this naming practice; see A. N. Lyons, Robert Blatchford. The Sketch of A Personality (London, 1910), pp. 8, 19.  7 John Ashton, Modern Street Ballads (London, 1968), pp. 308–10.  8 A collection of Peel commemoratives belonging to the Peel Society are displayed at Middleton Hall, Middleton, Tamworth. See also J. and J. May,

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Commemorative Pottery 1780–1900 (London, 1972); L. Hallinan, British Commemoratives. Royalty, Politics, War and Sport (Woodbridge, [1995]) pp. 110–11, 120–2; P. D. G. Pugh, Staffordshire Portrait Figures and Allied Subjects of the Victorian Era (Woodbridge, 1987).  9 Adverts in the Observer, 16 September 1849, p. 1 and A. Soyer, A Shilling Cookery for the People (London, 1855). 10 B. Read, Victorian Sculpture (New Haven, 1983), p. 107. 11 The Times, 11 February 1854, p. 8, 3 May 1855, p. 12; Morning Post, 23 July 1855, p. 3; P. Ward-Jackson, Public Sculpture of the City of London (Liverpool, 2003), pp. xiv, 234–5. 12 T. Somerville, George Square, Glasgow; and the Lives of Those Whom Its Statues Commemorates (Glasgow, 1891), pp. 156–69; Glasgow Herald, 29 June 1859, p. 3. 13 R. McKenzie, Public Sculpture of Glasgow (Liverpool, 2002), pp. 132–3. 14 Glasgow Herald, 2 August 1850, p. 4; Dundee Courier, 8 October 1851, p. 3. 15 Caledonian Mercury, 23 August 1852, p. 2; Huddersfield Chronicle, 28 August 1852, p. 3. 16 The Times, 28 August 1855, p. 12; Daily News, 28 August 1855, p. 2; G. T. Noszlopy, Public Sculpture of Birmingham including Sutton Coldfield (Liverpool, 1998), pp. 103–4. 17 G. T. Noszlopy and F. Waterhouse, Public Sculpture of Staffordshire and the Black Country (Liverpool, 2005), pp. 158–60. 18 The Times, 11 May 1852, p. 8; 21 August 1852 p. 5; M. Stafford, ‘Peel’s Statue in Leeds: A First for Town and Country’, Leeds Art Calendar, 90 (1982), 4–11. 19 The Times, 8 November 1855, p. 8; Bradford Observer, 8 November 1855, pp. 4, 6. 20 Drawing on its back files, the Huddersfield Daily Chronicle, 4 June 1873, pp. 2–3 provided one version of the delay. For earlier see Huddersfield Chronicle, 20 July 1850, p. 5, 10 August 1850, p. 4, 29 March 1851, p. 7, 7 July 1851, p. 5. 21 T. Wyke and H. Cocks, Public Sculpture of Greater Manchester (Liverpool, 2004), pp. 111–13. 22 T. Cavanagh, Public Sculpture of Liverpool (Liverpool, 1997), pp. 270–2. 23 Preston Guardian, 20 July 1850, p. 4. 24 M. Roberts, The Story of Winckley Square (Preston, 1998). 25 Wyke and Cocks, Public Sculpture, pp. 251–3, 257–8. 26 Ibid., pp. 288–9. 27 Blackburn Standard, 7 February 1855, p. 3. 28 C. Hartwell and N. Pevsner, Lancashire: North (New Haven, 2009), p. 75; Accrington through the 19th Century (Accrington, n.d.), pp. 142–3. 29 Blackburn Standard, 19 May 1852, p. 3, 12 June 1852, p. 3.



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30 Blackburn Standard, 28 March 1855, p. 3. 31 Blackburn Standard, 16 May 1855, p. 3. 32 Its commissioning is unclear but it seems likely to have been erected by the owners of the building in King William Street. It was broken up during r-building in 1934. An article in the Cotton Factory Times, 17 August 1934 suggested that it ought to be saved and displayed in a textile museum planned for the town. 33 Blackburn Standard, 20 August 1881, p. 5, 16 December 1882, p. 5. 34 The scholarships continue to the present day. 35 Manchester Examiner and Times, 20 July 1850, p. 5. 36 Administration of the scheme was based at University College, London. Advertisements requesting applications were published regularly in the national press. Relying on electronic searching, the last occasion in The Times was on 14 January 1946, p. 1. 37 S. D. Chapman and S. Chassagne, European Textile Printers in the Eighteenth Century: A Study of Peel and Oberkampf (London, 1981). 38 S. Morgan, ‘From warehouse clerk to Corn Law celebrity: the making of a national hero’, in A. Howe and S. Morgan, eds, Rethinking NineteenthCentury Liberalism: Richard Cobden Bicentenary Essays (Aldershot, 2006), pp. 47–8. 39 See M. Warner, Monuments and Maidens: The Allegory of the Female Form (London, 1985). 40 Manchester Guardian, 31 August 1850, p. 8. 41 Hansard, 3rd series, vol. 87, 29 July 1846, c. 1055. 42 Household Words, vol. 1 (1850), p. 163. 43 J. C. Earle, English Premiers from Sir Robert Walpole to Sir Robert Peel (London, 1871), vol. 2, p. 300. 44 A. Prentice, History of the Anti-Corn-Law League (London, 1853), vol. 2, p. 440. 45 L. Purbrick, ‘The bourgeois body: civic portraiture, public men and the appearance of class power in Manchester 1838–1850’, in A. Kidd and D. Nicholls, eds, Gender, Civic Culture and Consumerism: Middle-Class Identity in Britain, 1800–1940 (Manchester, 1999), pp. 81–98. 46 Bradford Observer, 8 November 1855, p. 6. 47 Wyke and Cocks, Public Sculpture, p. 235. 48 See P. A. Pickering and A. Tyrrell, The People’s Bread. A History of the AntiCorn Law League (London, 2000). 49 Bury Peel Monument Committee Subscription Book (Bury Archives A 76.2 (P)). 50 John Bull, 13 July 1850, p. 442; Manchester Times, 20 July 1850, p. 5. 51 Report of Peel testimonial meeting, Dundee Courier, 21 August 1850, p. 2. A statue to Kinloch was unveiled in 1872. The inscription began: ‘George Kinloch of Kinloch, outlawed for the advocacy of popular rights

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22 December 1819 ...’, see Charles Tennant, The Radical Laird, a Biography of George Kinloch, 1775–1833 (Kineton, 1970). 52 Manchester Guardian, 24 July 1850, p. 7. 53 Northern Star, 17 August 1850, p. 1. 54 Sheffield and Rotherham Independent, 2 September 1854, p. 8. 55 W. Fairbairn, Observation on Improvements of the Town of Manchester (Manchester, 1836). 56 T. Wyke, ‘The Albert Memorial and the making of civic Manchester’, in C. Hartwell and T. Wyke, eds, Making Manchester (Manchester, 2000). 57 Bradford Observer, 1 November 1855, p. 4. 58 Cotton Factory Times, 17 August 1934, p. 6. 59 Huddersfield Daily Examiner, 31 October 1949, p. 3; Read, Peel and the Victorians, p. 311. 60 On anti-Victorianism see J. Gardiner, The Victorians: An Age in Retrospect (London, 2002), ch. 2. 61 Manchester Guardian, 13 December 1938, p. 13. 62 British-Pathé, Cinetopicalities in Brief, No. 127 (1940). 63 The Russian cannon that the War Office presented to a long list of boroughs, including Blackburn, Bolton, Salford and Stockport, after the Crimean War, appear to have been less fortunate. 64 Richards also purchased a number of royal busts, including King Edward VII (John Cassidy, 1910), Prince of Wales (Matthew Noble, 1868) and Duchess of Kent (L. Garde, 1850). 65 Some works were lost or damaged rather than sold. This appears, for example, to have been the fate of a Peel bust presented to Oswestry Museum by the family of a former Chief Constable of Cambridge, Manchester Guardian, 25 October 1932; personal correspondence with Oswestry Museum and Local Studies Library, September 2009. 66 His publications included The Tariff Reformers (London, 1913) and The Work of Sir Robert Peel and Its Lessons for To-day (London, 1938). 67 Observer, 26 August 1934, p. 7; Daily Mail, 8 January 1935, p. 16; Noszlopy, Public Sculpture of Birmingham, p. 103. 68 I. Inglis, ‘Cover story: magic, myth and music’, in O. Julien, ed., Sgt. Pepper and the Beatles: It Was Forty Years Ago Today (Aldershot, 2008), pp. 92–4; G. Martin with W. Pearson, The Summer of Love: The Making of Sgt. Pepper (London, 1994), pp. 113–20. For McCartney’s handwritten list of 29 indi­ viduals, see www. beatlesbible.com/1967/03/30/cover-shoot. 69 He came forty-third. John Cooper, Great Britons. The Great Debate (London, 2002), p. 8. 70 Remarks made during a guided tour of Bury city centre, June 2010. It was said that the unconventional buttoning of his waistcoat was due to Peel’s having lost the top of a finger in a shooting accident. This incident is not recorded in the main biographies.



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71 www.peel.co.uk/aboutus/history-and-vision. 72 The Public Monuments and Sculpture Association’s National Recording Project is the starting point to identify the location and history of such works: www.pmsa.org.uk/national-recording-project. Liverpool University Press has published sixteen volumes to date. 73 V. I. Tomlinson, ‘Postscript to Peterloo’, Manchester Region History Review, 3 (1989) 51–9.

4

Fifty years ahead of its time? The provident dispensaries movement in Manchester, 1871–85 Martin Hewitt

In April 1871 a letter signed ‘John Watts’ appeared in the Manchester Guardian. Watts’ name would have been well known to the paper’s readers, as he was a local social reformer of nearly 30 years’ standing, and a regular correspondent of the Guardian, which he had frequently used to launch or sustain reform campaigns. This time his object was a scheme for deploying the funds left in the hands of the Cotton Relief Committee at the end of the Cotton Famine of the 1860s to the establishment of provident dispensaries in the cotton districts. Having experienced one of the most successful of the early Victorian foundations at Coventry in the later 1830s, Watts was a long-standing advocate of provident dispensaries.1 Disappointingly, the members of the Cotton Relief Committee were unconvinced. Undaunted, Watts took the cause to a conference in Manchester, in June 1871, called to consider ways of improving medical provision in the city, renewing his call for medical institutions to help the poor to help themselves. Once again, however, Watts was thwarted, one speaker rejecting his ideas as ‘fifty years in advance of his time’.2 These objections were remarkably prescient, for in a number of the essential features Watts’ scheme anticipated the 1911 National Insurance Act and its crucial role as a bridge between nineteenthcentury medical provision and the National Health Service. Certainly, in making his proposals Watts was, probably unconsciously, plunging into the murky cross-currents which marked the internal relationships of the medical profession in the later nineteenth century and



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which help to explain the slow pace of progress towards ­comprehensive healthcare in the later Victorian period. The provident dispensary movement was – with the possible exception of the Hospital Funds movement (which has been the subject of a number of studies)3 – the single most significant contemporary response to the challenges of medical provision for the working classes in late Victorian Britain, raising a number of fundamental questions: what was the proper role of general practice in providing medical care for the poor and how should this care be remunerated; how should the responsibilities of general practitioners (GPs) and hospital specialists be distinguished and demarcated; how should the voluntary hospital and its honorary physicians balance their charitable mission of the provision of healthcare to the poor with their physicians’ interests in accumulating interesting cases for the purposes of teaching and research? Some attention has been given to the history of the general dispensaries which emerged in the later eighteenth century alongside the charitable hospitals, offering out-patient treatment, especially the dispensing of medicines, both on their own premises and, especially, through their staff visiting patients in their homes. The history of these dispensaries has been written in considerable depth, and in the Manchester case we know a great deal, for example, about the Ardwick and Ancoats dispensary and the role it played in generating powerful pictures of the public health challenges of early industrial urbanisation.4 In contrast, the provident dispensary movement has been almost completely neglected. There is no general study, and medical histories of the second half of the nineteenth century have given it, at best, the most cursory attention. Anne Digby’s The Evolution of British General Practice (1999) notes in passing the role of friendly societies in providing medical provision for the working poor, but she focuses almost exclusively on private practice and makes no direct mention of provident dispensaries.5 Alannah Tomkins has explored some of the tensions in the history of the North Staffordshire Infirmary, but in doing so reinforces the assumption that the main historical development was the emergence of contributory schemes of the hospital Sunday variety.6 Even within Manchester, despite the prominence of the movement in the 1870s and 1880s, John Pickstone’s local history offers only a few lines.7 This is unfortunate, because the debates over the provident dispensaries cast a bright light on often obscure aspects of Victorian medical history and because, despite the tendency of historians to argue that debates on medical policy in this period were

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largely a projection of metropolitan conditions, the course of the movement in Manchester played a critical role in developments across the country.8 Public medical provision in Manchester in the early 1870s was a microcosm of the national picture, organised around 21 charitable institutions comprising 11 hospitals, two convalescent homes, six dispensaries, a medical mission and a training institution for nurses.9 Paupers were able to take advantage of the Poor Law medical services, while many working- and lower middle-class men subscribed to unions or friendly societies which provided general medical care. For the rest, including wives and children, medical care was provided either by the private practice of the city’s GPs – a heavy and potentially crippling expense for many families – or via the charitable provision of the medical missions, public dispensaries or hospital out-patient departments. Although most offered some in-patient treatment, and although some of the smaller institutions retained their specialist functions, the hospitals had largely joined the charitable dispensaries in providing generally indiscriminate treatment for miscellaneous conditions. By the end of the 1860s, the rapid expansion in hospitals’ outpatient provision was causing concern. In London it was estimated in the early 1870s that over a million people, or around one in four of the population, were reliant on charitable out-patient services. In 1870, 95% of the 111,300 patients of the Manchester medical charities were out-patients.10 At St Mary’s Hospital the number of out-patients had grown from 2,159 in 1856 to 13,400 by 1873, an increase of over 600% at a time when the population of the city had risen by only around 30%.11 Neither the hospital’s surgical staff nor the GPs were happy with this state of affairs. The former sought to advance public knowledge and private reputation through the treatment of complex in-patient cases, and abhorred the treadmill of minor out-patient ailments. The latter resented the charitable institutions undercutting their own fee-paying practices. The problem was that hospital treatment was almost entirely free: only 1.5% of the total income of Manchester’s charitable hospitals came from patient payments; instead, the vast bulk of those seeking treatment established their eligibility by obtaining a ‘subscriber’s ticket’, a privilege of nomination offered to all subscribing individuals or institutions. In working-class Ancoats, firms entitled to issue tickets distributed them to all comers on a rota basis. Most hospitals paid lip-service to inquiry into the



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circumstances of their patients, but the numbers they actually turned away remained tiny.12 Unsurprisingly, there was a widespread anxiety at the increasingly intolerable pressures on resources exerted by indiscriminate free medical assistance. If it had simply been a question of resourcing, the solution might have been provided by the Hospital Sunday movement, which sought to raise the level of contributions to medical charities, initially via collections at Sunday religious services, and soon after also by Saturday workplace collections (launched in Manchester in June 1871). But contemporaries were also concerned that the nomination system deterred the poor from seeking prompt medical attention, diverted hospital resources from those most in need and – in particular – sapped the self-reliance of the working class. Such fears had contributed significantly to the foundation of the Charity Organisation Society (COS) in 1869.13 In November 1870, Dr John Thorburn, a prominent member of the Manchester medical profession, issued a public letter expressing concern at the ‘pauperising’ effects of the prevalent administration of medical charity.14 In 1871 both the ‘Fergusson Committee’ and the COS’s own medical committee recommended the development of the provident system as a solution to the abuse of out-patient charity.15 Initially the medical profession and medical press were prepared to offer cautious support for provident dispensaries,16 and in 1872 a Hospital Reform Association was formed, advocating the end of indiscriminate prescription, and effective inquiry into the circumstances of patients.17 Even so, by the end of 1872 the impetus generated by the COS was beginning to wane,18 and from early 1873 dynamism shifted to Manchester, where a scheme was launched far more ambitious than anything that had been attempted elsewhere. In February, a paper by William O’Hanlon to the Manchester Statistical Society pointed out the dramatic rise in the proportion of Manchester’s population receiving charitable medical treatment, from 1 in 17 in 1836 to 2 in 9 by 1872, notwithstanding increased standards of living. O’Hanlon, cotton merchant, advanced Liberal and active ragged school worker, was closely aligned to Watts and the progressive group on the Manchester School Board.19 Watts, prominent in the Statistical Society at this point, may well have been instrumental in encouraging O’Hanlon’s researches.20 Citing the testimony of hospital staff, including that of Thorburn, that perhaps only 20 per cent of the patients treated were genuinely unable to pay, O’Hanlon argued for ‘a system

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which shall provide for the poor in time of sickness the best medicine and the highest professional skill; which shall require payment where it can be made and remit it where it cannot’.21 Foundation and early years O’Hanlon’s exposé was favourably received.22 The Manchester Guardian published a series of investigative articles which identified widespread misuse of charitable medical care.23 In the spring of 1873 Watts and O’Hanlon launched a provident dispensaries scheme, not merely to supplement existing medical provision, but as a mechanism for transforming the organisation of the city’s medical philanthropy.24 As refined over the next two years, the scheme envisaged a network of neighbourhood dispensaries across the whole city, made self-­ supporting by small weekly payments from members whose average earnings did not exceed 30 shillings per week but who were not in receipt of poor relief.25 Membership was to be open to men, women and children, thus avoiding the common exclusions of friendly societies. The dispensaries would offer medical attention of the sort that could be provided by a GP, and eligibility for treatment at the c­ haritable hospitals as appropriate, leaving the hospitals to concentrate on specialist care, using dispensary membership to identify the deserving poor and refusing to treat applicants who were not members unless they could demonstrate acute need or poverty. The movement was to be managed by a Provident Dispensaries Association (PDA), with a council of representatives of each of the branch dispensaries. It was recognised that the very poor would continue to need to rely on the medical services of the Poor Law, and the better-off would continue to engage medical attention as private patients, but within these limits the ambition was a comprehensive system of contributory medical provision. ‘It will be seen at once’, the Lancet remarked, ‘that this is … a huge experiment involving the whole or the greater part of the charities of Manchester.’26 Unsurprisingly, despite powerful lay support and what seems to have been a fair amount of persuasion behind the scenes, the boldness of this scheme prompted opposition. Led by Conservative GP Dr Peter Royle, the Medico-Ethical Society (which chiefly drew its membership from local GPs) fought a vigorous rearguard action. Eventually, in July, despite the opposition, a conference of the established Committee of the Medical Charities endorsed the creation of dispensaries, on



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condition that they were self-supporting, that they were open to all medical men and that none of the duties of the medical men was delegated to unqualified assistants.27 Endorsement notwithstanding, only about 25 of the 290 GPs in the city joined the association, and the concerns of the profession were clear: the scheme would tend to create ‘one vast system of medical and surgical relief’ which would ‘enter into unfair competition and be ruinous to the interests of the great majority of medical men’; many GPs doubted that the dispensaries were needed because the really poor could rely on poor relief, and the provident could join sick clubs or pay by instalments. A committee, which included Royle, was formed to watch over the evolution of the scheme.28 Of the hospitals, only the Manchester Royal Infirmary (later followed by the Clinical Hospital and the Children’s Hospital) was prepared to give its full support. A number of hospitals appointed their own ‘visitor’ to investigate the circumstances of applicants, but there was a general reluctance to take on the PDA’s conditions, especially the requirement that after two years the charities would be committed to not accepting non-members of provident societies.29 Despite the equivocal response, in June 1874 it was decided to establish six dispensaries, with a view to giving the scheme a fair trial. A council was appointed, a guarantee fund was formed and suitable districts most distant from the existing medical charities were mapped out.30 The first dispensary opened in October 1874; by May 1876 seven were in operation, with talk of more to come.31 But progress was slow. The early surges in membership, encouraged by free access, slowed dramatically once the entrance fee was enforced.32 At Ardwick there were only 2,620 members after 15 months.33 Turnover was high – nearly 30 per cent at Medlock Street in 1877–78.34 New members were supposed to be healthy, but a provision for those in need of immediate treatment to pay a higher admission fee encouraged many to join when sick but to cease payment once back in health.35 Although the Association was reluctant for several years to reveal precise figures in its Annual Reports, there seems to have been a collapse from the 16,596 members achieved in 1875 to only 10,264 in 1880, even though the number of dispensaries increased to nine. Finances continued to be stretched. The initial hope that the movement would be self-supporting after three years was not fulfilled, and in 1877 the guarantee scheme had to be extended for a further three years.36 In 1879 the PDA was forced to merge with the Manchester and Salford District Provident Society (DPS), a visiting society which

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had been set up in the 1830s to promote provident habits and saving among the poor, which promised to meet the dispensaries’ deficit until October 1883.37 Perhaps unsurprisingly, there was a fairly widespread sense that the movement had been a failure.38 Tense relations The inability of the provident dispensaries to establish themselves as entirely self-supporting was one of a substantial list of grievances for the local medical profession, and ensured that the PDA struggled to retain the general support either of the hospital surgeons or of those in general practice. Arthur Ransome, initially a strong supporter, suggested that part of the problem was that the dispensaries offered doctors neither high-status honorary posts which they might take for reputational reasons nor a formally philanthropic role in which they were in a position to exercise charity. Instead they tended to be what he described as ‘nothing more than a co-operative society for cheap doctoring or physicing [sic]’, in which the members’ payments ostensibly provided full payment for the services the doctors rendered and thus was ‘a return to the worst evils of the club system’.39 (Indeed, possibly worse: at least the doctor in the club system had the chance to be ‘introduced’ to the wives and children of club members and thus develop a parallel private practice in that way.40) Tension with the GPs had always been likely. While the PDA promoters were looking to create a general scheme of medical insurance, the GPs sought something that would enable the very poor to contribute something but that would not cannibalise their private practice.41 There were persistent insinuations that the movement was being driven entirely by the hospital surgeons ‘[un]acquainted with the worries of general practice’.42 As the 1870s progressed, the GPs accumulated a comprehensive indictment. They attacked the provident dispensaries for depressing fees below a fair market rate, at a time when their income was under pressure.43 The Association’s tendency to treat the medical staff as salaried employees affronted the doctors’ sense of their professional status. A proposal to admit friendly societies into the benefits of the scheme was greeted with anger as a violation of its original principles; and the PDA council did not endear itself by rejecting protests from dispensary medical staff on the basis that it had acted ‘on the recommendation of two of our leading medical men, managers of the two largest hospitals in the city’.44 Despite attempts



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by O’Hanlon to blame ‘a sort of trade union’ movement by ‘a number of club doctors’, the council had eventually to back down, but the damage had been done.45 The complaint that the PDA was accepting members who were more than affluent enough to pay for private medical care became endemic. In 1876 accusations that the Ardwick Dispensary was accepting members whose wages were above the sanctioned level were shown to be unfounded.46 Even so, it was conceded that the PDA did not undertake any systematic inquiry into the circumstances of those applying for admission.47 It was complained that many members of the working class who were quite able to afford medical attention through the normal private channels were being pulled into the association.48 Opponents were incensed by indiscriminate canvassing and the deployment of ‘quackish vulgar placards, handbills and pamphlets strewn broadcast about the town’.49 It is clear from later comments that the original promoters would have much preferred the wage limit to be 40 shillings at the outset, but agreed to the lower figure as a way of trying to maintain the ­co-operation of the medical profession.50 Part of the problem was that successful members might well progress beyond the income limit; Watts defended a broad membership for the dispensaries, and was keen that those who were eligible to join the PDA should not be expelled if they rose beyond the eligibility bar.51 He rejected suggestions that the movement should be confined to the manual working class, arguing that clerks, warehousemen and shopkeepers were ‘the best blood of the institution’.52 The Committee sought to deal with the difficulties created by applying the wage limit rigidly to all families, no matter how many children they might have, by promising to consider applications to waive the limit on a case-by-case basis.53 The GPs’ interest, on the other hand, sought to narrow the social basis of membership so as to exclude as far as possible those able to pay private fees, and in this it was vocally supported by the Lancet from the early 1880s.54 There were complaints at the ‘miserable’ level of remuneration, with perhaps only half the subscriptions of members going direct to the medical officers.55 Medical officers’ fees were said to average around 4d per visit, and might fall as low as 1d.56 In their defence, it was suggested that the dispensaries could be seen as offering earlycareer appointments: by utilising ‘the redundant energies of the young’, the poor would get the best care and the practitioner need not feel underpaid.57 The danger was that when a popular dispensary

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doctor eventually decided to cast off and set himself up in purely private practice he would take his better-off provident dispensary patients with him.58 This risk was compounded because, despite initial suggestions that the dispensary system would seek to incorporate as many GPs as were interested (which would have opened up the possibility of private patients who struggled to pay fees being placed on the provident list while continuing to be treated by their existing doctor),59 the dispensaries seem to have restricted their medical staff to an approved list, worried that there were too many opponents of the scheme who had placed themselves on the dispensary lists only to ‘systematically [act] so as to disgust the members and to cause them to withdraw’.60 Over time many branches came to rely on a single retained doctor (often junior) or a very small panel (with all the limits that this created on subscribers’ ability to choose their own doctor).61 Beneath the specific accusations there remained a thinly disguised resentment at the challenge the dispensaries posed to doctors’ status; the way the ‘working rules are formed with such tender regard to the feelings of the members that there is practically no obstacle to keep them shifting about among the doctors as they have a mind’; a horror that the dispensary created a purely commercial relationship between doctor and poor patient in the place of the more deferential one which had hitherto existed; reducing the practitioner to ‘the level of a limited liability tradesman’ as Frank Renaud (Consulting Physician of the Manchester Royal Infirmary) put it.62 In 1878–79 these concerns were reflected in a hostile report produced by the British Medical Association (BMA) from the accounts of a number of doctors who had for a while co-operated with the PDA.63 ‘The instinct of self-­preservation’, wrote one, ‘compelled me to sever my connection with the provident dispensaries … I well recollect numbers of wellto-do folk were admitted … Great injury was soon inflicted on my practice. Our pay was most paltry, and our work very considerable.’64 In 1879 the PDA rejected proposals from the BMA for an increase in the scale of fees charged, an end to the system of fixed salaries for medical officers, the throwing open of the lists to more doctors and an attempt to secure the co-operation of the medical charities.65 In 1881, members of the Medico-Ethical Society attacked the low scale of charges and ‘objectionable system of touting for members’, and a canvass of local GP opinion was undertaken.66 One reported that the opening of a branch in his district had lost him half his practice and left just the poorest.67 There were complaints that the canvassers



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systematically avoided the back streets where the poorer inhabitants lived, and sometime before the end of 1881 the whole medical staff of the Medlock-street Dispensary seems to have resigned.68 In January 1882 the PDA established a committee of inquiry, inviting an equal representation of the Medico-Ethical Association.69 According to Watts, the investigation ‘ended with a tolerably mutual understanding and with good feeling’. Of the 40 cases presented for investigation, six were demonstrated to be over the salary limit, but most had already been struck off by their branches. Only one canvasser was found who appeared to have been recruiting indiscriminately.70 At the recommendation of the committee the limit of 30 shillings was removed and replaced with a regulation that members should be artisans and others approved by the committees, with alleged abuses to be referred to the DPS for investigation.71 Hospital reform Uncomfortable relations with the general practitioners might have been an acceptable price to pay, had the movement been able to forge an effective alliance with the medical charities and their staff, and succeed in providing a comprehensive response to the challenges of hospital reform. But here too the PDA fell foul of its inability to construct a favourable consensus amongst the profession and its philanthropic backers. Initially the indications were good. The city’s largest and most prestigious hospital, the Royal Infirmary, offered enthusiastic endorsement, as did the Children’s Hospital and the Clinical Hospital. In May 1875 the Infirmary’s weekly management board instituted careful inquiry into the circumstances of applicants for medical aid, taking advantage of the PDA’s undertaking to take on and fund this responsibility.72 ‘The investigation is the turning point of this movement’, noted the Lancet, and ‘it should be carried out scientifically and yet tenderly, and the result would be of great social, sanitary, and medical interest’.73 In 1876 it was reported that the proportion refused free medical aid after inquiry had declined to about 25 per cent, half the rate in 1875, and that the process was reducing the numbers applying for free medical aid (down by 42 per cent).74 At the end of 1880 the Royal Infirmary extended the inquiries the DPS undertook on its behalf to include in-patients as well as out-patients.75 Similar investigations by the Hospital for Sick Children nearly halved the number of

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applicants between 1874 and 1877.76 In effect, the officers of the DPS were acting as hospital ‘almoners’ two decades and more before the role was formally identified.77 Elsewhere, however, suspicion remained. From the outset, the PDA worked closely with the DPS to press for universal adoption of free admission with investigation into domestic circumstances, and in 1875–76 the DPS undertook visitation of all free hospital cases, engaging three extra visitors for the work.78 Watts and O’Hanlon kept up steady pressure on the remaining hospitals. In 1875 O’Hanlon sought to expose the failures at St Mary’s Hospital, despite its claims to have adopted careful investigation of applicants.79 Hospitals in the scheme offered fulsome testimony of its benefits in achieving a substantial drop in the number of out-patients being given free treatment.80 Yet the bulk of the hospitals stayed resolutely aloof, partly, it would seem, out of a desire to retain autonomy and partly out of anxiety at the loss of charitable contributions that abandoning the recommendation system might bring.81 In October 1877 the BMA Outdoor Hospital Reform Committee, appointed to explore reform of out-patient admissions, instituted a subcommittee to investigate the provident dispensary movement in Manchester. The subcommittee was largely drawn into examination of the operations of the branch dispensaries, but did draw some conclusions about their relationship with the hospitals. It accepted that applications to the medical charities had reduced, but suggested that, given that very few of the rejected applicants had found their way to the provident dispensaries, this result could be effected simply by closer investigation.82 By 1882 fewer than half of the city’s medical charities had affiliated with the scheme.83 Hospital reform remained on the local agenda into the 1880s, and the terms of debate altered little, as indicated by John Thorburn’s decision to reissue his 1870 call for reform in 1880 with only a brief postscript.84 By this point Thorburn’s initial enthusiasm had waned. Although he continued to see a role for the PDA, it was only as an alternative to the existing hospitals, as a means by which the provident poor might make regular contributions. The branch dispensaries had ‘ceased to be co-operative schemes in the original sense of the term’, and had become a scheme for employing needy medics to provide medical care to subscribing members at a low rate, while the wider scheme of hospital reform had failed not through matters of principle but because of ‘Faults of temper … extreme and unreasoning



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demands on one side, and utter disregard of equity on the other.’85 It is true that Watts in particular seems to have made little effort to keep good relations with the local medical community. One critical commentator talked of his ‘studied contempt of the profession’.86 ‘[W]hat can be expected of an Association’, asked one local doctor, ‘the President of which dared to state at a public meeting […] that doctors in Manchester kept black lists, and were frequently the means of bringing persons to the workhouse?’87 Watts was unconcerned, and continued to defend the provident dispensaries robustly against the complaints of medical men, especially on the matter of fees. He told the 1882 Annual General Meeting that ‘of the large amount which the medical men had received they would have received little or nothing apart from provident dispensaries … and that which they would have received would have been paid under severe suffering on the part of those who had to pay it’.88 In October 1884 he published a letter from a doctor indicating his willingness to join the provident dispensaries movement as a way of assisting long-standing working-class patients who were finding it difficult to meet his charges and delaying the call for medical assistance until it was dangerously late.89 Such interventions were hardly calculated to smooth the path to greater co-operation. There was talk of ‘a very steady progress of public opinion in favour of really provident dispensaries ... in organic relation with neighbouring hospitals’,90 but also evidence that the medical press was backtracking on the larger question in relation to out-patients reform, with the British Medical Journal (BMJ) attacking dispensaries for undercutting the poor benighted GP and the Lancet weighing in to defend the interests of hospital medics: ‘It is not clear to us’, commented the Lancet in 1881, ‘that the institution of Co-operative Provident Dispensaries will practically touch the out-patient abuse, the amount of which we have always thought somewhat over-rated, and the curtailment of which would seriously impair the means of medical education’.91 Public opinion was shifting decisively against the coercive undertones and increasingly centralising implications of the PDA campaign.92 John Henn, the local founder of the Hospital Sunday movement, in his sermon of 1883, noted that while he had nothing against the dispensaries in general, he ‘deprecate[d] any attempt to force the poor to join these dispensaries, whether they will or no; and I do not agree with the boards of some of our charities who refuse to aid a person in the time of sickness (beyond cases of emergency), on the grounds that his income is enough to enable him

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to afford to subscribe to a provident dispensary … those who prefer to use our hospitals should be allowed to do so, and that only those who possess a proper spirit of independence should join the provident dispensaries’.93 National developments The fate of the PDA was not merely of local significance, because for much of the 1870s, if not longer, the Manchester experience played a key role in national debates over provident dispensaries and hospital reform. The agitation around the formation of the movement in 1873 was widely reported both in the medical and the provincial press, and for a while placed the city in the forefront of the movement for reform.94 From the outset there was a sense that Manchester might provide a model for national developments.95 For the Medical Times and Gazette, ‘when an attempt is made to revolutionise the whole system of medical charity in a city of the size of Manchester … it behoves us to inquire very carefully into the merits of the proposals’.96 The Birmingham provident dispensaries movement which took shape in 1877 was explicitly modelled on Manchester, although it came in for particularly severe criticism in the medical press because of its openness to all, irrespective of wages, as well as various arrangements for providing for midwifery and other care.97 The Manchester scheme was also taken up at Coventry, where it was proposed, with the support of a Committee of Inquiry, to introduce inquiry into all out-patients to ascertain their fitness for charitable relief.98 When in August 1877 the COS began to formulate a consolidated provident dispensaries scheme in the capital,99 O’Hanlon contributed a written report. The writings in the later 1870s of Sir Charles Trevelyan, the leading COS advocate, such as his On the Extension of Provident Dispensaries Throughout London and Its environs (1878), made only fleeting direct mention of Manchester, but nevertheless adopted positions largely congruent with the Manchester experience, including the importance of establishing clear and distinct districts for the dispensaries and of ensuring that membership was maintained in health as well as in sickness, and the need of support for an initial period until the dispensaries were self-supporting. Ultimately Trevelyan was forced to concede that London possessed neither the civic solidarity nor the levels of working-class prosperity required for the Manchester scheme. Instead the COS developed an alternative,



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part-charitable scheme, involving the wholesale enrolment of friendly society members, embodied in the Metropolitan Provident Medical Association launched in 1880.100 Although after 1880 metropolitan precedents and the model rules widely circulated by the COS came to be the benchmark for new schemes, Manchester continued to be a standard point of reference.101 As late as January 1886, when it was resolved to establish a Provident Medical Association in Liverpool, it was agreed ‘that the Manchester system of checking the abuse of medical charities be introduced’.102 Local maturity As it happens, just at the moment at which the Manchester experiment was losing much of its national resonance, it began to acquire renewed local vigour. Success along the lines envisaged by Watts in 1874 remained elusive, and relations with the local medical profession remained fractious, but, under the protection of the DPS, the declines of the later 1870s were reversed. A dispensary in the more respectable Pendleton district, opened in 1879, was a marked success. By 1884 it already had over 2,500 (including 150 club) members and was making a profit of nearly £110, more than the six original dispensaries put together.103 In May 1880 the council resolved to raise a £2,500 fund to establish dispensaries in six new districts. Even so, it was a struggle to maintain members. In 1882 both the Medlockstreet and Ardwick branches reported a small drop in members.104 The dispensaries continued to disproportionately attract the old and the infirm, as well as mothers and children, while healthy adult males continued to prefer enrolment in sick and benefit clubs. Chronic illness, one dispensary medical officer suggested, was the most common motive for joining.105 In 1883 there were reports that some of the branches had suffered as a result of a failure to maintain an adequate supply of medical advice; it was noted that great efforts had been made, but that in some districts it was proving impossible to obtain sufficient co-operation from local doctors.106 There was some sense by the mid-1880s that the Dispensaries were being used less as a short-term resort for those suffering ill-health and more as a longterm source of health insurance and treatment. The number of prescriptions dispensed to each member was declining.107 The long-term aim of a system covering as many as 100,000 of the working-class remained, but, given an unwillingness to return to the subscribers

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to seek extra funds for new branches, plans for further expansion were put on hold and effort was focused on improving premises and ­facilities and making the existing branches fully self-supporting.108 By 1884 the association’s total membership had recovered to 16,304, and further increases up to approximately 18,000 were reported in the subsequent two years. Branch membership continued to be volatile: the relatively successful Dawson-street dispensary increased its membership from 1,902 to 2,159 in 1880, but 653 left during the year, with 910 joining.109 At this point Dawson-street was self-supporting, but the Ashton New Road branch, despite being in its sixth year, was still showing a deficit of nearly £13. Nevertheless, by 1885 the nine branch dispensaries reported an aggregate gross surplus of £147.110 Conclusion The Manchester movement had by this stage lost none of its capacity to generate controversy. In the spring of 1886 both the Lancet and the BMJ carried contributions to an extended debate on Manchester’s provident dispensaries which rehearsed many of the old complaints, not least the tendency for members to belong to classes well able to pay for private treatment,111 and which drew an extended defence from Dr Alexander Stewart, medical officer for the Pendleton dispensary, who had been active in responding to a similar correspondence in the BMJ the previous year.112 There was further controversy in the period after Watts’ death in early 1887,113 in particular concerns that the dispensaries were not really having a useful impact on out-patient services, partly because non-members who presented at out-patient departments were being allowed to join for a few pence to qualify for treatment and then lapse as soon as treatment was over.114 But Watts’ larger vision continued to animate the PDA.115 In the later 1880s, its long-standing secretary, E. R. Jones, son of Ernest Jones the Chartist leader, proposed a Manchester and Salford Medical Attendance Association, which aimed to provide out-patient entitlements for clerks and the lower middle-class.116 Although nothing came of this, the Manchester PDA continued to operate along the lines laid down in the 1880s until it was superseded by the 1911 National Insurance Act.117 Without doubt, the provident dispensaries movement had fallen well short of its founders’ ambitions. The comprehensive system of



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mutualist insurance had been abandoned for less prescriptive forms of eligibility, including working-class contributions to the Hospital Saturday and Sunday funds, and the ‘provident’ label remained unpopular with the medical profession. There was certainly regret expressed that the dispensaries had not had as decisive an effect as had been hoped in reducing the pressure on the voluntary hospitals.118 In 1896 Garnett Horder, Secretary of the Hospital Reform Association, suggested that with over 140,000 out-patients treated by Manchester hospitals in 1894, ‘it is difficult to believe that the investigation system has been successful in Manchester’.119 Nonetheless, by 1890 the system of inquiry into the circumstances of applicants for medical relief had been widely adopted by Manchester’s medical charities, even those not formally in partnership with the provident dispensaries. Subscriber nominations as a proportion of all hospital admissions were dropping during the decades from 1870.120 A formal ‘poverty’ scale was in operation.121 Increases in aggregate numbers appeared to have been mitigated by the investigation system. In 1890 it was noted that in the first year of the DPS inquiry scheme, 42.32 per cent of applicants for free medical treatment were refused on the grounds that they could afford to pay; in 1890 figure had declined to 6.89 per cent of applicants.122 Looking back, the provident dispensaries were credited as being central to these changes. The Manchester provident dispensaries scheme confronted the deep-rooted problems of effecting a compromise between the professional status of the medical men and the requirements of comprehensive medical care free at the point of delivery. It was a conundrum which was to bedevil the development of medical provision for another half-century and more. The history of the movement in Manchester throws important light on these obstacles, as well as on the intellectual genealogy of Edwardian reforms in national insurance and the long march to the National Health Service. In this respect John Watts had been perhaps even more than 50 years ahead of his time. Notes 1 For Watts’ early espousal see his comments at the opening of the Ardwick Dispensary, Manchester Guardian [hereafter MG], 23 October 1874; see also letters of Watts, MG, 6 April 1864, and Ransome, MG, 9 April 1864. See also letter in MG, 10 March 1875, and Mrs Alexander Ireland on John Watts (Manchester Weekly Times [hereafter MWT], 29

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September 1891), which notes he was treated for his partial paralysis caused by childhood scarlet fever from the age of 10 to 18. Watts remains without substantial study, bar G. Entwhistle, ‘Dr John Watts, 1818–1887, and His Work for the Education and Welfare of the Working Classes in Manchester’, MEd dissertation, University of Manchester (1981); see also M. Hewitt, ‘Dr John Watts’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. 2 Manchester City News [hereafter MCN], 10 June 1871. 3 S. Cherry, ‘Hospital Saturday, Workplace Collections and Issues in late Nineteenth-Century Hospital Funding’, Medical History, 44 (2000), 461–88. 4 See in particular, I. S. L. Loudon, ‘The Origins and Growth of the Dispensary Movement in England, Bulletin of the History of Medicine, 55:3 (1981), 322–43. Attention has focused especially on the eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century dispensary, including R. Kilpatrick, ‘“Living in the light”: dispensaries, philanthropy and medical reform in late-eighteenth century England’, in A. Cunningham and R. French, eds, The Medical Enlightenment of the Eighteenth Century (Cambridge, 1990), pp. 254–80; Bronwyn Croxson, ‘The public and private faces of eighteenth century dispensary charity’, Medical History, 41 (1997), 127–49. There are one or two individual case studies, such as F. J. Miller, ‘The Newcastle Dispensary, 1777–1976’, Archaeologia Aeliana, 16 (1986), 143–65. For the Ardwick and Ancoats Dispensary see J. V. Pickstone, Medicine and Industrial Society: A History of Hospital Development in Manchester and its Region, 1752–1946 (Manchester, 1985), especially pp. 52–6, 81–4, 145–6. A little more attention is given in R. Cooter and J. Pickstone, ‘From Dispensary to Hospital: Medicine, Community and the Workplace in Ancoats, 1828–1948’, Manchester Region History Review, 7 (1993), 73–84. 5 A. Digby, The Evolution of British General Practice, 1850–1948 (Oxford, 1999), pp. 100–1, 120, 242, 307–9. Likewise, Digby’s chapter ‘Office, altruism and poor patients’, in her Making a Medical Living. Doctors and Patients in the English Market for Medicine, 1720–1911 (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 224–53, offers only brief comments on the early development of dispensaries, but nothing on the provident dispensary movement; scattered attention has been given to the various nineteenth-century medical clubs, such as the West Riding Provident Society, briefly discussed in H. Marland, Medicine and Society in Wakefield and Huddersfield, 1780–1870 (Cambridge, 1987); Cherry, ‘Hospital Saturday’ offers half a page. 6 A. Tomkins, ‘“The Excellent Example of the Working Class”: Medical Welfare, Contributory Funding and the North Staffordshire Infirmary from 1815’, Social History of Medicine 21:1 (2008), 13–30.



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7 Pickstone, Medicine and Industrial Society, pp. 146, 187–8. A little more attention is given in Cooter and Pickstone, ‘From Dispensary to Hospital’, pp. 76–7, but there is little reflection of either the broader movement or its consequences. 8 According to Waddington, ‘Abuse was quickly cast as a national problem but the focus remained on London’, K. Waddington, Charity and the London Hospitals, 1850–1898 (Suffolk, 2000), p. 87; K. Waddington, ‘“Unsuitable Cases”: The Debate over Out-patient Admissions, the Medical Profession and Late Victorian London Hospitals’, Medical History, xlii (1998), 26–46. 9 W. O’Hanlon, Our Medical Charities and their Abuses, with Some Suggestions for Their Reform (Manchester, 1873). 10 For example, see letter of W. H. S., MG, 20 December 1871. 11 See letter of O’Hanlon, MG, 29 January 1875. 12 J. Reinarz, ‘Investigating the “deserving” poor: charity and voluntary hospitals in nineteenth century Birmingham’, in A. Borsay and P. Shapely, eds, Medicine, Charity and Mutual Aid: The Consumption of Health in Britain, c. 1550–1950 (Aldershot, 2007). 13 See papers presented to the National Association for the Promotion of Social Science Birmingham (NAPSS) meeting in 1868, summarised in the NAPSS Transactions (1869), 482–94. See also ‘The Hospital Question – No. VII’, London Standard, 25 May 1869; T. P. Heslop, The Realities of Medical Attendance on the Sick Children of the Poor in Large Towns (London, 1869). 14 J. Thorburn, Remarks on the Mode of Admission to our Medical Charities (Manchester: 1880), which included the full text of the 1870 pamphlet. 15 For the Fergusson Committee see Lancet, 23 July 1870, 135–7, 6 August 1870, 199–200 and 24 December 1870, 895. Published as Reports of the Committees and Sub-Committees appointed to inquire into the subject of Out-Patient Hospital Administration in the Metropolis (1871). Waddington, ‘Unsuitable Cases’, especially pp. 34–5, presents this as very much a movement of hospital surgeons, rather than general practitioners. For the COS committee see Daily News, 13 December 1871; BMJ, 16 December 1871, 705–6; Metropolitan Medical Relief, being a paper read by Sir Charles Trevelyan at a conference convened by the Charity Organisation Society (London, 1879), 54–60. 16 J. F. Anderson paper before the Metropolitan Counties Branch of the British Medical Association [hereafter BMA] in April 1870, published in BMJ, 21 May 1870, 516–18; C. B. Nankivell, ‘The Provision of Medical Attendance on the Independent Poor by Provident Dispensaries’, BMJ, 16 September 1871, 318–20. For press support, see for example ‘Provident Institutions and Hospitals’, BMJ, 27 March 1875, 416–17, and further strong endorsement to the Manchester scheme, BMJ, 8 May 1875, 611.

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17 Noted in T. Garnett Horder, An Address on Hospital Reform (London, 1896). 18 Lancet, 8 March 1890. 19 MG, 24 November 1911, 28 August 1912, MCN, 7 September 1912. 20 O’Hanlon, Our Medical Charities; see notice in letter of Nathaniel Shelmerdine, MG, 19 March 1873; MG, 25 February 1880. 21 Letter of O’Hanlon, MG, 28 February 1873. 22 MG, 4 April 1873. 23 MG, 3, 4, 5 April 1873. 24 Letters, MCN, 17 February 1883, MG, 19 February 1873. 25 MG, 19 February 1874 outlines the scheme and gives strong editorial support; MCN, 18 April 1874; see later comments of Samelson, letter, MG, 31 December 1881. 26 Lancet, 7 March 1874, 343–4. 27 MG, 30 May 1873. BMJ, 2 August 1873, 119–20; see also letter of Dr Reed, MG, 25 July 1873. ‘Provident Dispensaries’, Medical Times and Gazette [hereafter MTG], 26 July 1873, 99; MC, 6 March 1874; Letter of Correspondent, MG, 12 November 1875. 28 Lancet, 2 August 1873, 168. 29 J. Hardie (letter, MG, 21 April 1874) notes that the opposition based on this could be circumvented if the rule merely required the medical charities to inquire carefully into the circumstances of applicants, especially if they passed the responsibility for this to the provident dispensaries association. 30 MCN, 27 June 1874. 31 BMJ, 16 January 1875, citing Charity Organisation Society Reporter [hereafter COSR], 6 January 1875; First annual report noticed approvingly, BMJ, 6 May 1876. 32 The first year of the Hulme branch saw an average of 196 new members each week for the first 25 weeks, but only 60 per week subsequently, MG, 29 January, MC, 31 January 1876. There was significant loss of membership in the first year, accounted for by ‘false addresses, refusals to pay, and other unsatisfactory reasons’. 33 MG, 1 February 1876. 34 MCN, 1 February 1879. 35 General Practitioner, letter, MG, 15 November 1875. 36 MG, 27 December 1877. 37 MT, 8 November 1879, MWT, 27 December 1879, MCN, 11 June 1881. It was noted at this point that although it had been thought that a further £2,500 in donations would be enough to put the whole movement on a stable basis, the feeling was now that it would be more like £4,000, MC, 3 March 1883. 38 Editorial comment of Manchester Evening News, 1 March 1877.



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39 Letter of A. Ransome, MG, 4 January 1882. The result, Ransome noted, especially when the dispensaries resorted to employing a single doctor who was thus forced to attend all members on the list, even if they were ‘impertinent or disobedient’, was ‘degrading and unpleasant’. 40 Letter of M.R.C.S. Eng, MC, 11 November 1874. 41 Letter of Sinclair, MG, 20 March 1877. 42 Letter of Correspondent, MG, 12 November 1875; General Practitioner, letter, MG, 15 November 1875. 43 Digby, Making a Medical Living, pp. 151–2. 44 Account of O’Hanlon’, in BMJ, reprinted MG, 9 November 1875. Apparently all the medical staff present at the council meeting voted against the admission of friendly societies, letter, MG, 12 November 1875. 45 This is the implication of BMJ, 17 August 1877, 251. MG, 9 November 1875 argued that this was not a breach of the intention or spirit of the 30/- rule, in that friendly society members were already withdrawn from private fees, 9 November 1875. 46 See letter of Watts, MG, 31 December 1881. Watts suggested that not one in ten was upheld. Further letter of defence, MG, 3 January 1883. 47 The potential inconsistency of this stance with the association’s push for minute scrutiny of the applicants to the hospital charities was not lost on opponents, MG, 24 February 1876; there were further attacks after the 1877 AGM, e.g. from W. Sinclair, letter, MG, 16 March 1877. 48 Letter of W. H. Barlow, MG, 3 January 1882; letter G. Holtby Pinder, MG, 4 January 1882. Watts was scathing about this argument, noting that just because poor but proud working people have struggled to pay doctors’ fees, this did not mean the provident dispensary should not serve them, see letter, MG, 4 January 1882. 49 Letter of Correspondent, MG, 12 November 1875; F. H. Worswick (a Manchester GP), commented ‘All round my district there is constantly patrolling a collector and canvasser, who take in, as a matter of course, the provident class – the class, above all others, who used to pay the doctor – whilst those unfortunate individuals who rank below that are still left to hamper and harass the private practitioner,’ Letter, BMJ, 1 April 1882. 50 As O’Hanlon put it, ‘the co-operation of the medical men could not be obtained without the alteration, and so it was made’, Letter, MG, 13 November 1874. 51 Recollection of G. Wilde, MG, 16 February 1898. 52 Quoted by G. Wilde and H. Nightscales, Chair and Hon. Sec. of Dawsonstreet Provident Dispensary, letter, MG, 29 August 1888. 53 Something with which both doctors and potential patients were uncomfortable, see letter of J. F., MG, 11 November 1874,

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54 See report of inquiry of Manchester Medico-Ethical Association, MCN, 25 December 1875; for similar concerns see MCN, 24 December 1881; Lancet, 23 April 1881, 666. 55 Articulated more than once by the Lancet, see 10 October 1874, 527. 56 Letter of M.D., MG, 9 February 1876; letter of MEDICUS, MG, 26 February 1886. 57 Medical Examiner, reported in Charity Organisation Society Reporter, 17 October 1878, 178. See Alexander Stewart, article in the Glasgow Medical Journal (January 1884), in which he suggested that they had several benefits for junior GPs, not just a regular income, but a better field than private practice for the observation and study of disease, both because the members were inclined to present with ailments at an earlier stage than private patients, and thus give greater experience of early treatment and cure, and also because, since visits and consultations were free, there was none of the pressure present in private practice to rush consultations. 58 Thorburn, letter, MG, 5 January 1882. 59 ‘A provident dispensary surgeon’, MG, 4 January 1882, suggested that many were kept out of the established dispensaries by the fact that they were attached to a doctor who was not allowed to be on their list. F. H. Worswick, in a letter to the BMJ, 1 April 1882 while opposing the provident dispensaries, advocated that GPs in poorer areas should establish their own private clubs, with subscriptions at the PDA rates. 60 O’Hanlon letter, MG, 13 March 1877, pointing the finger fairly explicitly at Sinclair; see response of Sinclair, MG, 20 March 1877. Watts to Lancet, 17 August 1878, 238–9. 61 W. H. Barlow, letter, MG, 6 January 1882. 62 Letter of Sinclair, MG, 20 March 1877; letter in MG, 16 April 1874, noticed in Lancet, 2 May 1874, 632. It was suggested by G. Holtby Pinder that the continued subsidy made the movement ‘a sham’, MG, 4 January 1882. 63 BMJ, 17 August 1878. This was the work of a sub-committee of the Outdoor Hospital Reform Committee. Having failed to gain the co-­ operation of the branch dispensaries in opening their membership books, the committee circulated 250 medical men in the district asking for details of any cases of improper membership. Only ten replies were received, four of which included full details of alleged cases. Despite this, the committee concluded ‘from the cases quoted before them, and the general opinion expressed by medical men on the question’ that ‘there is distinct evidence of improper cases being admitted to the benefits of the Association’. 64 BMJ, 17 August 1878, 250–2. 65 The BMJ published various critical letters, mostly arguing that provident dispensaries would merely take away those who should be paying for their medical attendance, e.g. BMJ, 15 May 1880.



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66 BMJ, 11 June 1881, 944. 67 Report of the Medico-Ethical Society, printed in full, MG, 20 December 1881. See as well complaints of G. Holtby Pinder in The Lancet, 23 April 1881. 68 Letter of Samelson, MG, 31 December 1881. 69 MG, 20 January 1882. Relations were not helped by references to ‘difficulties and annoyances’, in the DPS Annual Report, which described Samelson as ‘needlessly aggressive’, MG, 9 March 1882. 70 MG, 18 April 1882; Watts noted that there was certainly strong prima facie evidence of abuse, even though in most cases this ultimately proved to be misleading. 71 Lancet, 15 April 1882, 624; and summary in letter of A. Stewart, BMJ, 6 March 1886. Stewart noted that he had referred the few such cases he had come across and all had been ejected. 72 Circular of the Weekly Board of the Royal Infirmary, cited in extenso in BMJ, 5 June 1875, 751–2. 73 Lancet, 29 May 1875, 772. 74 BMJ, 16 June 1877, 758–9. 75 MG, 1 February 1881. 76 BMJ, 28 July 1877, 118. 77 L. T. Cullen, ‘The First Lady Almoner: The Appointment, Position, and Findings of Miss Mary Stewart at the Royal Free Hospital, 1895– 99’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences, 68:4 (2013), 551–82. 78 MCN, 18 March 1876. 79 As in O’Hanlon’s letter in MG, 29 January 1875 on the report of St Mary’s Hospital. 80 MCN, 24 March 1877. 81 Thorburn recalled in 1880 that the campaign had appeared to be on the verge of success when local clergymen were successfully bribed to support continuation of the system by being offered recommends by the leading hospitals, see letter, MG, 6 February 1880. 82 BMJ, 18 August 1877, 17 August 1878, 250–2. The account of the discussion of the paper ‘Provident Dispensaries: Eleven Years’ Study and Experience of them’ at the BMA annual conference, BMJ, 1 September 1877, 303–4 indicates that the specific call to investigate the Manchester movement was included as an amendment as a result of negative comments from various doctors, including Dr Brierley of Manchester, who noted that ‘the provident dispensary system in Manchester had failed because of the medical fees being too low’. 83 At the same time, Watts noted, many of the unaffiliated hospitals had nevertheless adopted the principles of the provident dispensaries, MC, 16 February 1882.

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84 Thorburn, Remarks. 85 Thorburn letter, MG, 2 January 1882. 86 Letter of a journeyman tailor, MG, 3 June 1873. 87 G. Holtby Pinder, letter, Lancet, 23 April 1881, 678. Watts had spoken in 1877 of the GPs’ desire to ‘screw more money out of them than was got through the Provident Dispensaries’, MG, 1 March 1877. 88 MC, 16 February 1882; J. F., writing to the MG, 5 January 1882, noted that the dispensaries were paying pretty much what was being paid by the friendly societies, taking into account the extra demands placed on friendly society medical officers to maintain a surgery, pay a dispenser and find their own drugs. 89 Letter of Watts, MG, 10 October 1884, MC, 10 October 1884. 90 Lancet, 5 March 1881, 384. 91 Lancet, 20 August 1881. 92 Watts was frustrated at the lack of co-ordination of charity work, especially as regards investigation into the deserving poor, feeling the chaos of conflicting organisations, ‘church, chapel, hospital and other agencies crossing each other in every direction, and thereby encouraging pauperism instead of provident habits’; letter on ‘Organised Charity’, MC, 18 December 1882. 93 MC, 12 February 1883. 94 For example letter of G. B., Bradford Observer, 30 December 1875; Editorial, Liverpool Mercury, 1 February 1877. 95 Editorial, MG, 4 April 1873, advocating the movement: ‘some day they must be attempted in every great city in the country, and … it would be honourable to Manchester to have led the way’; also MG, 31 May 1873. 96 ‘The Provident Scheme in Manchester’, MTG, 2 August 1873, 123–4. See the comments of Alfred Meadows, paper on Hospital Out-Patient Reform, at the annual meeting of the British Medical Association, August 1873, BMJ, 6 September 1873), 280. 97 Paper delivered by Lawson Tait to the 1877 Domestic Economy Congress in Birmingham, MG, 20 July 1877. The comment of the COSR on the beginnings of the Birmingham scheme was that ‘It is certainly somewhat strange that, with the example of Manchester before it, Birmingham has not yet established provident dispensaries’, COSR, 14 March 1878, 56. 98 ‘The Provident System in Coventry, Salisbury and other places’, Lancet, 15 December 1877, 903. 99 COSR, 9 August 1877, 140–2. 100 Trevelyan, Metropolitan Medical Relief, 23; COSR, 4 March 1880, 54–5, and account of conference at Cannon Street Hotel, COSR, 29 April 1880, 108–9. 101 Noticed in W. Hickman, ‘Abstract of an address on the Influence of the System of Free and Provident Dispensaries and Hospitals upon the



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General Practitioner of Medicine’, BMJ, 3 March 1883, 400–1. For example, regular notice in the Isle of Wight Observer, which notes their progress in being ‘really provident’ and in developing ‘organic relations’ to the local hospitals, Isle of Wight Observer, 12 March 1881. 102 Lancet, 23 January 1886. 103 MC, 26 January 1884, 28 February 1884; further increases to 3,553 in 1885, MC, 30 January 1886. 104 MC, 3 February 1883. 105 A. Stewart, article in Glasgow Medical Journal; as reported in COSR, 19 April 1884, 132. 106 MC, 3 March 1883. 107 Endorsed by MG Editorial, 24 February 1886 as having ‘proved their value beyond dispute’. 108 Watts letter, MG, 13 June 1884, MG, 21, 28 February 1885. 109 MG, 5 February 1881. 110 Dawson-street Provident Dispensary showed steady advance from deficit to profit in the late 1870s and early 1880s, MCN, 11 February, 1882. By 1882 the six branches together were showing a positive balance in aggregate of £54, MCN, 18 February 1882. Several of the branches only just in deficit, MCN, 28 February 1882. 111 See ‘A Dispensary Surgeon’, cited in BMJ, 27 February 1886, letter in Lancet and response of H. Harwood, Hon. Sec. of the Pendleton branch, MG, 2 March 1886, letter of T. N. Orchard, BMJ, 27 March 1886, 617–18 (similar in MG, 6 March 1886); Orchard included a copy of a letter from a working man who remarked that although he sympathised, ‘to a certain extent’ with the movement, ‘yet I fear and know that it is largely taken advantage of by the improvident’, especially identifying those who earn from 40s to 60s a week piecework, also the case of a father earning 35s and children together earning 30s; he joined along with one hundred others from his works, no mention was made of a wage limit and no investigations took place [reprinted in Lancet, 13 March 1886, 508]; and response of Harwood, BMJ, 10 April 1886, 716. 112 Letter of A. Stewart, BMJ, 15 May 1885, 960, 1 May 1886, 847–8. 113 Further letters of attack going over the old ground, M. D., MG, 28 February 1887. See defence of dispensaries from Wilde and Nightscales, letter, MG, 29 August 1888. 114 See letter of R. R. Rentoul, Lancet, 21 December 1889: ‘in Manchester, the abuse of hospitals has only been shifted on to the provident ­dispensaries’. 115 See comments of Wilde at the Provident Dispensaries AGM, MCN, 19 February 1898. 116 MG, 22 August 1888; for Jones, see obituary, MCN, 28 November 1914.

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117 See paper of Dr Stewart on Provident Dispensaries to the Medico-Ethical Society, Lancet (January–June 1894), 573, 835; letter of Worswick, ‘A doctor’s life in a populous district’, MCN, 1 January 1898. 118 For example, the comments of Rev. E. Hewlett, MC, 14 February 1882. 119 Horder, Address on Hospital Reform, 8–9. 120 Waddington, Charity and the London Hospitals, 33–4. 121 See paper on ‘Existing Organisations of Medical Relief in Manchester and Salford’ delivered to the COS conference 1890; report MG, 3 October 1890. 122 MG, 3 October 1890.

Daddy, what did you find to laugh about?

5

Daddy, what did you find to laugh about in the Great War? The cotton cartoons of Sam Fitton Alan Fowler

Sam Fitton is not a name to be found in the indexes of the many scholarly books written about the First World War. His is not even a name that trips off the tongue of most historians of modern Lancashire. Fortunately, his work has begun to attract some interest in recent years, though not the prominence his friend and fellow dialect poet, Ammon Wrigley, had hoped when he wrote the introduction to the only published collection of Fitton’s poetry, the aptly titled Gradely Lancashire (1929). Fitton was a multi-talented writer and comic performer who was one of the leading figures in the Lancashire dialect culture on the eve of the Great War. However, by 1914 he was probably more widely known for the cartoons he contributed to the Cotton Factory Times, the weekly newspaper of the Lancashire cotton operatives.1 Fitton’s cartoons first appeared in the Cotton Factory Times in 1907 and featured in its entertainment pages until 1917. However, most commentary has been on the Edwardian cartoons and his other writings in the paper rather than his war-time cartoons.2 Fitton was unusual in that he was a working man cartooning his own industry – a contrast with most contemporary newspaper and magazine cartoonists, who were generally middle class and whose focus was contemporary politics. Uniquely, Fitton’s cartoons appeared with an accompanying Lancashire dialect verse. The outbreak of the war posed new challenges for the paper and for Fitton, and in the following years his cartoons adopted new perspectives and subjects, revealing

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insights into how Lancashire and its cotton workers came to perceive and respond to a conflict that quickly challenged all conventional views and expectations of international warfare. The Cotton Factory Times, which was owned by the Andrews family, who were also the proprietors of the Ashton Reporter, was facing a decline in sales in 1914 despite the recent growth of both the cotton industry and the trade unions. This decline suggests that the formula John Andrews had devised for the paper in the late Victorian era, a formula that led Beatrice Webb to regard it as one of the most influential labour newspapers, was no longer working in a fast-changing market for newspapers and magazines.3 However, its contribution in helping to focus and bind Lancashire cotton trade unionism should not be under-estimated. In 1906 Tom Ashton, Secretary of the Oldham Spinners and President of the Spinners’ Amalgamation, provided a glowing tribute to the role of the paper and its achievements, a tribute that was not undeserved, even if it was from an admittedly interested witness.4 Labour historians have largely neglected the paper’s significance, the exception being in the footnotes of specialist articles. Its constituents of trade union news, technical and commercial reports, leavened with a feast of entertainment features, including a weekly instalment of fiction, made it an unusual newspaper, leading Eddie Cass to question whether ‘labour’ is the appropriate description of the paper. It is possible that the growth of popular daily and evening papers with their coverage of sport, a neglected topic in the Cotton Factory Times, though not amongst male operatives, had begun to undermine the paper. In addition, the dialect culture that had nurtured the entertainment pages of the paper was coming under growing pressure before the war. Despite this, reading the paper a century after the publication, there is little sense of a newspaper in crisis and there is none of the usual appeals to the trade unions or readers for additional support and money. The less successful Yorkshire Factory Times had been sold just before 1914, suggesting that Andrews remained happy with the performance of the Cotton Factory Times. The real shock to the paper was to be the outbreak of war in 1914. Sam Fitton’s cartoons covered the working and domestic lives of one of the most significant groups of workers in Edwardian Britain. With over 600,000 workers in 1913, the vast majority of whom were employed in Lancashire, the industry was at its pre-war height in terms of its output, profitability and influence. Cotton, as every Edwardian schoolchild knew, was Britain’s major export industry.



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Cotton retained a powerful hold on both Lancashire’s and the rest of the country’s view of Britain’s economy and its dominant, if increasingly challenged, position in the world. Cotton was also an industry in which trade unions played a significant role, both within the industry and in the wider labour movement, cotton, with coal mining, being the dominant force at the Trades Union Congress (TUC) between 1890 and 1914. The cotton trade unions produced two of the key figures of British labour in this period: James Mawdsley and David Shackleton. Cotton, with a trade union membership of 300,000 and an advanced system of collective bargaining, presented a strong image to the employers and the wider world, a status that was evident when the annual meeting of the TUC was held in Manchester in 1913. Union membership was divided between three main amalgamations, of which the smallest, the Spinners’ Amalgamation, was the wealthiest per head of any British trade union. Politically, the cotton trade unions had two Labour MPs in the House of Commons but the United Textile Factory Workers’ Association had plans to contest six seats at the next general election. This organisation, which represented all the cotton unions, had emerged from the factory reform movement of the nineteenth century to become the focus of their political activity. The cotton trade unions’ growing influence was also international, as was the evident in the June 1914 Blackpool conference of the International Textile Workers, the last meeting of British, German and French workers before the war.5 The outbreak of the Great War was a shock to both the industry and its operatives, as the industry was heavily dependent on international trade, exporting some 75 per cent of its production. The disruption to trade and financial arrangements was to have significant repercussions on employment. The cotton unions were faced with an immediate crisis, agreeing to suspend payment of subscriptions, as members were unemployed or on short time. This crisis also affected the Cotton Factory Times, as the paper shortage led to a reduction in the paper’s size from eight to six pages. In 1917 it was compelled to reduce further, to four pages.6 Sam Fitton’s cartoons were, by 1914, one of the popular features of the paper. Fitton was born in agricultural Cheshire, but the family migrated to Crompton, a small textile village between Rochdale and Oldham, when he was an infant. The neighbouring community of Shaw was to become the growth point of Oldham’s enormous cotton industry in the late Victorian era. Fitton worked in the cotton industry

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both as a piecer and as a weaver, but health reasons led him to leave the industry after the turn of the century and he began to make his living as a writer, performer and cartoonist. Classes at Oldham Art School helped to provide him with a wider range of skills than most of the dialect writers and performers, many of whom belonged to the recently formed Lancashire Authors’ Society. Above all, although Fitton painted, it was his skills as a cartoonist that came to be seen as special. 1915: war, piecers and conscription The war accelerated the decline in readership of the Cotton Factory Times. It remained firmly late Victorian in its presentation, resisting the introduction of more than a limited range of photographs or reporting the war in any detail. The reductions in size were not matched by a reduction in price, a further factor that made it less attractive to readers. These problems were to affect the cartoons of Sam Fitton. Initially the cartoons were stopped when the paper was reduced from eight to six pages in August 1914. However, at Christmas 1914 they were re-introduced, and then ran continually until March 1917, when the further reduction in size led to their being dropped. Fitton continued to contribute his weekly dialect column. Only one further cartoon was contributed by Fitton after 1917, one which celebrated the Armistice in November 1918. It was Fitton’s only cartoon to appear on the front page of the newspaper. In 1917, no longer having his regular outlet, he drew cartoons for the Co-operative News, a Manchester-based labour paper with a broader readership but rather similar formula of news and entertainment to the Cotton Factory Times.7 Fitton’s cartoons during the war differ in some significant respects from those before August 1914 in that a substantial number dealt with national rather than cotton issues. His cartoons in the first half of 1915 concentrated on the war and were strongly anti-German. It was not until the summer of 1915 that he returned to themes more directly connected to the cotton industry. Despite Sam Fitton’s cartoons only covering a part of the war-time experience of the cotton industry, they do bring out the growing concerns of the operatives and their trade unions about the impact of the war on working lives. The initial experience at the start of the war, particularly the major economic dislocation in August and September



Daddy, what did you find to laugh about?113

1914, is missing because the cartoons were absent from 7 August to 25 December. Likewise, the strong response to the recruitment campaigns in the late summer and early autumn of 1914 is also absent. However, later Fitton’s cartoons reflect the widespread belief in Lancashire in the strength of voluntary recruitment over conscription.8 The return of Fitton’s cartoons to the paper at Christmas 1914 saw a continuation of the view he had expressed in August. He had in the intervening period continued to write for the paper, so the temporary absence of his cartoon would not have been financially disastrous for him. His cartoon on 25 December 1914 (Figure 2) represents a soldier

2. A Merry Christmas. Cotton Factory Times, 25 December 1914

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enjoying his Christmas dinner, just behind the lines, as a shell hits his Christmas pudding. The shell has the word ‘Kultur’ clearly written on it, the contemporary reference for German culture that had become commonplace in the press as an ironic reference to a nation that considered itself to be civilised. Thus Fitton’s cartoon has no references to the problems the industry has faced in the intervening period since his last cartoons. However, there can be no doubt that the contemporary readers would have assumed the soldier in the cartoon to be a Lancashire man serving in a Lancashire regiment. This cartoon had particular significance in that it set the tone for Fitton’s cartoons during the war. The Lancashire soldier was eating a savoury duck rather than goose, a Lancashire offal-based recipe often associated with hard times. The cartoon may have been derivative, but it was full of symbolism for its Lancashire readers, reaching them in ways that London-based cartoonists rarely could. It is important to remind ourselves that London-based newspapers had only a limited readership in Lancashire. The cartoons that followed in the new year engaged very directly with the war, and might have appeared in a more general daily or evening paper. A number of them featured ‘Berlin Billy’, clearly a reference to the Kaiser. The underlying theme was a rather optimistic one of the impending reverse for Germany at the front. The cartoons were clearly intent on being amusing as well as raising morale, but in no sense represented an understanding of military events. This focus on the wider war continued until April. Some cartoons stand out especially for their positive attitude. ‘Reverse the Glass Billy’ (22 January 1915) particularly stands out for its optimism. It depicted the Kaiser, with his son, looking through the wrong end of a telescope and therefore seeing only a small and inconsequential British army. The second panel of the cartoon reveals the reality of a large and threatening British army forcing the Kaiser to retreat. Such themes were repeated in a large number of contemporary cartoons and it could be argued that in these months there was nothing particularly ­distinctive about Fitton’s cartoons, unlike those of peace time. It was only in the summer of 1915 that Fitton’s cartoons returned to address more directly the issues of the cotton industry. The industry had begun to recover from the shock of the outbreak of the war as international trade was restored. Under-employment had ceased to be a major problem by the new year of 1915. The cotton industry received only limited benefit from direct government orders, unlike



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wool, which was a major beneficiary. While Lancashire had clearly lost markets in Germany and central Europe, the damage was not great enough to cause a permanent crisis in the industry. Both wartime supply of raw cotton from America and exports of cotton cloth to Asia and Latin America were restored. A more immediate concern for the industry was the growing shortage of labour as many young men, especially from the spinning room, volunteered for the armed forces. Prior to the war there had been a piecer shortage, and now the growing demand for young men from the armed forces aggravated the problem.9 Fitton’s own attitude to female labour was ambiguous. ‘When the Men Come Back?’ (25 June 1915) shifted the focus to comment on the growth of female labour in both industry and the service sector. Prior to the war Fitton had been generally sympathetic to the problems women faced in the industry, especially the bullying, harassment and fining in the weaving sector. His wife, Janie, a fellow dialect writer, was a weaver. However, some of the Edwardian cartoons did raise the spectre of women taking on male roles in the industry, for example, women piecers or women overlookers. Both the spinning and cardroom unions had successfully resisted the employment of women on the grounds that it would lead to lower wages. War-time recruitment campaigners in Lancashire had appealed for women to return to the mills and weaving sheds to replace men leaving for the front. ‘When the Men Come Back?’ was the first of a number of cartoons that questioned the role of men returning to a post-war world, where their former jobs were now taken by women. The reality was that most men who volunteered received a promise from employers that their job would be there for them when they returned, a promise that was largely honoured in the post-war boom of 1918–20. Away from the mill, Fitton’s cartoons tended to reflect attitudes that were being expressed in the popular press, although with Fitton the theme was often expressed in a humorous manner, either in the cartoon or in complementary verse. However, unlike popular newspapers, the Cotton Factory Times must have been rarely read by soldiers on the front line. Whereas proprietors like Northcliffe were able to ensure that thousands of copies of the Daily Mail reached the trenches, the Cotton Factory Times continued to be distributed and read primarily in the Lancashire cotton towns. ‘Tommy, When You Meet Him?’ (9 July 1915) took the idea of a much-discussed final victory into a fanciful future in which members of the German army were

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surrendering just to read the Cotton Factory Times. As with Fitton’s other cartoons, this in no way reflected the realities of the Western Front, which, by the summer of 1915, had settled down to the slow attrition of trench warfare. The decision by Fitton to return and develop some of his traditional cotton themes some twelve months after the outbreak of the war suggests the reasserting of his pre-war concerns. Before 1914 he had drawn a number of cartoons on the piecer shortage, the rapid expansion of the industry in 1910–13 having led to a shortage of assistants for mule spinners. This problem was particularly acute in Oldham, where cotton competed for juvenile labour with firms such as Platt Bros and Asa Lees, textile engineering firms with international reputations. The war made the situation worse, firstly because more piecers than spinners volunteered for the armed forces between 1914 and 1916, reflecting that piecers were much younger and less well paid. Secondly, spinners were hostile to the introduction of women as a substitute labour force. The war, with the much-publicised substitution of female for male labour in many industries, posed a real threat that women would be introduced in increasing numbers. Although there was an underlying hostility to this change, the depth of opposition varied from one province and district to another in the Amalgamation.10 The most hostile was Preston, where James Billington, the general secretary of the Preston Spinners, expressed the opinion that he would rather shoot his daughter than see her working in the spinning room. Traditionally, the spinners had expressed their opposition to women in the spinning room along moral lines, suggesting that the light, thin clothing worn because of the heat and humidity would mean that men and women working in close quarters would be inappropriate. This was clearly an attempt by the union to appropriate Victorian moralities for its own purpose and hid the real concern about the downward pressure of female labour on wages. Fitton reflected these attitudes in a humorous manner his cartoon ‘Modes for the Mulegate’ (30 July 1915), posing the question of what women would wear if they worked in the spinning room. This cartoon was followed by the ‘Problem of the Piecer’ (6 August 1915), taking up in a more general sense the issue of the piecers’ shortage. Both were cartoons that could have been drawn before the war. Fitton then moved on to a series of cartoons about the contentious subject of conscription. One of the overlooked features of the war is the Labour Party’s hostility to conscription in 1915 as many in the



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Conservative Party and on the Right argued for the introduction of a conscripted army to replace the volunteer army of 1914. Conscription was regarded as an effective response to the falling-off in volunteering and the demand for more soldiers, a demand that was to increase with the casualty rates of 1916 and the Somme offensive. Labour saw conscription as essentially anti-British and Fitton’s cartoons, starting with the ‘The Conscription Crank’ (3 September 1915), portrayed the advocates of conscription as peculiar. Fitton’s cartoons often became more political in September, in part a reflection of the influence of the holding of the TUC’s annual conference. September 1915 saw him delivering a far more direct attack on the growing campaign for conscription with his cartoon, ‘What’s Its Pedigree?’ (24 September 1915). This fixed conscription firmly as a German idea and therefore something Britain ought to be fighting against. ‘Voluntarism Vindicated’ (5 November 1915) returned to what had become a national debate as the manpower demands of the military front continued to increase. The anti-conscription theme continued with ‘Hurry Up My Lads’ (26 November 1915), although this was a more light-hearted view of volunteering. These cartoons are a powerful reminder of the antipathy of the Labour movement towards conscription, with, of course, the added fear that military conscription would be followed by industrial conscription.11 Opposition to conscription was shared by many in the Liberal Party, conscription being a policy that conflicted with many Liberals’ view of the individual and the state, even in times of national crisis. The creation of a coalition government in 1915, which both the Conservatives and Labour joined, had strengthened the advocates of conscription. The government continued to be led by Asquith but the presence of the Conservative Party, which had far greater influence than Labour in the coalition government, supported the case for ­conscription, as events in 1916 were to show.12 Finally, Fitton’s traditional end-of-year cartoon, ‘How Will It Develop?’ (31 December 1915) struck a far more hesitant note about the future of both cotton and the war, contrasting with his cartoon at the beginning of the year. One of the operatives in the cartoon asks ‘When’s this blooming war going to end?’ of the approaching child representing 1916, while another, returning to a cotton theme, comments about the child ‘He’d make a champion piecer’. This latter point reflected the strong view that Fitton had expressed in one of his most dramatic cartoons about cotton and the war in 1915, ‘Give Us a

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3. Give Us A Chance. Cotton Factory Times, 12 November 1915

Chance’ (12 November 1915, Figure 3), which was critical of the loss of cotton workers to the armed forces, defending the industry and its need for labour. This cartoon spoke up for the cotton industry’s role, in the belief that Lancashire’s interests were also those of Britain. In attacking conscription it posed the obvious question about the impact on the cotton industry of conscripting young men. Fitton saw his role as not just championing the operatives in the industry but also defending the industry in a wider sense. As was usual, the accompanying verses reinforced the visual image: Oh Mister Sojer, lack-a-day, Don’t spoil our Cotton Trade, we pray;



Daddy, what did you find to laugh about?119 Nor take too many props away; We’ve found you quite a dollop. We want to wipe out our Willie’s score, We’ve found you soldiers heretofore, But if you take so many more Our bag will come down wallop.

1916: cotton, Zeppelins, the Somme and food shortage The year 1916 was one in which the cost of living continued to outstrip wages, both employers and government being reluctant to let wages advance. However, the trade unions were becoming more belligerent in their attitude towards the fall in real wages. Trade unions, including the cotton unions, no longer regarded the squeeze on living standards as part of the war-time sacrifice, especially as it became clear that the war would be of long duration. Initially, hopes had been high of a significant advance by the British and French armies in 1916 culminating in a ‘knock out’ blow to Germany. The Somme offensive, with its heavy losses, was not really reflected in Fitton’s cartoons, which for much of the time remained optimistic when he dealt with war-time themes. Fitton began the new year with a cotton cartoon again addressing the piecer shortage: ‘Pity The Poor Minder’ (7 January 1916, Figure 4). He again brought out the impact of volunteering on cotton spinning and the shortage of piecers, but for the first time his cartoons acknowledged the possibility that women might work as piecers. The verse places the blame for the problem on the Kaiser. Rude Bill, that master-fiend of Nick’s, Has placed our minder in a fix ... He’s searched in quarters high and low To find good lads to run the show; He fears when they’ve all left the town He’ll have to ring the curtain down, The girls have helped a bit, we know, But some are fast, and some are slow; Some lads at times deserve a check, But lads aren’t lasses, are they heck.

The cartoon, while reflecting Fitton’s traditional humour, continued to emphasise the impact of the war on cotton spinning and the loss of juvenile labour.

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4. Pity the Poor Minder. Cotton Factory Times, 14 January 1916 (erroneously printed as 7 January in the original)

In March, Fitton produced a cartoon on the question of light, ‘When the Lights are Low’ (10 March 1916), a theme to which he was to return. The fear of attacks by Zeppelins had led to much-reduced public lighting in towns, an obvious issue for cotton operatives, most of whom started work at 6am and finished at 5.30pm, except on Saturday, when they finished at noon. Street lighting was an important issue for cotton operatives during the winter, as it would affect them both going to and returning from work. The public anxiety generated by Zeppelin attacks has largely been forgotten (whereas the Blitz of the Second World War has remained a strong popular memory), but it was very real even before the airships succeed in reaching the cotton towns. The poem that went with the cartoon



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started ‘When the Lights are Low, and the Zepps are high’, offering a light-hearted look at the response of communities to the problems created by less light.13 Both ‘Save Daylight’ (12 May 1916) and ‘What O the Clock?’ (16 May 1916) were concerned with the forthcoming emergency legislation, the British Summertime Act, whose purpose to increase production, especially in the war-related industries. A decision was also made in the cotton industry in 1916 to work during the Whitsuntide holiday, with a similar aim of increasing production. Fitton responded to the change with two cartoons reflecting rather different moods, ‘Rats! Rats! Rats’ (9 June 1916) was the darker of the two, in which the rats were portrayed as the enemy, Germany. The second cartoon, ‘A Warning Note’ (16 June 1916) was more humorous, suggesting the operatives’ willingness to give up the holiday to help the war effort.14 It is clear that many of Fitton’s war-time cartoons that comment directly on the war concentrate on the Western Front and share similarities with other contemporary cartoons, although we can never know how much of the London press he saw. However, his cartoon for Easter 1916, ‘A Pace-Egging Spasm’ (21 April 1916, Figure 5), was one of his most original compositions, drawing on the Lancashire culture that he admired. Its focus was the Pace Egg plays, medieval folk plays that continued to be performed in Lancashire, particularly at Easter. This was a cultural reference point that would hardly have been recognised outside the Lancashire and Yorkshire textile districts. In the cartoon St George was John Bull ready to put to the sword his enemies: Slasher (the Kaiser), the Black Prince (A Turk) and Dirty Bet (the German Chancellor, Bethmann Hollweg), who is holding up a Zeppelin. Mother, who is Mrs Peace, is holding a Peace Egg but being told not to bring it out till St George has dealt with Slasher. Fitton’s verse echoed those of the play, and so his readers would be familiar with lines like ‘I am St George, who from old England sprung’ and ‘Inch him, pinch him, cut him as small as flies’.15 July marked the opening of the Somme offensive and a return to war themes with ‘A Rude Awakening’ (7 July 1916), a cartoon that referred to offensives opening on both the Western and Eastern fronts. Its mood looks in retrospect to be hopelessly optimistic, as the Eastern Front was a disaster, while the opening day of the ultimately unsuccessful Somme offensive was marked by the highest number of casualties in the British Army’s history. Principally aimed at raising morale, these cartoons never reflected, or especially hinted at, the reality of

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5. A Pace-Egging Spasm. Cotton Factory Times, 21 April 1916

trench warfare. Fitton returned to this theme as the Somme offensive continued: ‘Two Teuton Targets’ (11 August 1916) and ‘Abeawt Getting Coopert’ (18 August 1916). The latter saw both the Austrian Archduke and the Kaiser receiving punishing blows from Russia, Italy, France and Britain, while the former suggested 1916 was going to be the year of breakthrough for the armies on the Western Front. Significantly, in this composition of a fairground Fitton has the United States in the figure of Uncle Sam looking on. In retrospect, what strikes the modern reader is the continued optimism in the cartoons that deal directly with the war. Fitton’s cartoons give the impression that the Somme offensive was a success – ‘Got



Daddy, what did you find to laugh about?123

What He Asked For’ (13 October 1916), suggesting that John Bull had delivered a significant defeat to the Kaiser. Fitton did not have children, although by October the extent of death and casualties on the Western Front was evident to any newspaper reader. Perhaps this reality was finally affecting Fitton, because he produced his first cartoon, ‘When Will It End?’(27 October 1916), which suggested warweariness, reflecting the growing sense that after two years of fighting there was no obvious sense of its coming to an end.16 ‘Excessive Cotton Combing’ (10 November 1916, Figure 6) was drawn as the Somme offensive had come to an end and as conscription was in full operation for both single and married men. The theme went back to that of Fitton’s earlier cartoons, namely the sacrifice in

6. Excessive Cotton Combing. Cotton Factory Times, 10 November 1916

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terms of labour that the cotton industry had already made for the war effort. Reflecting the unions’ position, the cartoon presented the argument that there had to be a limit to the demands made on the industry, not least if it was to be successful in the post-war years. The verse expressed Fitton’s views: King Cotton’s sent a host of men To help to hunt the Huns; And Johnny Bull still comes behind To ply his comb in hopes to find A few more mothers’ sons. Our factory lads have done their bit, They’ve gone as they were called;

Once again the cartoon shows Fitton making the point of the importance of defending Lancashire from government policy. Fitton drew a number of cartoons about rising food prices and profiteering during the war, contrasting the experience of the ­working-class with that of those who profited. He frequently brought to his readers’ attention the injustice of prices rising so much faster than wages, which was a feature of the war years. The theme of ‘Her Precious Pound’ (8 December 1916) was the difficulty of obtaining sugar, which for the working-class had become an almost essential purchase. The war had disrupted supplies, especially from Central Europe, leading to higher prices and queues. Robert Roberts, in his autobiographical The Classic Slum, remembered the shortage, and being sent to buy sugar for the shop on Christmas Eve 1916, as his mother had promised regular customers sugar. An equally strong cartoon about the rising cost of living pointed to the failure of both government and Parliament to take action against the food profiteers.17 The year 1916 concluded with Fitton’s usual Christmas and new year cartoons. ‘A Merry (?) Christmas’ (22 December 1916) showed a puzzled operative surrounded by all the issues of war both at home and abroad, hoping for a better Christmas the following year. This cartoon was followed by ‘A Happy New Year?’ (29  December 1916), which, like the Christmas one, included a question mark in the title, indicating the doubts of contemporaries. These Christmas and New Year cartoons were unusually ­pessimistic by Fitton’s standards, indicative of changing war-time morale.



Daddy, what did you find to laugh about?125

1917: food, Western Front, U-boats and cotton Fitton began 1917 with a cartoon about the growing food shortage ‘The Meatless Day’ (5 January 1917) which, whilst poking fun at the idea, was sympathetic to proposals that would lead to greater controls and rationing. One of those to play a prominent part in these changes was the Oldham-born MP, J. R. Clynes, a former piecer, who certainly knew Fitton’s work. A fortnight later, Fitton returned to another regular theme, ‘Economies’. From the summer of 1915 he had been drawing cartoons about the public call for ‘economies’, drawing attention to the social injustice of such demands on ordinary people, especially when set against the background of extensive war-time profiteering.18 Fitton drew two final cartoons about the Western Front in 1917, both before the major offensives of that year. ‘Which Were T’Worst’ (7 February 1917) had two ex-spinners discussing which was the most challenging experience – soldiering at the front or working in the spinning room? This was followed by ‘Some Managers’ (9 March 1917, Figure 7), a cartoon which dealt with a familiar problem in the industry but which was set in the trenches. It depicted a soldier – a cotton operative – taking great pleasure in shooting at a German soldier who reminded him of a former bullying mill manager. Some of Fitton’s strongest cartoons before the war had been about the endemic problem of bullying, of both men and women, by managers and overlookers. In the accompanying verse Fitton looked forward to an industry in which managers would be less ‘Hun-like’ in giving orders and adopt an attitude of ‘give and take’.19 This cartoon was unusual in looking forward to the post-war world and bringing together both the war and issues of class, themes developed in the verse. Some managers are good and clever, Well versed in wheels an’ pulleys; The many act their parts with tact – The very few are bullies. We trust they’ll be less highty-tighty When Tommy comes to work in Blighty. Time was when bullies placed a ban on All factory frivols fun-like; They shot out orders like a cannon, Their harsh demands were Hun-like. Let’s hope when Peace brings fairer weather They’ll give and take and pull together.

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7. Some Managers. Cotton Factory Times, 9 March 1917

The theme might not be quite ‘Land Fit for Heroes’, but in looking forward to a fairer Lancashire mill Fitton captures growing desire amongst the cotton operatives for victory to mean more than just defeating the Germans. One other war-themed cartoon dealt with an aspect that Fitton rarely commented on, namely the war at sea. Prior to ‘Huncanny Fish’ (20 March 1917), Fitton had not referenced the naval conflict even in the period of the Battle of Jutland, presumably in part a reflection of the smaller numbers of cotton operatives who had volunteered for the Navy. The cartoon dealt with the growing German U-boat campaign, a campaign that had considerable success in further disrupting food



Daddy, what did you find to laugh about?127

supplies. It also had an obvious impact on Lancashire, given its reliance on the import of raw cotton, especially from the United States. The impact of the campaign, followed by the entry of the USA into the war, and the necessity to move both men and munitions to Europe, greatly affected the supply of raw cotton to Lancashire. This was to bring about state intervention in the industry in the form of the Cotton Control Board, which was designed to ensure a more rational distribution of raw cotton than the market would have achieved, as well as generating funds to provide unemployment pay for operatives thrown out of work by the shortage of raw cotton. Popular memories of the economic and social dislocation during the Cotton Famine of the 1860s informed this initiative. March 1917 saw a major crisis of the Lancashire industry, which arose out of the British government’s decision to allow India to raise a tariff against Lancashire cotton. The tariff was designed to raise revenue rather than to protect the Indian cotton industry against competition from Lancashire, although it clearly did both. While the purpose was to raise money for the war effort, the means clearly posed a challenge to Lancashire. Indian tariffs had been a major political issue in Lancashire in the 1890s and the industry had felt confident it had beaten off any attempts by the Indian government to protect the Indian cotton industry, India representing Lancashire’s largest market, taking around a third of its overall exports. The crisis caused a major political headache for the Lloyd George government in the House of Commons, where the policy was challenged. The government took the view that Lancashire’s opposition was special pleading against a policy that was in the national interest. Lancashire took the view that what was in Lancashire’s interest was by definition the national interest. The surprise is that, given the outcry in Lancashire, none of this found its way into Fitton’s cartoons, which remained firmly fixed on the food shortage, an indication both of the severity of this crisis for many cotton operatives and their families and of the fact that political issues rarely attracted his attention.20 The following week, 30 March, no cartoon appeared, as the paper was reduced in size. Fitton continued to write his dialect column for the paper, but he was never again to draw for the paper on a regular basis, although some of his cartoons were to appear in the Co-operative News. However, he did draw one final cartoon for the Cotton Factory Times. This was in November 1918, following on the announcement

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8. Peace. Cotton Factory Times, 15 November 1918

of the Armistice. This cartoon (15 November 1918, Figure 8) underlined the historical importance of the event and was the only cartoon to appear on the front page. The first page of the Cotton Factory Times had been, since its first publication in 1885, essentially an editorial page, in contrast with many of its contemporary rivals, which featured adverts on the front page. The cartoon of a dead bird marked with the word ‘KULTUR’ signified the end of German resistance, behind which was the rising sun with the word ‘PEACE’ written across it. Also in the background were mill chimneys smoking, a frequently used symbol in Fitton’s cartoons that the world was okay and everything was in its right place. This was Fitton’s final cartoon for the Cotton Factory Times, a paper that was facing a crisis of its own as circulation continued to decline. The absence of war news and the fact that the paper was thinner and increasingly seemed to be felt ‘old fashioned’ were no doubt factors in the decline. Cotton was also being increasingly well covered in other daily newspapers, with particular note being taken of the operatives’ viewpoint and that of their trade unions. This helped to undermine the original rationale of the newspaper, to give a voice to the trade unions and the cotton operatives they represented. The post-war boom in the industry and the growth in union membership did not



Daddy, what did you find to laugh about?129

significantly reverse this trend and restore the paper to its Edwardian prominence.21 Sam Fitton’s war Sam Fitton’s cartoons are a rich source for the historians of the North West, offering an insight into the lives of one important group of workers in peace and war. Lancashire cotton’s contribution to the First World War has received only limited attention from economic and social historians, although its direct contribution to the decline of the industry has been long recognised. Cotton was not, of course, central to the war effort. However, its ability to earn large amounts of foreign exchange for the British economy during the war gave it considerable significance. These foreign earnings were generated by an industry whose labour force already had a majority of female workers, most obviously in weaving. This organisation enabled the industry to respond relatively easily to war-time labour shortages, the exception being the mule room, where the spinners continued to oppose female labour. Fitton’s cartoons generally offer a gentle, humorous view of the problems faced by cotton operatives, both at work and in the home. Whether commenting on issues of female labour, food shortages, conscription, daylight saving or the cost of living, he was addressing the concerns that shaped the day-to-day lives of the operatives. In doing so his treatment is sympathetic, displaying an understanding of the realities of the war on their lives. In contrast, his cartoons focusing on the fighting soldiers strike the present-day reader as lacking any genuine understanding of the brutal realities of the conflict. Fitton, unlike Bruce Bairnsfather, had no direct experience of the Western Front. His cartoons were clearly patriotic, reflecting and reinforcing anti-German sentiment. They were designed to raise morale, providing, with the exception of cartoons dealing with the spectre of conscription, little critical contemporary comment. Above all, Fitton never forgot that they were directed at those who lived and worked in the Lancashire cotton towns. Whether any Lancashire lads took copies of the paper back with them to the trenches is unknown, but probably unlikely. Notes  1 For more recent work on Fitton see A. Fowler and T. Wyke, ‘Tickling Lancashire’s Funny Bone’, Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire

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Antiquarian Society, 89 (1995); A. Fowler and T. Wyke, Mirth in the Mill (Oldham, 1995). All of Fitton’s cartoons published in the Cotton Factory Times can be viewed on www.lancashirecottoncartoons.com.  2 See Fowler and Wyke, ‘Tickling Lancashire’s Funny Bone’ and Mirth in the Mill.  3 E. Cass, A. Fowler and T. Wyke, ‘The Remarkable Rise and Long Decline of the Cotton Factory Times’, Media History, 4:2 (1998). See also E. Cass, ‘The Cotton Factory Times 1885–1937: A Family Newspaper and the Lancashire Community’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of Lancaster, 1996. For Webb see B. Webb, Our Partnership (Longmans and Green, 1948), pp. 49 and 126.  4 T. Ashton, Wages and Other Movements etc in the Oldham Province from 1868 to 1906 (Manchester, 1906).  5 On cotton workers see A. Fowler, Lancashire Cotton Operatives and Work, 1900–1950 (Aldershot, 2003). For a more critical view see S. and B. Webb, The History of Trade Unionism, 1666–1920 (1920), pp. 475–80.  6 On cotton in war see A. Fowler, ‘Impact of the First World War on the Lancashire cotton industry and its workers’, in C. Wrigley ed., The First World War and the International Economy (Cheltenham, 2000); S. J. Chapman and D. Kemp, ‘The War and Textile Industries’, Journal of the Royal Statistical Society, 78:2 (March 1915).  7 For the Cotton Factory Times during the war see Cass, Fowler and Wyke, ‘The Remarkable Rise and Long Decline of the Cotton Factory Times’, pp. 146–54.  8 For cartoons of the ‘Great War’ see M. Bryant, World War I in Cartoons (London, 2006); also T. S. Benson, The Cartoon Century: Modern Britain through the Eyes of its Cartoonists (London, 2007), pp. 46–55. For the Cotton Factory Times’s attitude towards the war see Cotton Factory Times, 7 August 1914, which includes a poem by Ben Turner. For the Fitton poem on the outbreak of war see Cotton Factory Times, 14 August 1914.  9 For the piecer problem during the war see Fowler, Lancashire Cotton Operatives and Work, pp. 83–4. 10 See Fowler, ‘Impact of the First World War’, p. 78 for the impact of wartime shortage of labour in 1915. For Oldham see A. Fowler and T. Wyke, Spindleopolis: Oldham in 1913 (Oldham, 2013). 11 K. Grieves, The Politics of Manpower, 1914–18 (Manchester, 1988). 12 For Labour’s attitude towards conscription see H. A. Clegg, A History of British Trade Unions since 1889, vol. 2, 1911–1933 (Oxford, 1985), pp. 152–3; C. Wrigley (ed.), A History of British Industrial Relations, vol. 2, 1914–1939 (Cheltenham, 1987), pp. 24–5. 13 For Zeppelin raids see J. White, Zeppelin Nights: London in the First World War (Oxford, 2014), pp. 115–36 and 169–73; for Lancashire raids see



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P. J. C. Smith, Zeppelins over Lancashire: Story of the Air Raids on the County of Lancashire in 1916 and 1918 (Swinton, 1991). 14 On British summertime see A. Marwick, The Deluge: British Society and the First World War (Basingstoke, 2006), p. 178.  15 For Pace Egg plays see E. Cass, The Lancashire Pace-Egg Play (London, 2001). 16 For the impact of the Somme see G. R. Searle, A New England? Peace and War 1886–1918 (Oxford, 2004), pp. 691–6. 17 R. Roberts, The Classic Slum (Harmondsworth, 1983), pp. 207–10; Cotton Factory Times, 24 November 1916. 18 For food see A. Marwick, The Deluge, pp. 165–6 and 232–5. For Clynes see J. R. Clynes, Memoirs 1869–1924 (London, 1937), pp. 212–20. 19 Fowler, ‘Impact of the First World War’, pp. 81–4. 20 Ibid., p. 80. 21 Cass, Fowler and Wyke, ‘The Remarkable Rise and Long Decline of the Cotton Factory Times’, pp. 146–54.

Voluntary action in the ‘welfare state’

6

Voluntary action in the ‘welfare state’: the National Council for the Unmarried Mother and Her Child Pat Thane

Michael Rose made a distinguished contribution to the historiography of the English Poor Law in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The Poor Law was the only publicly provided form of ‘welfare’ in Britain between the early sixteenth century and the mid-twentieth century. Later in his career he became interested in the modern history of the voluntary sector, particularly the settlement movement, and the innovative form of voluntary community welfare which began at Toynbee Hall, East London, in the 1880s.1 This important movement has still been all too little studied, especially for the period since the First World War, with the exception of Katharine Bradley’s work on London settlements from 1918 to 1979.2 Yet Bradley’s work, like Mike’s earlier, was a sign of a recent revival of interest in the modern history of voluntary action. Interest in the field had never wholly disappeared among historians.3 But for a long time more of them focussed on the growth of state welfare, fascinated by the emergence, development and vicissitudes of this new, prominent strand of twentieth century state action. For many years it was perhaps thought that state welfare action was making voluntary action redundant, or, at best, peripheral to state provision. Political challenges to public sector welfare, visible since the 1980s and undergoing strong revival since 2010, and political rhetoric about the need to revive a supposedly declining philanthropic ‘Big Society’, help to account for a recent revival of curiosity among historians about the role of voluntary action in the ‘welfare state’ and about whether it has indeed



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declined, crowded out by the expanding public sector. A strong body of work has recently been showing that the growth of state welfare did not squeeze voluntary action out of existence, or even severely diminish its range of activities, though these shifted and adapted as society, its needs and the actions of the state changed.4 Historians are demonstrating that the voluntary sector has continued to flourish, up to the present, often working in close, if sometimes critical, relationships with the state, rather than in opposition, seeking to identify and fill gaps in state provision, publicising neglected social problems and urging improvements in state action. It has long been, and remains a vital element in British culture. It helped make the welfare state possible and continues to strive to sustain and improve it. The National Council for the Unmarried Mother and Her Child This essay seeks to contribute to the developing body of work on the modern history of voluntary action by examining the work of one voluntary organisation – founded in 1918 and still flourishing – and its relationship with the state as a case study of the continuing vibrancy of the sector. This organisation started life as the National Council for the Unmarried Mother and her Child (NCUMC), became the National Council for One-Parent Families in 1973 and since 2009 has been known as Gingerbread.5 It was initiated in 1918 by Lettice Fisher, a suffragist, feminist and history tutor in Oxford, active in voluntary welfare work in the city before the First World War.6 She was the wife of H. A. L. Fisher, the Oxford historian and Liberal politician. The major motivations for establishing the NCUMC were that ‘illegitimate’ births had increased during the war and, particularly, the fact that the death rate was higher among these babies than among others, at a time when the generally high infant mortality rate was a national cause of concern. Initially, the NCUMC wanted to work with and for all single mothers, but decided that others – the largest group were widows – already had greater support (including from the Poor Law) and public sympathy than did unmarried mothers and their children, and that it was the exclusion and poverty of many of these that caused the high death rate among their children. Lettice Fisher had the support of a distinguished and diverse array of men and women, including Neville Chamberlain, who was a ViceChairman, then Chairman of NCUMC, 1922–37. The Chamberlain

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family, of course, had a history of philanthropy and were closely ­associated with the City of Birmingham, and the NCUMC had a strong Birmingham connection: the bishop and the Chief Medical Officer of Health (MOH) of Birmingham were also founder members. As we will see, between the wars Birmingham was one of the more active local authorities in seeking to support unmarried mothers and their children. This suggests close links from the beginning between this voluntary organisation and at least one public body – Birmingham City Council. There were also prominent obstetricians among the founders of the NCUMC, concerned that poor handling of births to unmarried mothers was contributing to the high death rate among their children. They included Francis Champneys, the leading obstetrician and gynaecologist and champion of midwives’ training and registration,7 and the pioneering woman obstetrician, Mary Scharlieb.8 Scharlieb, like Fisher, was a feminist and suffragist, as were other founding supporters, including Chrystal Macmillan, one of the first women barristers, and the eugenist Sybil Neville-Rolfe.9 Arthur Newsholme, the first national Chief Medical Officer of Health at the Local Government Board, joined the NCUMC in 1920 when he retired from the Ministry of Health. Such connections gave the NCUMC access to government, assisted in the early days by the presence of Lettice Fisher’s husband in the Cabinet. They were a well-connected group who put much energy into the organisation, which for a long time had only one paid administrator. Its aims were to support the mothers and, particularly, their children, firstly to save their lives, then to try to prevent their suffering from stigma and exclusion due to a situation which was not of their making. A key aim of the NCUMC from the beginning was reform of the Bastardy Acts and the law on affiliation orders to ensure that fathers were made to take responsibility for their actions, rather than leaving the mothers and children to suffer all the poverty and shame that resulted. They also aimed to secure accommodation for mothers and their babies so that they could stay together or, if this failed, to find a foster family, accessible for the mother to visit her child regularly. The NCUMC was strongly opposed to separating mothers and children through adoption (which was legalised in 1926),10 except in cases where the mother was clearly unable to care for her child. Arguably, it played an important role in preventing adoption from becoming the almost automatic outcome for ‘illegitimate’ children as



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it was in other countries, such as the United States and Australia.11 But it was often difficult for mothers to find a place to live with their child or to support them both if they received no assistance from the father or from their families. In fact, it became clear that many mothers, perhaps about one third (there are no clear statistics) went with their child to live with their parents.12 Sometimes the child grew up believing that the grandparents were his or her parents, and could suffer severe shock on discovering the truth, as did the novelist Catherine Cookson before the First World War and musician Eric Clapton at the end of the Second World War.13 Not all unmarried mothers were driven from the family doorstep. Many later married, not always to the father of the child, and the husband might adopt the child. Perhaps another one third of mothers lived stably but unmarried with the father, generally due to the difficulties and cost, at this time, for one or the other to obtain a divorce from another partner.14 In an unknown number of cases, father and mother lived apart but the father supported the child, often while living with his legal wife, as H. G. Wells did when his son, Anthony, was born to Rebecca West in 1914.15 This option was available only to the relatively comfortably off. This left many mothers without support: because they had no families, were rejected by them or their families could not afford to help. In the 1920s and 1930s it was difficult for such mothers to work to support themselves and their child; childcare was hard to find and, if they could find work, pay was low, and it was hard to find a place to live because landlords and landladies were often prejudiced against unmarried mothers. The NCUMC helped unmarried mothers to find homes and work when possible. This often meant a post as a living-in servant, where the mother could take her child, although this left her vulnerable to exploitation by unscrupulous employers who knew she had no other option. The NCUMC tried to encourage other voluntary organisations and local authorities to establish homes and hostels where mothers could be supported and the children cared for while the mothers worked, although it never had resources to set up such institutions itself. The numbers of Mother and Baby Homes gradually grew between the wars, but they were often run by religious organisations and could be strictly administered, punitive and grim. Many of them insisted than any child born in the ‘Home’ should be adopted or, if this was impossible, separated from the mother and placed in an orphanage.16 Expenditure on unmarried mothers and their children

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was unpopular with many local authorities and with voters. By 1939 the only local authorities providing such Homes were Birmingham, Newcastle-upon-Tyne and Nottingham, accommodating altogether 3,000–4,000 mothers per year.17 At this time around 25,000 ‘illegitimate’ babies were born each year in England and Wales. The only other public support available to unmarried mothers and their children was through the Poor Law. This was likely to lead to the consignment of mother and child to the workhouse and their separation, although some Poor Law Unions would provide minimal ‘outdoor relief’ to enable them to live, very frugally, in their own homes. The NCUMC pressed Poor Law Guardians to grant outrelief routinely to enable women to be self-supporting, but with little success. Some unfortunate women were deposited in mental hospitals by the Poor Law authorities, on the grounds that unmarried motherhood was an outcome of ‘mental deficiency’. Some were discovered still incarcerated in the 1970s.18 The Poor Law Union could apply for a court order to recover from the father the amount of relief it paid in respect of the child, but in practice, it was more likely to assist the mother to apply for an affiliation order, which would remain in force if she ceased to receive poor relief. The NCUMC gave mothers similar advice and supported them in making affiliation applications. At this stage it saw its role as identifying and, as far as possible, making good the ­inadequacies of state support and pressing for improvement. From 1929, the responsibilities of the Poor Law passed to local councils under the new Local Government Act, which was the work of Neville Chamberlain as Conservative Minister of Health. He consulted the NCUMC during the drafting of the legislation. It enabled local authorities that chose to do so to give more help to unmarried mothers, including acquiring powers to inspect voluntary Mother and Baby Homes, over which there had been no statutory control. As a result, the London County Council (LCC) in the 1930s paid for expectant and nursing unmarried mothers ‘of previous good character’ to stay in approved voluntary homes. Some other local authorities followed suit, and the NCUMC urged more to do so. The LCC also greatly improved the care of children in Poor Law (known as Public Assistance under the new law) institutions. The NCUMC achieved an increase in the maximum amount a father could be required to pay under an affiliation order, from ten shillings to one pound per week, through initiating the 1923 Bastardy Act. At this time women’s average earnings for full-time manual work were



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about 27 shillings per week.19 The Bill was drafted by the NCUMC and guided through the Commons as a Private Member’s Bill by Neville Chamberlain. It was one of many pieces of legislation designed to improve women’s legal rights that were initiated by women’s organisations and supported by male MPs in the years immediately after the vote was extended to most women over the age 30 in 1918.20 Many such Bills were introduced in Parliament several times before finally passing, generally in modified form. The Bastardy Act was a limited compromise in a Parliament that was still reluctant to shift the legal balance of responsibility for ‘illegitimate’ children fully onto the father. The maximum payment limit was not raised again until 1952, and the law remained essentially unchanged until 1987, despite the NCUMC’s best efforts. The NCUMC also initiated the 1926 Legitimacy Act, which allowed the legitimation of children following their parents’ subsequent marriage, but only if both parents had been free to marry at the time of the child’s birth – a qualification which NCUMC accepted reluctantly, after several Bills failed, as the only means to overcome parliamentary opposition.21 Through the inter-war years, the NCUMC worked to help unmarried mothers practically, with advice and grants, by seeking to improve the law where it affected them and urging central and local government to make better provision. It worked through the media to improve public understanding of the situation of mothers and children, including the new media of film and radio and the expanding world of magazines. Lettice Fisher and Neville Chamberlain were among the early contributors to BBC radio charity appeals in 1925 and 1930. The NCUMC’s work was further publicised through a film, Unmarried, released in 1921 and it publicised its work in women’s magazines, such as Woman.22 Far from seeing the state as a rival or an enemy, like other voluntary organisations at the time the NCUMC recognised the limits to what it and other organisations could achieve, realising that big problems, like those of unmarried mothers and their children, could be helped substantially only with public resources, on a national scale. Like other voluntary organisations, it was dedicated to identifying social problems, devising and implementing practical steps to resolve them and urging government to take over, preferably in cooperation with the voluntary sector. This has been the enduring role of the voluntary welfare sector throughout the past century.23 When the National Council for Social Service (still very much in existence

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in the twenty-first century as the National Council for Voluntary Organizations) was established in 1919 to continue and extend the considerable wartime co-operation between voluntary and statutory bodies and to co-ordinate the work of voluntary associations, one of its aims was ‘to co-operate with Government Departments and Local Authorities making use of voluntary effort’.24 Lettice Fisher wrote, with pride, when reviewing the first 21 years of the NCUMC, that during the inter-war years the Council had come into ‘close and friendly relations with Government offices, and … [was] solidly established as the recognized central organization for dealing with ­unmarried mothers and illegitimate children’.25 The Second World War During the Second World War, central and local government came more openly to value and increasingly to subsidise the work of the NCUMC and other voluntary organisations.26 Social problems came to the surface in war time which could not be overlooked so readily as in peace time. Urgent gaps in public provision were exposed which could not quickly be filled, except by the voluntary sector, with which government departments worked increasingly closely. The numbers of illegitimate births rose during this war, as during the last. As in the previous war, there were moral panics about promiscuity among young people liberated by war conditions. But this time the Registrar-General had statistics to hand to point out that ‘illegitimacy’ had indeed risen, but by only slightly more than the numbers of pregnant brides had fallen. In 1938–39 the mothers of 30 per cent of all ‘legitimate’ first-borns were pregnant on marriage. The numbers of pre-marital pregnancies fell between 1939 and 1945 from 60,346 per annum to 38,176, while ‘illegitimate’ births rose from 26,569 to 64,743. The numbers of premarital conceptions plus unmarried deliveries among mothers under the age of 25 fell.27 The Registrar-General concluded that the reason for the war-time rise in births outside marriage is almost unquestionably to be found in the enforced degree of physical separation of the sexes imposed by the progressive recruitment of young males into the Armed Forces and their transfers to war stations at home and abroad, rendering immediate marriage with their home brides increasingly difficult – and in the case of many quite impossible … …To the extent to which this is the explanation, the lapse will often have been of a temporary character only …



Voluntary action in the ‘welfare state’139   Taking the six war years as a whole the average increase of 6% in the total number of irregularly conceived births will hardly be regarded as inordinate, having regard to the wholesale disturbance to customary habits and living conditions in conjunction with the temporary accession to the population of large numbers of young and virile men in the Armed Forces of our Dominions and Allies.28

Still, the government found itself responsible for significant numbers of unmarried pregnant war workers and servicewomen, and had to face complaints from rural local authorities about having to provide for pregnant unmarried women evacuated from the cities. The first resort of the government and of the NCUMC was to encourage pregnant women to return to their families. Many did, but some could not. A factory worker wrote to the Ministry of Health: I am not a bad girl … I dare not let my mother know, she has had such a hard life herself, still has, there are eleven of us in the family … I am the first to fall, if my mother knew, I feel she would never forget or forgive me and it hurts me terrible … Please I am pleading with you for some advice and help. 29

The Ministry put her and other women in touch with local services and the NCUMC, which did its best to help. Indeed the Ministry regularly asked the NCUMC and faith-based voluntary organisations for advice, and worked much more closely than before with these organisations to help the mothers and children. The NCUMC did what it could to advise individual women and find them places in voluntary homes, but these were all too few. They and others also found that ‘Some of the unmarried mothers of the war were of a “new type” … Their spirit of independence was considerable and there was a little of the sinner or penitent among them’, and they were very hostile to the punitive atmosphere of many Homes.30 The NCUMC and other voluntary organisations made proposals, which the Ministry then recommended to local authorities, to appoint specialised social workers to help unmarried mothers before and after childbirth, to establish fostering schemes to care for the children while mothers worked and to set up more homes and hostels, all designed to enable mothers and babies to stay together and become self-supporting. To varying degrees, most local authorities responded over the course of the war, often working closely with and subsidising voluntary organisations, including local branches of the NCUMC, building on their advice, experience and personnel. From 1943 the

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NCUMC received £500 per annum from the Ministry of Health in recognition of its work. Again, among local authorities, Birmingham was in the lead, establishing, among other things, a scheme of identifying and registering lodgings where mothers and children would be accepted and paying the rent until the mothers were working and able to repay. The Ministry of Health supervised and encouraged these activities, not entirely to the satisfaction of some voluntary organisations that disliked the resulting scrutiny, and sometimes criticism, of the strict regimes in their homes. That, overall, there were real improvements during the war is suggested by the decline in the death rate among illegitimate infants over the war period, in contrast to the increase during the First World War. In part this was probably due to the improved care and services for all children introduced during the war, including the provision of free or subsidised milk. The policies developed by the Ministry of Health during the war, many of them advocated by the voluntary sector, provided the basis for post-war developments in state provision.31 Voluntary action in the welfare state After the war, the NCUMC, like other voluntary organisations,32 went through a period of uncertainty. It appeared that the Labour government elected in 1945 was introducing a comprehensive ‘welfare state’ to resolve social problems and it was unclear whether the NCUMC still had a role. Also donations – always a problem for an organisation like the NCUMC, whose cause was not universally popular – were exceptionally sparse, perhaps because donors either believed that the state was taking over and their donations were not needed or held back, due to the relatively high taxation of the period. It gradually became clear that the ‘welfare state’ was not comprehensive. Indeed the Labour government soon recognised the limits of what could be achieved in a short time during a period of austerity, when its priority was rebuilding the economy after the pre-war depression and the war.33 Legislation, in particular the 1948 National Assistance Act, enabled and encouraged local authorities to delegate such activities as the care of unmarried mothers and their children and of older and disabled people to experienced voluntary organisations which they subsidised. As Nicolas Deakin and Justin Davis Smith have described, the post-war Labour government was less comprehensively opposed to voluntary action than has sometimes been



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supposed.34 Beveridge, of course, was an enthusiastic supporter of voluntary action and believed it had a continuing, indispensable role in what he preferred to call the ‘social service’ state rather than the ‘welfare state’. In his view, the latter term suggested that beneficiaries were dependents upon taxpayers, rather than expressing his vision of a good society in which everyone who was able felt committed to contribute in cash or service for the good both of those who could not help themselves and of the whole society.35 The National Assistance Act was one of many Labour measures which improved the lives of unmarried mothers and their children.36 Building on the war experience, it laid an unprecedented duty on local authorities to care for them by appointing dedicated social workers, or subsidising voluntary organisations to provide care. Also, local authorities were required to provide shelter if mothers and their children were homeless. Finding a home was perhaps an even greater problem for mothers after the war than before. There was a housing shortage, and their families could be too over-crowded to accommodate them. Council housing was in short supply, especially smaller units for a mother and child, and there was often discrimination against unmarried mothers in the allocation of housing.37 These problems persisted until the 1970s. Local authority ‘shelter’ for homeless families was at first sometimes in old workhouses, but increasingly local authorities provided purpose-built hostels, or more often they subsidised and supervised hostels provided by the voluntary sector, which increased in number. Many local authorities worked closely with voluntary organisations to increase and improve provision. Mothers and children gained also from the introduction of free healthcare under the National Health Service – including before, during and after childbirth – and of universal state maternity benefits. Also, National Assistance benefits, although limited and meanstested, provided more extensive and flexible cash support than the Poor Law/Public Assistance had ever done, in a somewhat less stigmatising manner, with national rules of eligibility and benefit for the first time. The abolition of the household means test helped women who were living with their families, since the income of other household members was no longer taken into account when assessing their benefits, as had been the case under the Poor Law.38 The NCUMC soon found that it had an important role in the welfare state in guiding women through the complexities of the

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new state provisions, which arose because people had complex and diverse needs. Other voluntary organisations also took on this role of helping people to use the growing state system; for example, the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, was founded just before the Second World War to help people cope with the needs generated by the war and then found that it had to carry on to help with the demands of peace.39 The NCUMC switched from giving small grants to mothers and advising them on accessing charities, to advising on accessing state funds and services. It also helped mothers to find housing, education and training. It found that after the war more unmarried mothers were well educated, ambitious and confident. Domestic service had dwindled as an occupation and most of the women the NCUMC saw had no desire to be servants, but sought secretarial or professional work. When Lettice Fisher died in 1956 a fund was set up in her name to assist mothers to gain education and training. These independent young women were resistant to the continuing constraints of many voluntary homes and wanted to live independently. The NCUMC urged local authorities to provide independent flatlets with support services rather than hostels, with some gradual effect. The NCUMC’s annual grant from the Ministry of Health continued and slowly increased after the war, in recognition of the essential support it gave to mothers and children, relieving the state of the responsibility. The NCUMC continued to campaign for changes in the law, helping to bring about a tightening of the adoption law in 1949 and the introduction in 1947 of a shortened birth certificate, for which it had long campaigned. This omitted details of parents’ marital status, disguising the secrets of birth on the occasions when the certificate was required, as by schools and employers. Also, in the years after the war the NCUMC devoted much time to helping the unmarried mothers of the children of overseas servicemen who had returned home, and overseas women who had children by British servicemen. In this, it found both the British and other states less co-operative. The Foreign Office argued that children born to foreign nationals, whatever the nationality of the father, were foreign and not its responsibility. Departments of other governments were equally unresponsive, but the NCUMC succeeded in gaining some financial help for some women and children, channelling about £2,000 to mothers overseas in each year through the 1950s.40



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The 1960s and 1970s: a radical moment Through the 1960s, the NCUMC continued to advise individual women according to their circumstances – for example on how to challenge an unjustified refusal of a higher education grant – and to press for improved state provision. From the mid-1960s this included a specific benefit for fatherless families, part of the wider campaign about child poverty that followed the revelation in 1965 by researchers at the London School of Economics that poverty was far more extensive in the ‘welfare state’ than had been thought, notably among children.41 This led directly to the foundation in 1965 of a new voluntary organisation, the Child Poverty Action Group (CPAG), to campaign for improved benefits for children. It was one several new foundations in the 1960s, responding to awareness of new and continuing social problems. Others included Shelter, which was founded in 1966 to help the increasingly visible numbers of people who were homeless or poorly housed. These new bodies operated in new ways and were highly media aware. They depended less on voluntary action and more on paid, trained workers, although volunteers were still important. The NCUMC followed suit, partly out of necessity to compete for funds and attention with these new competitors. The changes also came about partly because the pre-war reservoir of voluntary labour – provided by middle-class married women debarred from paid employment – dwindled after the war, when more such women were in paid work, including social work. At the same time a larger stream of qualified people, trained in social work and the social sciences, were emerging from the universities, often keen to work for organisations they saw as aiming at the radical improvement of society. Another important change was that from the late 1960s there were many more, and more diverse, lone-parent families as the numbers of divorced, separated and unmarried parents increased, following the divorce law reform in 1969, the arrival of the birth-control pill and the profound cultural changes of the ‘permissive sixties’, which became most evident in the 1970s. In the 1960s the NCUMC considered returning to its initial brief of helping all lone mothers, but decided against this on the grounds that unmarried mothers were still more stigmatised and had greater needs than other groups. But by the early 1970s it was facing ever more appeals from divorced and separated mothers and fathers and decided in 1973 to change it policy and its name to the National Council for One Parent Families (NCOPF).42

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One response to the growth of lone parenthood was the appointment by Harold Wilson’s Labour government of the Finer Committee on One Parent Families in 1969. The NCUMC (as it still was) provided it with extensive evidence.43 The Committee reported in 1974, recommending, among other things, a specific benefit for one-parent families, which the NCUMC, among others, had recommended. Amid the economic crisis of the mid-1970s, following the ‘oil shock’, this was not implemented, although in the late 1970s the Labour government did significantly improve child benefits. One success for the NCOPF was the 1977 Housing (Homelessness) Act, which gave local authorities a duty to provide housing – not merely ‘shelter’ as before – to homeless people. For the first time this gave access to council housing to many single mothers who had previously lived in poor conditions or had been unable to set up home with their child. Soon after, unmarried mothers were accused of becoming pregnant just to get a council flat. Investigations by NCOPF and others have never found evidence of women taking such desperate measures.44 Lone mothers in council houses were visible for the first time from the late 1970s; previously, very few had been allocated to them. In the later 1970s, the NCOPF found that it received ever more requests for help from lone mothers, and some fathers, suffering the effects of growing unemployment and inflation – problems that worsened through the 1980s. Meanwhile its annual government grant rose to £50,000 in 1976–77 in recognition of its indispensable work in complementing state action. The 1980s: Thatcher’s Britain There had been many improvements in the lives of unmarried mothers and their children since 1918, and especially since 1945, but a report by a House of Commons Select Committee in 1980 showed that the children of young unsupported mothers were still more likely than others to die or to suffer severe mental or physical handicap.45 Things did not get better through the years of Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative governments of the 1980s. The NCOPF had still to try to help parents with housing problems, made worse, after the brief improvement of the late 1970s, as the housing stock dwindled, due to the sale of council houses without replacement; and by rising unemployment, cuts to benefits following reforms designed to simplify the benefit system and cuts to childcare provision, without which lone



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mothers could not work. The government claimed to be promoting voluntary action in preference to what it regarded as the harmful growth of state welfare, but gave voluntary organisations little additional support, without which they lacked the resources to replace public services adequately. The NCOPF responded from 1985 by filling the gaps as well as it could. It established legal and welfare rights courses designed to help single parents help themselves. It gained funding from the European Community (EC; later the European Union) to run courses to train parents in financial management, and then courses advising on gaining work, education and training. It also received funding from a philanthropic trust to provide grants for parents taking education and training courses, followed by further EC funding to run worktraining courses with crèches attached. In 1990 the government was sufficiently impressed to provide a supplement of £1 million and the NCOPF ran substantial numbers of courses, published guides on returning to work for those who could not attend courses and lobbied employers to recognise the skills and qualities single parents could offer. There was much enthusiasm for the courses, since parents generally wanted to work rather than subsist on inadequate benefits, provided that the work was adequately paid and affordable childcare was available. Many women were helped into work, although this was made difficult by high levels of unemployment. In 1981–83, 41 per cent of lone parents were employed or seeking employment, and in 1991–93, 39 per cent of the now larger number of lone parents. The NCOPF played a major role in trying to fulfil what the Conservative government said was its objective of assisting people from welfare into work, which had always been one of the NCUMC’s aims. In 1989, at last, the term and the concept of ‘illegitimacy’ were removed from legal language and practice, following the 1987 Family Law Reform Act. All legal differences between children whose parents were and were not married were eliminated. The NCUMC had campaigned for this throughout its existence and had given advice to the Law Commission on its proposals to amend the law. The change at last came about mainly because English law had become increasingly difficult to reconcile with international conventions to which the UK had signed up, particularly the European Conventions on Human Rights and on the Legal Status of Children Born out of Wedlock.46 The NCOPF had more difficulty with another piece of Conservative legislation, the introduction of the Child Support Agency (CSA) in

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1990. This was Mrs Thatcher’s brainchild.47 She blamed ‘feckless fathers’ for the problems of many women and children and believed that they should be forced to support them, in contrast with some of her colleagues who blamed the mothers. ‘Feckless’ fathers no doubt existed, although research suggested that the real problem was that a high proportion of them had very low incomes, or had a second family to support and could not afford to support both.48 The CSA was set up in a hurry, not as a government department but as a ‘next steps agency’, a new breed of quasi-governmental body, less accountable to voters and to Parliament, invented and much favoured by the Conservative government. The CSA (and its successor since August 2014, the Child Maintenance Agency) has been a focus of criticism ever since. What was presented as an attempt to simplify the maintenance system created so many complexities and anomalies that the NCOPF spent much time in the 1990s helping parents who were struggling with it to maintain their benefits. It tried initially to support the new system and to ensure that it helped as many families as possible, while monitoring its effects and pressing for improvements. It spoke up for mothers who were losing out and encouraged them to tell their stories to the government, at a time when fathers protesting against the CSA, which was making them pay up, were gaining most publicity.49 Also in the early 1990s, the NCOPF spent much time defending lone mothers against extraordinary attacks, including that by Peter Lilley, Minister for Social Security, in his notorious pastiche of Gilbert and Sullivan at the Conservative Party conference in 1992, intoning that he ‘had a little list’ of Benefit offenders who I’ll soon be rooting out … young ladies who get pregnant just to jump the housing list. And dads who won’t support the kids of ladies they have kissed. And I haven’t even mentioned all those sponging socialists.50

This was followed by an outburst in 1993 by John Redwood, Secretary of State for Wales, who claimed that 50 per cent of homes on a council estate in Cardiff were occupied by lone-parent families. He proposed that benefit should be withheld from such families until the fathers moved back in.51 It turned out that only 17 per cent of families on the estate were lone parents, local social workers testified that most were unproblematic and a police representative pointed out that there were orders for violence against half the men involved, who should in no



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circumstances be allowed to return to the families they had abused. All these accusations won shrill support from the Daily Mail.52 This onslaught followed the further rapid rise in births outside marriage and in lone parenthood. Births outside marriage in UK increased from 11.5 per cent of all births in 1980 to 27.9 per cent in 1990 and 33.6 in 1995. By 1995, 78 per cent were jointly registered by both parents, who were often living together.53 The proportion of families with only one parent, mostly single, separated or divorced, rose from 1 in 8 in 1980 to 1 in 5 in 1992; in 90 per cent of these families the parent was female.54 The unprecedented attacks by government figures against single mothers run counter to notions of the increasing social acceptability of unconventional households post the1960s. Things got somewhat better through the years of ‘New’ Labour government between 1997 and 2010 in terms of employment and benefits for single parents. The NCOPF (or Gingerbread as it became in 2009, after merging with a sister organisation founded by and for single mothers in 1971) continued its role of co-operating with government policy where possible, spotting weaknesses and demanding change (sometimes successfully, sometimes not), advising parents and seeking to raise the status of lone parenthood, whilst Labour sought to encourage the co-operation of statutory bodies with voluntary agencies belonging to what it chose to call the ‘third sector’. NCOPF/Gingerbread certainly remained as active as ever – and unfortunately still needed to, since, despite over 90 years of change, in the early twenty-first century single-parent families still suffered much prejudice and disadvantage, which unfortunately increased under the Coalition government which followed.55 Conclusion If anything, the organisation which began as the NCUMC became more active as the range of state welfare provision grew from 1918 onwards. This appears to have been true of the voluntary sector generally. Government statistics suggest that voluntary action had certainly not been ‘crowded out’ by the state by the early twenty-first century. In 2001 the Labour government set up a biennial Citizenship Survey. This reported in 2010 that 40 per cent of adults in England had volunteered through a formal organisation at least once in the previous 12 months; 25 per cent had volunteered at least once a month;

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54 per cent had volunteered informally at least once in the previous 12 months, helping neighbours, friends and relatives; and 29 per cent had volunteered informally at least once a month. The proportions were quite stable over successive surveys from 2001. Since no comparable earlier figures are available, we cannot tell how this compares with earlier years, but the figures do not suggest a sector in recent decline. We will not know how they may change in future, as the ‘Big Society’ progresses, because in 2010 the Coalition government terminated the survey as part of its spending cuts. The example of the NCUMC suggests that the relationship between the ‘Big State’ and the ‘Big Society’, between the state and voluntary welfare sectors throughout the history of the ‘welfare state’, has been close and complementary, not a process of one crowding out the other. The voluntary sector has long been and remains a vital component of British society, supporting deprived and excluded people, innovating welfare provision, criticising and identifying gaps in state provision and campaigning for improvements, sometimes successfully. But neither the state nor the voluntary sector has succeeded in eliminating serious and persistent social problems such as those experienced by single parents and their children, which have remained sadly unchanging over the past century of rapid social change. Notes  1 M. E. Rose and A. Wood, Everything Went on at the Round House: A Hundred Years of the Manchester University Settlement (Manchester, 1995).  2 K. Bradley, Poverty, Philanthropy and the State. Charities and the Working Classes in London 1918–79 (Manchester, 2009).  3 G. Finlayson, Citizen, State and Social Welfare in Britain, 1830–1990 (Oxford, 1994); G. Behlmer, Child Abuse and Moral Reform in England, 1870–1908 (Stanford, CA, 1982); J. Harris, ed., Civil Society in British History. Ideas, Identities, Institutions (Oxford, 2003); R. Lowe, ‘Welfare’s Moving Frontier’, Twentieth Century British History, 6 (1995), 367–76.  4 N. Crowson, M. Hilton and J. McKay, eds, NGOs in Contemporary Britain. Non-State Actors in Society and Politics since 1945 (Basingstoke, 2009); M. Oppenheimer and N. Deakin, eds, Beveridge and Voluntary Action in Britain and the Wider British World (Manchester, 2011); C. Rochester, G. Campbell Gosling, A. Penn and M. Zimmeck, eds, Understanding the Roots of Voluntary Action (Brighton, 2011); M. Hilton and J. McKay, eds, The Ages of Voluntarism. How We Got to the Big Society (Oxford, 2011); M. Hilton, N. Crowson, J.-F. Mouhot and J. McKay, A Historical Guide to



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NGOs in Britain. Charities, Civil Society and the Voluntary Sector since 1945 (Basingstoke, 2012); P. Thane, ‘“The Big Society” and the “Big State”: Creative Tension or Crowding Out?’ Twentieth Century British History, 23:3 (2012), 408–29.  5 Its history is a theme of P. Thane and T. Evans, Sinners? Scroungers? Saints? Unmarried Motherhood in Twentieth Century Britain (Oxford, 2012).  6 C. Moyse, ‘Fisher [née Ibert] Lettice (1875–1956)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford, 2004–10) (hereafter ODNB).  7 J. S. Fairbairn, revised June Hannam, ‘Francis Champneys’, ODNB.  8 G. Jones, ‘Mary Ann Dacomb Scharlieb 1845–1930’. ODNB.  9 S. Oldfield, ‘(Jessie) Chrystal Macmillan (1872–1937)’, ODNB; Angelique Richardson ‘Sybil Katherine Neville-Rolfe, 1885-1955’ ODNB (2004). 10 J. Keating, A Child for Keeps. A History of Adoption in England, 1918–45 (Basingstoke, 2009). 11 S. Swain with R. Howe, Single Mothers and Their Children: Dispersal, Punishment and Survival in Australia (Cambridge, 1995). 12 Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 35–9 13 K. Jones, Catherine Cookson (London, 1999); E. Clapton, The Autobiography (London, 2007). 14 Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 8–13; S. Cretney, Family Law in the Twentieth Century (Oxford, 2003), pp. 4–19. 15 P. Parrinder, ‘Wells, Herbert George’, ODNB, 2008; Anthony West, H. G. Wells: Aspects of a Life (New York, 1984); B. K. S. Andrews, ‘Dame Cicily Isabel [Rebecca] West (1892–1983)’, ODNB (2008). 16 Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 60–2. 17 Ibid., pp. 57–8, 61. 18 M. Thomson, The Problem of Mental Deficiency: Eugenics, Democracy and Social Policy in Britain, 1870–1939 (Oxford, 1998), p. 299. 19 I. Gazeley, ‘Manual work and pay, 1900–1970’, in N. Crafts, I. Gazeley and A. Newell, eds, Work and Pay in Twentieth Century Britain (Oxford, 2007), p. 67. 20 P. Thane, ‘What difference did the vote make?’, in A. Vickery, ed., Women, Privilege and Power: British Politics 1750 to the Present (Stanford, CA, 2004), pp. 253–88; M. Takayanagi, ‘Parliament and Women, c.1900–1945’(unpublished PhD thesis, Kings College, London, 2012). 21 Cretney, Family Law, p. 551, n. 29. 22 Thane and Evans, Sinners?, pp. 43–6. 23 H. McCarthy and P. Thane, ‘The Politics of Association in Industrial Society’, Twentieth Century British History, 22:2 (2011), 217–29; Thane, ‘The Big Society’. 24 M. Brasnett, Voluntary Social Action: A History of the National Council of Social Service, 1919–1969 (London, 1969). 25 L. Fisher, Twenty-One Years (London, 1939), p. 10.

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26 For example, the Women’s Voluntary Services (now the Royal Voluntary Service). James Hinton, Women, Social Leadership and the Second World War. Continuities of Class (Oxford, 2002). 27 This information was required for the first time under the Population (Statistics) Act, 1938, 1 and 2 Geo 6, 19. 28 Registrar General’s Statistical Review of England and Wales for the Six Years 1940–45, Vol. 2, Civil (London, 1946), p. 144. 29 S. Ferguson and H. Fitzgerald, History of the Second World War. Studies in the Social Services (London, 1954), p. 120. 30 Ibid., p. 95. 31 Ibid., p. 57. 32 Bradley, Poverty, pp. 1–2. 33 P. Thane, ‘Labour and welfare’, in D. Tanner, N. Tiratsoo and P. Thane, eds, Labour’s First Century (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 97–103. 34 N. Deakin and J. D. Smith, ‘Labour, charity and voluntary action: the myth of hostility’, in M. Hilton and J. McKay, eds, The Ages of Voluntarism. How We Got to the Big Society (Oxford, 2011), pp. 69–93. 35 Lord Beveridge, Voluntary Action: a report on methods of social advance (London, 1948); Oppenheimer and Deakin, Beveridge and Voluntary Action; Jose Harris, William Beveridge: A Biography (Oxford, 2nd edn, 1997). 36 K. Kiernan, H. Land and J. Lewis, Lone Motherhood in Twentieth Century Britain (Oxford, 1998), pp. 151–210. 37 Thane and Evans, Sinners?, pp. 154–5; Report of the Committee on OneParent Families, Cmnd. 5629 (London, 1974), pp. 377–82. 38 Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 106–9. 39 O. Blaiklock, ‘Advising the Citizen: Citizens’ Advice Bureaux, Voluntarism and the Welfare State in Britain, 1938–1964’ (unpublished PhD thesis, Kings College London, 2013). 40 Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 114–17. 41 B. Abel-Smith and P. Townsend, The Poor and the Poorest (London, 1965). 42 Thane and Evans, Sinners? p. 137. 43 Ibid., pp. 140–68. 44 Ibid., pp. 171–4. 45 House of Commons Social Services Committee, Perinatal and Neonatal Mortality (London, 1980). 46 Cretney, Family Law, p. 563. 47 Witness seminar on the making of the CSA, discussed in Mavis Maclean with Jacek Kurzewki, Making Family Law: A Socio-Legal Account of Legislative Process in England and Wales, 1985–2010 (Oxford, 2011). 48 Thane and Evans, Sinners?, p. 142. 49 Maclean with Kurzewki, Making Family Law; Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 183–7.



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50 Thane and Evans, Sinners? p. 187. 51 Guardian, 6 July 1993. 52 Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 187–91. 53 Kiernan et al., Lone Motherhood, pp. 42, 56. 54 H. Macaskill, From the Workhouse to the Workplace: 75 Years of One-Parent Family Life (London, 1993), p. 44. 55 Thane and Evans, Sinners? pp. 198–208.

The continuing tradition of civic pride

7

The continuing tradition of civic pride: municipal culture in post-war Manchester Peter Shapely

If civic pride in Britain’s industrial cities has been associated with the nineteenth century, then post-war industrial cities are linked with gradual decay and degeneration. Civic pride was allegedly lost after the Second World War as local elites credited with promoting and initiating policies that expressed civic pride retreated to the distant suburbs.1 Problems were compounded by an increase in the pace of industrial decline. Large parts of the northern towns and cities that had flourished in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries became wastelands in the 1960s and 1970s.2 By the 1980s, the old industrial base had been irrevocably eroded. However, despite the undeniable decline, the idea that civic pride disappeared in the post-war period is based on reactionary responses against the new urban order and the rise of modernism. The middle-class retreat did not leave a power vacuum. Neither did it lead to the fatal demise of civic pride. Whilst the new developments of the post-war period, and especially the 1960s and 1970s, appeared to underline the end of civic pride, this ignores the historical context in which decisions were made. The urban landscape certainly changed, but civic pride never disappeared. Locating civic pride is fraught with complexities. There were often multiple discourses, both negative and positive, played out at any one time. Expressions of civic pride are not fixed in time or place and there is evidence of pride and civic despair at the same time across the nineteenth as well as the twentieth century. Expressions of civic pride ebb



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and flow across different periods and cannot be understood in terms of linear progression. This chapter will look at how civic pride continued to find expression in policies, public discourse and display across the twentieth century. In particular, focusing on Manchester, it will look at how it was articulated in the aims, plans and policies of the 1950s and 1960s. The development plans reflected the aspirations of a local authority that continued to be at the centre of a process of change, with private developers providing many project ideas, capital and, very often, the expertise. The council tried to provide a quality control over the process. It successfully preserved a number of historic buildings, realising their value to the city’s architectural fabric. However, it also embraced modernity, sharing the vision of developers and architects which aimed to provide a new, bright and dynamic city. Civic pride Civic pride is a complex cultural, political and economic concept.3 It is constructed through different cultural forms. First, it is articulated through language, the rhetoric of boosterism and place location.4 Second, it finds representation through architecture, public squares, statues and art, as well as civic improvement. Third, it finds expression through public display such as festivals, exhibitions and civic honours. It is often promoted by the local authority, but also by civic groups, writers and the local media. In economic terms, it can be seen as a marketing strategy used to attract inward investment. This form of economic reductionism, however, provides a limited analysis of the relevance of civic pride in understanding the urban environment. The link between economic objectives – necessitated by economic structures – culture and governance is complex and interchangeable. Boosterism may be the language of civic pride that is used and manipulated for economic purposes, but it is still be part of a genuine discourse of civic culture. Civic pride is a form of symbolic power, a reflection of local governance. In the past, cultural capital acquired through civic attainments underpinned the status of local elites.5 Town histories, even in the early modern period, were used to fortify the power of the localities.6 They were connected to the local political process, dominated cultural and economic structures and maintained a strong sense of civic tradition. The policies and the rhetoric symbolised the power

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and vision of the rising middle classes. They parodied the elites and governing authorities in the ancient cities of Greece and Rome.7 Local elites used the cultural capital acquired through civic attainments to underpin their own status.8 In the nineteenth century, leading political, social and economic figures in cities like Edinburgh, Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Newcastle and Leeds drove a series of progressive reforms and embarked on a number of cultural projects.9 The transformative impact could be seen in sanitation and housing, new, grandiose town halls, galleries and museums, public squares and statues, public parks, libraries and wide new boulevards.10 Many see the Victorian period as the period when civic pride reached its zenith, a golden age.11 In the last quarter of the century, the chaos of industrialisation in some cities was gradually, and partially, replaced with a progressive policy of improvement and beautification, highlighted by Glasgow’s Improvement Act and Birmingham’s civic gospel.12 By the end of the century, civic pride was bound to the growth of municipal authorities, local achievements and public improvements.13 The glory of the Empire abroad was mirrored by the power and growing selfconfidence of elites in the major urban areas.14 Reformers saw themselves as civilising the city at home while others were civilising the world.15 This new confidence found expression in the language adopted by several writers and in the many public displays and festivals. An array of public ceremonies, especially royal visits, were reported in ways that suggested elevated community spirits and which appeared to reinforce the feeling of civic pride.16 Rituals were intrinsically bound up with the language of civic pride.17 Equally, the language of boosterism began to reflect the new sense of pride.18 A ‘boosting tradition’ emerged that mirrored the optimism of the time.19 The booster language gave structure to a local sense of pride. It was the language of grandeur, defined by the achievements of local citizens, civic groups and the council. It was also the rhetoric of superiority, often defined in opposition to other cities.20 From the early twentieth century, this appeared to diminish as the middle classes withdrew from local social and political life.21 National policies, the organisation of capital and the shift in interest from a local to a national focus all combined to undermine interest in local urban life. The retreat of the middle classes damaged civil society and local democracy.22 Cities, supposedly, lacked effective local leadership



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in the twentieth century and the discourse of civic pride was replaced by the rhetoric of decline. This was a gradual process which became marked after 1945.23 Local businessmen continued to give leadership during the inter-war period in towns and cities like Northampton, Leicester and Norwich, but the trend was towards greater forms of corporate organisation and state intervention which accelerated the drift to suburbanisation and an expansion of local bureaucracy.24 Urban renewal transformed the urban topography, creating a new world of trunk roads, high-rise flats and office blocks, concrete shopping centres and pedestrianised zones. Neighbourhoods were destroyed and a new urban malaise arose which signalled the end of civic pride.25 This, however, is a negative refrain that ignores the historical context. There are few historical studies of governance in the 1950s and 1960s.26 It also ignores the Victorian legacy of slums, dirt and industrial blight. Progressive gains were made, but the late Victorian period did not witness universal reforms. Neither did the post-war period mark the terminal decline of civic pride. Studying Manchester highlights the persistence of civic pride and reflects the underlining changes to the social and political structure. Victorian Manchester Manchester, as much as any other British city, has been the focus for extreme reactions from observers.27 At different times, or simultaneously, it has been portrayed as a city of firsts or a city of grime. This duality is evident throughout the last two centuries.28 Civic pride provided one public discourse throughout the nineteenth century, but northern cities like Manchester also had to contend with a historically long and negative rhetoric, being described as grim, dirty places. In Manchester, this duality was highlighted by early Victorian writers such as Alexis de Tocqueville, who famously described how ‘a sort of black smoke covers the city … From this foul drain, the greatest stream of industry flows out to fertilise the world.’29 Manchester was filthy, but was shaping the world and, as such, was a global force for change. Disraeli’s novels Coningsby and Sybil reveal a similar duality. He described the poor social conditions in northern textile towns, but also described the city as being as ‘great a human exploit as Athens’.30 Engels claimed that on re-reading his description of the city he realised that he had not exaggerated the conditions because

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his words were ‘far from black enough to convey a true impression of the filth, ruin, and uninhabitableness’, and that the city defied ‘all considerations of cleanliness, ventilation, and health’. This was the ‘second city of England, the first manufacturing city of the world’, but the air was rank and was a ‘Hell upon Earth’ which aroused only ‘horror and indignation’.31 Even here, Manchester is still described as the ‘second city’ and the first industrial city ‘of the world’ – not that this constitutes a caveat that could negate the dreadful conditions. But for people who viewed Manchester as their home, and for those who formed part of the region’s social elite, Manchester was often seen as a great city of industry, commerce and both political and social reform. In some respects, these dual reactions and cultural depictions of the ‘city’ as both grim and dynamic created a cultural tradition which remains. By the 1830s, Manchester was dominated by a liberal elite of industrialists, merchants and financiers, many of whom helped to lead the campaigns for political and economic reform.32 In 1851 Queen Victoria’s visit to Manchester was the signal for the town to show itself to the world. A huge ceremonial pageant marked the occasion.33 It was filled with pomp and ritual and provided a platform for the town’s elite to pursue their campaign to acquire city status.34 Achieving city status meant attaining superior municipal status.35 Acquiring city status was an elitist accomplishment, a recognition of standing and civic success.36 Manchester was no longer a town but a member of the nation’s urban premier league. Local elites operating through civic groups and the council embarked on a series of impressive projects across the nineteenth century. In 1835, the Royal Manchester Institute for the Promotion of Literature, Science and Arts was finally opened. Paid for and supported by local businessmen and artists, it was designed to promote art and culture throughout the area. In 1837 work started on the Athenaeum, an extension of the Royal Manchester Institute. Other buildings included the Free Trade Hall (a tribute to the Manchester campaign to repeal the Corn Laws) and the city’s iconic Gothic, million-pound town hall, designed by Alfred Waterhouse and adorned with paintings by Ford Madox Brown, which remains the most potent symbol of local power and prestige. Other grand buildings adorned the city, some built by the council, others by the private sector or by public subscription, including the Rylands Library on Deansgate, built in 1899 by Enriqueta Rylands in honour of her husband.



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Culturally, the city’s elite created and supported some of the some notable festivals and institutions of the Victorian period. One of the biggest achievements in the city, and in the country, was the Art Treasures of Great Britain exhibition. Staged in 1857, it remains one of the largest fine art exhibitions ever held, with 1.3 million visitors viewing 16,000 works of art over a five-month period.37 Housed in a glass and iron structure modelled on the Crystal Palace, the exhibition was held in Trafford Park and attracted huge crowds on special excursions. Many famous dignitaries included the Queen, Emperor Louis Napoleon, the Duke of Wellington and famous figures from the arts world such as Dickens, Tennyson and Gaskell, as well as national political figures such as Disraeli and Palmerston. Almost as impressive was the 1887 Royal Jubilee Exhibition, which focused on industry, architecture, fine arts, crafts and ‘old’ Manchester.38 Like the Art Treasures, it was held in Old Trafford and was a huge success, attracting an estimated 4.5 million visitors. Entertainment at the Arts Treasures was provided by Charles Hallé, who conducted a series of daily orchestral concerts for the guests. The following year he made the orchestra permanent and in 1861 it moved to the Free Trade Hall. It soon gained a global reputation and Hallé was given a knighthood. The city also created its own honour system in recognition of outstanding achievement. In 1888 the council inaugurated the first Freedom of the City awards. Early holders of the award included leading local figures such as Oliver Heywood, Abel Heywood, Thomas Ashton, R. D. Darbishire, R. C. Christie, Sir W. J. Crossley and Sir W. H. Houldsworth. The council also celebrated many of the figures who achieved prominence in the area as well as national figures (particularly royals) through a series of public squares and statues. These included Prince Albert (who outshone his wife in terms of the statue and the naming of the city’s most important public space), Queen Victoria and great figures of the industrial revolution such as James Watt. Other statues were built to celebrate the lives of local luminaries like the scientists John Dalton, the Salford physicist and brewer James Joule, the leading philanthropist Oliver Heywood and political figures such as William Gladstone, John Bright and Richard Cobden, and a public fountain was dedicated to the Queen on her Diamond Jubilee. Some of the city’s public improvements were impressive in scale and ambition. These included the Longdendale Chain, three reservoirs built during 1848–84, and the Thirlmere viaduct, built by the Manchester

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Corporation Water Works during 1890–1925 to pump water from the Lake District. In housing, the council was proud to be the first to ban the building of back-to-back houses and, later, to produce model housing, especially the Victorian flats in Ancoats. Other civic improvements included municipal parks, such as Heaton Park, bought by the council in 1902 for £230,000. Similarly, the smaller yet prestigious Whitworth Park was opened in 1890 as part of the Whitworth Institute, which included the Whitworth Art Gallery, all created by Robert Dukinfield Darbishire in honour of the famous engineer Sir Joseph Whitworth. In 1904 the park was given to the council, which in 1913 built a large statue in honour of King Edward VII. Manchester also boasted a large variety of voluntary charities that campaigned for the physical, social and moral improvement of the city.39 They included a network of hospitals and clinics such as the Manchester Royal Infirmary and John Owens’ College, founded in 1851. The College was established through a large bequest left by Owens, a local merchant. In the 1870s and 1880s it moved to Oxford Road and was granted a royal charter, paving the way for university status. One of the largest and most expensive schemes, which involved both the private and public sectors, was the Manchester Ship Canal.40 The canal was the idea of local businessmen, including Daniel Adamson, and was a reaction to the Long Depression and what were claimed to be the excessive charges of the railways and Port of Liverpool.41 It was initially estimated that the canal would cost over £5 million, but a series of funding problems threatened its construction and the council had to intervene. Loans were agreed on condition that the council took 11 of the 21 seats on the board of the Ship Canal Company. The canal eventually cost £15 million and took six years to complete. It was opened by the Queen in a large civic ceremony in May 1894. At the state banquet the Lord Mayor of Liverpool claimed that his city ‘had no mean jealousy of Manchester’ and that it wished Manchester ‘every success in their great enterprise.’ He even claimed that ‘this great municipality and the people of this great centre had presented an object-lesson to all great municipalities’ and that such an example of ‘civic patriotism had not before been exhibited’.42 The twentieth century: continuing the tradition The council had taken a bold leap to save the Ship Canal from bankruptcy and it continued to expand its functions throughout much of



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the early twentieth century. Its efforts were recognised in Manchester Corporation’s centenary celebrations of 1938. The local MP, J. R. Clynes, wrote to the Manchester Guardian claiming that the city had achieved a ‘high level of greatness with age’, that it had become famous for its achievements and that in trade, commerce, education, the arts and the assertion of democracy Manchester could claim a ‘first place in any list of leading cities in Europe’.43 He had praise for the ‘City Fathers’, who had ‘not been devoid of effort in watching for amenities and helping to enlarge them’, and he believed that, because of them, Manchester’s ‘civic life is second to none in a record of splendid municipal management’. Lloyd George joined the celebrations. Born in Manchester, he congratulated the ‘magnificent achievement by this famous city in the arts of peace and human enrichment’. He was pleased to state that he was speaking as ‘one who is proud to be a citizen of no mean city’ and as a ‘fellow Mancunian’ he expressed his best wishes for the city’s future prosperity.44 Civic improvement and the attainment of something approaching the city beautiful motivated the influential progressive leaders in the early twentieth city. They were led by Ernest and Shena Simon, and supported by the likes of C. P. Scott, editor of the Manchester Guardian. Solving the city’s chronic housing problems was at the top of the reform agenda. At the centre of their vision was a new satellite town in the leafy area around Wythenshawe in Cheshire.45 Work eventually started on the estate in 1930. Alongside the new estate was another key development. Manchester airport became the twentieth-century equivalent of the Ship Canal, a transport hub developed by the council to support economic growth. Following a civic ceremony in which the council received its licence to build and operate the new airport from Air Minister Sir Samuel Hoare, Manchester’s Lord Mayor claimed ‘we start first and are going to remain first’.46 When a new site was found in 1938 at Ringway, Nigel Norman, one of the consultants employed by the council, believed the council could build an airport ‘better than any in this country and second to none in Europe’.47 The council became the driving force for progressive change as it took responsibility for major civic projects and for promoting the city. It created its own Publicity Committee, which eventually produced an hour-long marketing film, A City Speaks, in 1946.48 The film drew on civic pride, showing how it had developed, since Roman times, through to the Industrial Revolution, and how it had introduced a series of social reforms. The workings and achievements of the council

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were explained, along with an idealised vision of how the future Hulme and Wythenshawe would look. It was part of an emerging strategy that made greater use of boosterism and place location. From the inter-war period, boosterism and place location became increasingly important.49 Expressions of civic pride were a means of promoting the modern city, of branding and image creation. Investment was certainly needed after the war. Post-war Manchester was developed against a framework of radical legislation and social change. The welfare state demanded an expansion of services – many, such as schools, transport and housing, to be delivered by local authorities.50 New planning laws also meant a substantial increase in local authorities’ powers and responsibilities.51 The 1947 Town and Country Planning Act, supplemented by subsequent policies and recommendations from state initiatives like Colin Buchanan’s Traffic in Towns report of 1963, influenced the new development plans.52 However, whilst local government had to provide the services, major developments such as new offices, hotels and shopping facilities needed the private sector. State legislation defined the role of local authorities and shaped the structure of governance, but social change also affected the character of local power structures. Governance was no longer structured around social and economic middle-class elites but around a complex series of partnerships consisting of local councillors, officials, architects, planners, designers, the government and private developers, investors and construction companies.53 Civic pride continued to find expression through public discourse, structured through the press, speeches and public policies, but it was a representation of their vision, their interests and their power. They faced a number of challenges. The city had suffered from long-term economic decline, the Depression, war, austerity and economic realignment. Between the 1960s and the 1990s, Manchester went through a painful transition from a city that prided itself on being the ‘workshop of the world’ and the ‘first industrial city’ to one that was a regional service, sport, leisure and cultural centre. During 1961–83, Manchester lost 150,000 manufacturing jobs, while in the short period 1966–72 the inner area of the city-region lost 33 per cent of manual manufacturing jobs and 25 per cent of all factories and workshops.54 Staple industries, including cotton and engineering, together with the symbol of industrial civic pride, the Ship Canal, fell into terminal decline.



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The city also had a legacy of poor housing inherited from the nineteenth century. Local authorities, developers and the press were aware of the discourse of negativity. Manchester University’s Professor of Town and Country Planning, Roy Kantorowich, told a conference of civic societies in 1963 that the region had a reputation for being a ‘drab, dismal and dirty dump’ and it was a ‘scourge on people who had to live amid its mess’.55 Similarly, the economic planning council for the North West published a report in 1966 that urged more government action to overcome the ‘legacy of misery and dilapidation’ inherited from the Industrial Revolution and to sweep away the dirty, drab old image, claiming that there were too many examples of ‘ugly architecture’, pollution and litter.56 It was to counter this image that a committee of North West executives was created to produce a 52-page glossy booklet, A Richer Life, which was launched in Manchester in 1967 and which set out to ‘correct the wrong impression of the region in other parts of the country’.57 A federation was created. made up of various bodies including the North West Economic Planning Council, the Civic Trust, local authorities, chambers of commerce and the Confederation of British Industry, and together they launched ‘Operation Springclean’ to tidy the area, to dispel ‘once and for all the grimy image of the North West’ and to ‘get rid of the state of mind that has come to accept dirt and squalor’.58 The former chairman of the North West Economic Planning Council and Vice Chancellor of Lancaster University, Professor Sir Charles Carter, told the delegates of the conference for the Town and Country Planning Association that ‘people who have never been to the North West think of it as one enormous Coronation Street. They think of row on row of grimy redbrick terraces and mill chimneys peopled by a lot of yobs who don’t know any better, working old fashioned looms.’59 Despite the economic and social challenges and the persistent cultural representations of the city, the local authority, developers and investors remained resolute in their belief that Manchester’s fortunes could be turned around. In 1971, the property industry magazine Shop Property claimed that ‘Coronation Street is how most southerners have seen Manchester – grimy, wet and struggling. And that is how it has been until quite recently. Now, things are beginning to change.’60 The late 1960s had seen the start of a new Manchester, one in which civic pride expressed itself in modern ways. New industries and an influx of white-collar jobs were changing the city. Coupled to this was a wave of development schemes. Shop Property claimed that

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the ‘Coronation Street image is vanishing fast’ as new tower blocks were emerging. It was confident that the ‘future appearance of the city centre will finally get rid of the Coronation Street image of central Manchester as new buildings replace the existing dilapidated ones’, making it a ‘very attractive place for any retailer to be in five to ten years hence’.61 The quality of the future appearance of the city was meant to be assured through careful planning. Plans had been evolving since the 1940s. The Planning Committee and development plans, in their various guises, became a focal point for civic pride. In 1942, Leonard Leeming, engineer and surveyor for the Urmston Urban District Council, told delegates at a conference of the Federation of Trades and Labour Councils that Manchester should be at the centre of a new and completely re-planned North West, making the city the cultural capital of the entire region. It would sweep away the ‘chaos of competition’ and wipe out unemployment. Manchester would become accessible to everyone through ‘well-planned motorways, by airways or by electric railways’. The aim was to ‘provide all kinds of facilities on a large scale’ to serve the whole region. Leeming’s was a ‘bold plan for a new city’.62 Planning was going to be the way forward, though not as Leeming envisaged. Certainly the ambition was to create a new, dynamic regional capital. In 1945 the council published its Development Plan, City of Manchester Plan, in which Ottiwell Lodge claimed that the city now had an opportunity to improve its ‘standing as a regional centre’.63 The council was to play a pivotal role, but throughout the 1950s it was obvious that redevelopment of the city centre needed private capital. Together, the public and private sectors were responsible in the 1960s for a bewildering number of new projects. The amount of planning applications presented to the council was staggering. Schemes included the expansion of the University Precinct (which included the new Northern College of Music, Manchester Business School, computer building and shopping precinct and some of the city’s major hospitals), the expansion of the University of Manchester Institute of Science and Technology (UMIST), Shambles Square, the Co-operative Insurance Society building, the Arndale, Piccadilly, the Bank of England, a new regional home for the BBC, a new tax office, post office and large court complex at Crown Square, not to mention a host of smaller schemes such as St Mary’s Passage and the new General Insurance office block and larger public projects



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like the expansion of the airport and the railway station and building the Mancunian Way. It also included new schools and housing, including large inner-city developments in Beswick, Ardwick and Harpurhey and the total rebuilding of Hulme. When Manchester city council produced its development plans in the 1960s they were a flexible blueprint, a general working framework. It had started to work on the Central Area Development plan in the 1950s and from 1964 the focus was on the Town Centre map, which outlined the planning strategy.64 Although the council wanted to make the city open to all classes, to create what Millar described as a ‘multi class society’, in reality the socialist dreams for a future based on good planning and modernism were made irrelevant because of the need for capital investment.65 Development plans were not meant to place a ‘straightjacket on natural evolution’, but were ‘working documents’ that were designed to be adaptable to private sector proposals.66 In 1965, Manchester’s ‘Operation Rebirth’ was unveiled by John Billingham, head of the section of the Planning Department responsible for rebuilding the city centre. The city centre was divided into three broad development zones and the plans were greeted with elation by the Manchester Evening News, which claimed that ‘Manchester leads Britain into the challenge of the seventies’, and that the city, ‘Britain’s second city’, was a ‘booming, prosperous city rightly called Capital of the North’.67 The newspaper was confident that a new ‘hub of the North’ would rise and would create a new ‘civic feeling’ by building a series of small squares and spaces for pedestrians. The council would develop the area between Deansgate and the new Crown Courts so that they would look like ‘London’s Inns of Court’.68 Over three weeks in October, Manchester’s Planning Department held an exhibition with an impressive model of how the city might look that was attended by 10,000 visitors, and conducted lectures to around 1,000 pupils from local schools. Various government officials visited the city in 1966 to look at the plans, including Prime Minister Harold Wilson, who apparently enjoyed looking at the large model.69 More detailed plans for the development of the city centre were unveiled in 1968 with a 109-page brochure and another public exhibition which included another three-dimensional model. The plans would, according to Millar, lead to part of the city centre taking on the ‘gaiety and night and day life of London’s Chelsea’.70 Millar claimed the council would recreate an ‘atmosphere akin to the

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King’s Road’ by clearing away the ‘dreary warehouse blocks of the old “Cottonopolis”’.71 The council also hoped to develop the area around Central Station with sports and recreation facilities, giving it the character of Tivoli Gardens. The expansion of higher education was also essential to the future of the city. Expansion of the University and UMIST, costing an estimated £75 million, led to claims that Manchester was ‘Britain’s greatest education centre’.72 Even a new one-year diploma in business management was described by Professor B.R. Williams as offering the academic ‘equivalent of a degree at the Harvard Business School’ and proof that Manchester had a bigger concentration of talent in the business sector than any other city in Britain.73 The new buildings would help in the city’s transformation, including the new computer building, which was described by Millar as being of a ‘very high standard of design’, and the new education precinct, which planning consultant Hugh Wilson described as an ‘exciting new conception of a boldness appropriate to what is rightly recognised by the consultant to be an opportunity unparalleled in any city in Europe’.74 Other public sector projects were equally ambitious. Housing, for example, became an extension of civic idealism. Manchester’s civic culture stressed an ambition to be bold and imaginative.75 In a typically robust example of civic jingoism, the Lord Mayor, Mrs. E. A. Yarwood, claimed in 1967, ‘we have some of the finest examples of [housing] in the country and when the Hulme redevelopment is complete it will be one of the finest examples in Europe’. The system-built units, the flats and especially the multi-deck access Crescents, were heralded as part of a new dawn which would see Manchester emerge as the new Bath or the new Bloomsbury. A discourse developed around an ambition to build the biggest and the best.76 The development of transport links used a similar grand rhetoric. The rebuilding of Piccadilly Station was claimed by the Evening Chronicle to be the ‘biggest single project ever tackled by British Rail’, and it would be the ‘finest railway station in the country’.77 It was part of the city’s heritage, but it was new and modern. The Evening Chronicle pointed out that the new station gave added historical interest to a city that ‘proudly boasts of having the first railway station in the world’.78 Now, however, the station would have an ‘atom-age look’, a modern building for the modern world.79 The Picc-Vic plan to build a large underground rail link under the city centre and an earlier proposal to build a heliport on Victoria Station were similarly bold and ambitious. Although they were doomed to



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fail due to spending cuts, the sketches and marketing of the projects reflected the ambitions of the council.80 Whilst a great deal was spent on public projects, the need to work closely with the private sector remained at the centre of the development process. Millar claimed that the creation of the City Planning Department in 1963 had facilitated a positive relationship between the council and the private sector and that work and negotiations with developers were, by 1967, beginning to emerge ‘in the shape of fine buildings’.81 He claimed that the role of the council was to make sure that these schemes were ‘of high quality’ and formed part of the wider planning objectives. The council often attached conditions to new private developments that were designed to ensure high standards in the immediate surrounding environment. When, for example, it approved plans for the new District Bank and London Assurance Group offices in King Street it attached conditions that obliged the developer to pay for the adjoining open space, landscaping, maintenance, lighting and cleaning of the area ‘to the satisfaction of the Corporation’.82 By the mid-1960s, the city council became keen to preserve historic buildings. For instance, Millar refused permission to Devereux Properties Limited to demolish Watts’ warehouse in the city centre and replace it with new shops, offices and a car park, stating that the city could ill afford to lose a building of such ‘strong and vigorous character’. He believed it would be fitting to use the building for public purposes such as a museum, although eventually it would be redeveloped as a hotel.83 Millar even insisted that 9 Portland Street, which was being used as a shop, be closed because the building was of historic and architectural interest and its use was not suited to its status.84 Later, in 1967, planning permission for the new Shambles Square was granted only on condition that the old Wellington Inn had to be preserved by physically uprooting and moving it to a new location.85 Before granting planning permission for the redevelopment of Shambles, the council insisted that the architectural and landscaping designs had to of the ‘highest quality’ and that the plans were ‘worthy of this important site’.86 O. J. Weaver, the Inspector of Ancient Monuments, agreed to the move. Redevelopment took place only following consultations over the Wellington and Sinclair’s Oyster Bar with the Historic Buildings Panel and the Royal Fine Art Commission.87 The result was far from satisfactory, as the two old pubs sat amongst one of the least successful projects. Nevertheless, the council continued to preserve some of

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its few remaining historic buildings, even if it had to change its own plans for the Central Development Area. In 1969 Millar expressed his content at removing the famous Manchester pub from the designation for redevelopment under the large Sunley investment scheme because ‘there was clearly no point in needlessly destroying a good building’, especially as it had been cleaned and modernised.88 Conversely, in the same year the council refused permission to City Wall Properties to build a large 17-storey office block and showroom because there had been no attempt to consider the relationship between the scheme and adjoining properties and the developers were ‘not prepared to negotiate’.89 Millar refused planning permission to Rank for a large hotel and cinema complex to be built, again, on Portland Street. Rank wanted a ‘high rise solution’, and the council recognised the need for a large hotel, but Millar insisted that the plan did not fit an area bordered by listed buildings and he insisted on getting the views of the Historic Buildings Panel.90 Even Anthony Greenwood, the Minister for Housing and Local Government, noted the council’s intention of retaining ‘as far as possible worthwhile buildings in the area’.91 Later, the council reconstituted the Historic Buildings Panel to a new Conservation and Historic Buildings Panel, which included representatives from a wide variety of local professional and voluntary groups such as the Royal Institute of British Architects, the Town Planning Institute, the Institute of Landscape Architects, the Georgian Group, the National Trust, the Victorian Society and several others.92 Heritage gave the city roots, substance and status. In 1970, it was claimed that a £1 million proposal to develop the area around Chetham’s should ‘restore the true heart of Manchester to something of its suspected former beauty’, and that it was a plan designed to restore the ‘city’s ancient heart’.93 The desire to preserve the best examples of historic architecture did not dilute the hunger for big, bold, modern projects. Preserving the best examples of the past was not at odds with creating the big, clean city of the future. Nor did it seriously affect most private developments. Shambles Square was built, with the two pubs having to move to fit in with the project rather than the project fitting around the pubs. From the late 1950s, the council supported a series of large, prestigious schemes. In August 1959, work began on the new Co-operative Insurance Society building. When it was completed in 1962 it was heralded as Europe’s tallest skyscraper, a building which, according to local journalist Alan Phillips, was a ‘mighty’ project that



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provided the ‘last word in gadgetry … in many respects years ahead of contemporary office design’.94 The Guardian (ever supportive of its home city) gleefully quoted F. G. West, Deputy Architect for London County Council, who claimed that the possession of the tallest building was ‘the greatest status symbol of them all’.95 According to CIS policy, the building was designed to not only improve the prestige of the company but also ‘to improve the appearance of the city’.96 It described how workers on the project look out across Manchester, ‘which becomes a panorama of beauty and significance’. Developers in Manchester unveiled a series of expensive and exciting new schemes in the early 1960s.97 Two large commercial developments reflected the new ambitions of the city. The first was the rebuilding of Piccadilly, a £4 million project that took three years to complete and which included a large hotel, two office blocks and a shopping centre. The project was described in the press as bold and imaginative, a ‘fabulous’ scheme that reflected the city’s status.98 In the following year it was proposed to build a new £1.4 million shopping centre under Piccadilly Gardens, although this failed to come to fruition. The second major scheme was the huge Arndale development. This combined office space with shops, a market, bus station and apartments. It was claimed in the Manchester Evening News that the Arndale would rival the ‘famous Bull Ring scheme in Birmingham and many modern developments carried out in Scandinavia and North America’.99 Transnational influences in the design of the new shopping centre were highlighted by the appointment of the architect Percy Gray to Town and City Properties in 1962. Gray had been involved in the design of shopping centres in Canada and the USA during 1956–62. He was involved in all the subsequent British Arndale centres as well as a number in Australia.100 For a brief period, the 1960s shopping centre acquired a value akin to that of the town hall of the nineteenth century, a symbol of civic aspiration and status. After receiving the initial application for the Arndale in March 1965, Millar stated that as this was the largest and most important scheme ever to be considered in the city it was it duty to examine it very closely. He was unconvinced by the design and claimed that there was a ‘need to ensure that the most attractive shopping facilities are provided’ and that ‘in the city Planning Officer’s view the scheme does not yet possess the required degree of architectural quality and character needed on so important a site’.101 The application was, therefore, deferred to allow further discussion

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between the council and the developers, Town and City Properties Limited, who had no doubts about the quality of the scheme. They claimed that Arndale Manchester was a ‘totally new second city office centre’ situated in the heart of a city that had become the ‘commercial centre of the north west’.102 It was confidently claimed that the 14-acre site development would ‘transform the heart of Manchester’ in what they believed was ‘one of Europe’s biggest ever redevelopment projects’.103 Selling the office space in the new complex meant selling the city. Arndale’s publicity material boasted that Manchester was the real ‘second city’, that it was the ‘capital of the north west’, that it ‘has fast become a cultural, educational and entertainment centre and the growing regional capital’, and that a move to Manchester, ‘especially from London’, was a move to a city that had reached a position of ‘pre-eminence’.104 The local press believed the Arndale would provide the ‘most modern and comprehensive facilities in Europe’ and that it would be the ‘finest shopping centre in Europe’, while John Womersley claimed that the complex would furnish Manchester with medieval-style squares with pavement cafes, bars, exhibitions, art and sculpture.105 At the public inquiry held in 1970 the architect Ken Shone proudly boasted that the 300-foot tower block included in the Arndale scheme would be a ‘significant visual element not only in the context of the scheme but in the context of the city as a whole’.106 Even when the council was forced to intervene to help avoid a funding crisis in the £26 million scheme, creating a company (Manchester Mortgage Company) to raise vital capital, the Labour leader, Alderman Sir Robert Thomas, turned the problem into a civic first by claiming that ‘this was the biggest thing of its kind ever to be undertaken by any city in the country’.107 As it announced its rescue plan, the council announced that the start of the rebuilding of Market Street would be ‘commemorated by a suitable ceremony’, a public event to mark the beginning of the grand new scheme.108 The reality proved to be very different. Despite the aims and the lofty rhetoric, the architectural design of the Arndale has been heavily criticised. Other developments such as Shambles and Piccadilly were similarly denounced. This criticism lies at the centre of the notion that civic pride perished after the Second World War, that modernity and the retreat of the middle classes meant that the concept died a rapid death. However, this is an oversimplification that chooses to ignore the historical context. The council wanted to make Manchester a great European city. Local press reports and public civic ceremonies



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expressed their aspirations. Tom Lavin, the chair of the Planning Committee, declared in 1971 that the redevelopment of the city centre would ‘make Manchester one of the most impressively modern cities in the world’. Lavin proudly claimed, as an example, that the new Bank of England ‘was the best quality building I think I’ve seen’.109 Earlier, the opening of the new regional office for the Bank of England in 1964 had been trumpeted as a symbol of civic progress. It had been turned into a grand occasion with a public ceremony performed by the Governor of the Bank of England, the Earl of Cromer, the Mayor and various other leading political and commercial figures.110 Similarly, the Guardian boasted that Manchester was to have the only branch of Rothschild’s outside London, while an announcement to implement changes to the Stock Exchange meant that, according to the Manchester Evening News, Manchester, ‘Britain’s number one industrial city’, would soon become the ‘leading provincial centre for investment’.111 Even the new home for the Manchester Building Society was opened by the Town Clerk, Sir Philip Dingle, and led to claims that its construction used the ‘most advanced techniques’ and was the ‘first of its kind in the north of England’.112 Being the first and the best was an often-repeated claim. In 1962 the Manchester Evening News ran a double-page spread down the sides of which it proclaimed in big, bold print that the city had ‘Most cars per head, Most TVs and radios, Most phones, More advertising income’ and that it was ‘second only to London for bank transaction, postal trade and individual businesses’. It was, according to the headline, ‘the most exciting city in the provinces’, and ‘booming bustling Manchester – [was] kingpin provincial city of Britain’. Reporting on details from a survey, ‘Comparative Information on some large British cities’, published by the Manchester Municipal Information Bureau for the benefit of the business community, it claimed that in a range of areas Manchester outstripped all other cities except London.113 Civic pride was in part a construct of the local media. Throughout the mid1960s the Manchester Evening News produced a weekly series of articles under the heading, ‘Manchester, Capital of the North’. This was a shameless exercise in civic boasting. It heralded every new building such as the courts, Hollings College and a succession of tower blocks as examples of the city’s greatness. One ‘Proud Northerner’ from Cheadle praised the series, believing that ‘the world should always be aware of what is going on in Manchester’.114 The newspaper gloried at times in minutiae such as when 18 Leningrad teenagers were visiting

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the city in 1965 and were reported as to have allegedly claimed that, compared to London, Manchester was a ‘much cleaner, much friendlier and much more lovely city’.115 Old and new fused. Ceremonies and, especially, royal occasions were still heralded as moments of civic pride. Film footage of the 1953 coronation celebrations in the city centre shows huge crowds watching a large procession of floats and the surrounding buildings adorned with decorations.116 Later, the expansion of the airport was trumpeted by the traditional pomp of a royal visit. The new terminal building at Manchester Airport in 1962 and the extension of the runway in 1969 were both opened in lavish civic ceremonies, the former being opened by the Duke of Edinburgh.117 National political figures also became involved in opening a number of new developments. In May 1967 the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, unveiled a plaque which opened the Mancunian Way in a large public ceremony.118 Similarly, in 1976 Prime Minister James Callaghan officially opened the new regional headquarters of the BBC in a public ceremony which included all the local dignitaries and the obligatory plaque unveiling.119 Conclusion: the continuing tradition of civic pride in contemporary Manchester From the mid-1970s through to the late 1980s, portrayals and perceptions of Manchester were dominated by decline, if not desperation, as the city and the region suffered profound economic decline and social deprivation. Chronic long-term unemployment, rising crime, an increasing association between the city and drugs, along with explosive incidents such as the Moss Side riots, reinforced the sense of terminal decay. The architectural choices of the 1960s did not deliver the bright new city of the future. Housing reports on Hulme and Beswick revealed the extent of expensive design mistakes. However, confidence was gradually restored and, with it, a new swagger. The council eventually recognised the need to accept new political and economic shifts and to work for the benefit of the city, to attract investment, even if it ideologically jarred. Civic pride was expressed through a series of high-profile regeneration schemes as well as high-profile contemporary successes in popular culture. Using the city’s successes in music and sport, civic leaders, prominent individuals and the local press expressed a belief that the city led the nation in the renaissance of its centre. A host of prestigious schemes,



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many coming on the back of the astute Olympic and (successful) Commonwealth Games bids, attracted a huge level of investment. New prestigious buildings followed, including the City of Manchester Stadium, the Velodrome, the Arena, the Bridgewater Concert Hall, the Urbis centre and the large, multi-million pound expansion of the City Gallery. The city used and promoted its cultural diversity through, for instance, China Town and the arch and festivals such as City Pride. Other public culture fests included the year-long City of Drama and the International Festival. The city’s heritage continues to be celebrated through blue plaques and road names (Turing Way). Civic boosterism continues to be channeled through marketing schemes, such as ‘Manchester – city of firsts’. The city has its own promotion agency, Marketing Manchester, whose campaigns include ‘Original Modern’, which, it claims is concerned not with shameless self-promotion but with ‘what Manchester gives to the world’. This includes ‘Manchester’s spirit, its indefatigable energy for progress and change, that “do something” attitude, that desire to be different that always has and always will exist within the City’.120 The ‘indefatigable energy’ was underlined by the reactions to the devastating IRA bomb attack on the Arndale in 1996. The council worked tirelessly to secure investment from the state and private sector. Its success led to another transformation of the retail area, with Exchange Square replacing the dilapidated Shambles Square. The council is now at the centre of a broad series of partnerships involving the state, private sector, quangos and European funding initiatives.121 The challenges of globalisation and capital structure had underpinned these changes, but governance is still given symbolic form through language, arts, festivals and use of public space. Schemes are used to raise the profile of the city, to pull in visitors and then attract further investment. The structure is different, but expressions of civic pride share the aspirations of people governing Manchester over two centuries. Social reform, policy and civic pride became linked in the nineteenth century but continued throughout the twentieth century. Civic pride and policy coalesced through the grand schemes, both influenced by and influencing policies.122 This was never a democratic process but was defined by governing elites and institutions. It was always a representation of their aspirations and power, legitimising their authority through symbolic forms. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries civic pride was a reflection of local industrial and commercial power. In the post-war

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period there was a gradual and permanent shift in the local economic base to the service sector, retail, finance and leisure. Despite decades of Labour council control, and the idealistic pretensions of modernism, it remained undemocratic and was never a universal cultural representation of all members of society. Historically, there was an obvious absence of cultural expressions from other social groups. It became a reflection of the power of the technocrats, the planners, designers and architects who had been given so much trust. Civic pride reflects a level of cultural hegemony, whether it is by the dominant middle classes or post-war partnerships driven by technocrats and private capital. Civic pride, civic humanism and governance were inextricably linked. In this sense, civic pride represented the triumph of secular, economic, political and social power. However, while it is undeniably significant because it transforms governance into symbolic forms of power, it has broader importance. It might be undemocratic but it is bound up with notions of community, a sense of attachment and in creating feelings of identity and, consequently, in building stable and cohesive communities. Yet these concepts need rigorous investigation. In supporting social cohesion, civic pride became a means of legitimising local governance and creating a false sense of attachment and sentiment. It became a means of maintaining not simply cohesion (which suggests mutuality) but control. Alternatively, the importance of civic pride may be seen differently. Cities like Manchester can be seen as growth machines, as the place where notions of growth are universally accepted by local elites, business interests and governing institutions. It is an area where continual expansion, investment and increasing profits are seen as positives in terms of generating wealth, opportunities, profits, jobs and public revenue, thereby funding social improvements.123 Civic pride is good for growth, helping to build a sense of locality and encouraging a connection between communities (belonging) and further growth through boosterism, image and social stability. However, other questions about identity and belonging, or not belonging, need to be addressed. What happens when there is no sense of attachment, when civic pride is largely irrelevant and vacuous? A community archaeology project in Whitworth Park in September 2011 provided an interesting example of how a symbol of early twentieth-century civic pride, which had become symptomatic of the wider decline since the war with its association with crime, could be restored using money from the Lottery, local community



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trusts, Manchester University and local civic groups to engage with the local community through schools and open public access and to restore a sense of pride and community belonging.124 Studying civic pride reveals much about power and authority, but it might also highlight broader community issues concerning the disaffected and excluded. Equally, restoring civic pride might be used positively to foster community attachment and identity. Civic pride has not only symbolised governance but also points at who lacked power and influence. As such, it continues to be a vital means of understanding historic processes shaping urban Britain. Notes 1 R. J. Morris, ‘Structure, culture and society in British towns’, in M. J. Daunton, ed., Cambridge Urban History of Britain, Vol. 3 (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 416–25; R. Trainor, ‘The decline of British urban governance since 1850’, in R. J. Morris and R. Trainor, eds, Urban Governance and Beyond Since 1750 (London, 2000), p. 31. 2 See P. Oswalt, ed., Shrinking Cities Vol. I International Research (OstfilderRuit, Germany, 2006). 3 N. Iverson, ed., Urbanism and Urbanisation: Views, Aspects and Dimensions (Leiden, 1984). 4 Booster writers became prominent in the nineteenth century, extolling the virtues of a city and laying claim to grand titles like ‘workshop of the world’ or ‘second city of the Empire’, of which there were several. See A. Briggs, Victorian Cities (London, 1963), p. 48. Place location, which was a type of boosterism, refers to a more overt form of marketing. See also P. Shapely, ‘Civic Pride and Redevelopment in the Postwar British City’, Urban History, 39:2 (2012), 310–16; P. J. Larkham and K. D. Lilley, ‘Plans, Planners and City Images: Place Location and Civic Boosterism in British Reconstruction Planning’, Urban History, 30 (2003), 185–205; G. Kearns and C. Philo, eds, Selling Places: The City as Cultural Capital, Past and Present (Oxford, 1993); J. R. Gold and S.V. Ward, eds, Place Promotion: The Use of Publicity and Marketing to Sell Towns and Regions (Chichester, 1994). 5 For the transformation of civic pride from rural societies in the early modern period see C. Phythian-Adams, ‘Milk and soot: the changing vocabulary of a popular ritual in Stuart and Hanoverian London’, pp. 83–104 and P. Clark, ‘Visions of the urban community: Antiquarians and the English city before 1800’, pp. 105–24, both in D. Fraser and A. Sutcliffe, eds, Pursuit of Urban History (London, 1983). See also J. Stobart, ‘Building an Urban Identity: Cultural Space and Civic

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Boosterism in a “New” Industrial Town, Burslem 1761–1911’, Social History, 29:4 (2004), 485–98. 6 Clark, ‘Visions of the urban community’, pp. 105–24. 7 See, for instance, S. Frere, ‘Civic pride: a factor in Roman town planning’, in F. O. Grew and B. Hobley, eds, Roman Urban Topography in Britain and the Western Empire, CBA Research Reports 59: 34–6 (London, 1985). 8 See Stobart, ‘Building an urban identity’, 485–98. 9 S. Gunn, The Public Culture of the Victorian Middle-class (Manchester, 2007), p. 47. See also E. P. Hennock, Fit and Proper Persons: Ideal and Reality in Nineteenth-Century Urban Government (London, 1973); R. Rodger, ‘The common good and civic promotion: Edinburgh, 1860–1914’, in R. Colls and R. Rodger, eds, Cities of Ideas: Civil Society and Urban Governance in Britain, 1800–2000 (Aldershot, 2004), pp. 144–77; T. Hunt, Building Jerusalem: The Rise and Fall of the Victorian City (London, 2004). 10 Gunn, The Public Culture of the Victorian Middle-class, pp. 10, 28–9; Briggs, Victorian Cities, p. 48. 11 Hunt, Building Jerusalem. 12 Briggs, Victorian Cities, p. 230; Morris, ‘Structure, culture and society in British towns’, p. 413. 13 Morris, ‘Structure, culture and society in British towns’, p. 412. 14 Briggs, Victorian Cities, p. 178. 15 Guardian, 31 May 2004; Guardian, 2 June 2004. See Hunt, Building Jerusalem. 16 Briggs, Victorian Cities, pp. 163, 174. 17 Gunn, The Public Culture of the Victorian Middle-class, pp. 163–82; Rodger, ‘The common good and civic promotion’, pp. 144–77. 18 Briggs, Victorian Cities, p. 48. 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid., p. 378. 21 Gunn, The Public Culture of the Victorian Middle-class, p. 196; Peter Mandler, ‘New towns for old: the fate of the town centre’, in B. Conekin, F. Mort and C. Waters, eds, Moments of Modernity: Reconstructing Britain, 1945–1964 (London, 1999), p. 216. 22 Morris, ‘Structure, culture and society in British towns’, pp. 416–25. 23 M. Bateman, ‘Leeds: a study in regional supremacy’, in G. Gordon, ed., Regional Cities in the UK, 1890–1980 (London, 1986); B. Doyle, ‘The Structure of Elite Power in the Early Twentieth Century City: Norwich 1900–1935’, Urban History, 24:2 (1997), 179–99; J. Walton, Blackpool (Edinburgh, 1998). Cited in R. H. Trainor, ‘The decline of British urban governance since 1850’, in R. J. Morris and R. H. Trainor, eds, Urban Governance: Britain and Beyond since 1750 (London, 2000), pp. 31, 38. 24 D. Reeder and R. Rodger, ‘Industrialisation and the city economy’, in Cambridge Urban History, p. 585; B. Doyle, ‘The changing f­unctions of



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urban government: councillors, officials and pressure groups’, Cambridge Urban History (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 287–313. 25 Fraser and Sutcliffe, The Pursuit of Urban History, p. xviii. 26 P. Shapely, ‘The Entrepreneurial City: The Role of Local Government in Northern Industrial Cities and City Centre Redevelopment’, Twentieth Century British History, 22:4 (2011); P. Shapely, ‘Government and Governance in the Post-war City: Historical Reflections on Publicprivate Regimes’, International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 37:4 (2013). 27 Manchester has also attracted considerable academic interest over the years. See, for instance, A. J. Kidd, Manchester (Edinburgh, 2002); R. Kargon, Science in Victorian Manchester: Enterprise and Expertise (Baltimore, MD, 2010); P. Shapely, Charity and Power in Victorian Manchester (Manchester, 2000). 28 There is a long history of pro- and anti-urban literature, on the idea of the city as a centre of moral decay and cultural distinction. See, for example, A. Lees, ‘Perceptions of cities in Britain and Germany 1820–1914’, in D. Fraser and A. Sutcliffe, eds, The Pursuit of Urban History (London, 1983), pp. 151–65. 29 A. de Tocqueville, Journeys to England and Ireland, 1835 (New York, 1979). 30 B. Disraeli, Coningsby or the New Generation (London, 2005). 31 F. Engels, The Condition of the Working-Class in England in 1844 (London, 1892), pp. 45, 48–53. 32 V. A. C. Gatrell, ‘Incorporation and the pursuit of Liberal hegemony in Manchester, 1790–1839’, in D. Fraser, ed., Municipal Reform in the Victorian City (Leicester, 1981). 33 S. Gunn, ‘Ritual and civic culture in the English industrial city, 1835–1914’, in R. J. Morris and R. H. Trainor, eds, Urban Governance: Britain and Beyond since 1750 (London, 2000), pp. 228–9. 34 J. Beckett, City Status in the British Isles, 1830–2002 (Aldershot, 2000), p. 21. 35 Ibid., p. 72. 36 Ibid., p. 5. 37 Manchester City Art Gallery, Art Treasures in Manchester: 150 Years on (Manchester, 2007). 38 Royal Jubilee Exhibition, Manchester 1887, official catalogue. See Bill Newton, Manchester Royal Jubilee Exhibition Old Trafford, 1887 (Trafford, 1998). 39 Shapely, Charity and Power in Victorian Manchester. 40 For a contemporary account see Sir Bosdin Leech, History of the Manchester Ship Canal from Its Inception to Its Completion, Volumes one and two (Manchester, 1907).

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41 D. A. Farnie, The Manchester Ship Canal and the Rise of the Port of Manchester (Manchester, 1980); E. Gray, A Hundred Years of the Manchester Ship Canal (Bolton, 1993); E. Gray, Manchester Ship Canal (Stroud, 1997); I. Harford, Manchester and its Ship Canal Movement (Keele, 1994); David Owen, The Manchester Ship Canal (Manchester, 1983); C. J. Wood, The Manchester Ship Canal: The Big Ditch (Stroud, 2005). The estimated equivalent cost in 2010 would be £1.65 billion. It remains the eighth-largest in the world. 42 Leech, History of the Manchester Ship Canal, p. 211. 43 Cutting from the Manchester Guardian, Manchester Central Reference Library, date unknown. 44 Cutting from the Manchester Guardian, Manchester Central Reference Library, date unknown. 45 K. Brady, ‘The Development of the Wythenshawe Estate, Manchester: Concept to Incorporation, 1919–1931’, unpublished MSc dissertation, Salford University, 1990. 46 Manchester Guardian, 23 April 1929. 47 Cited in V. Caruana and C. Simmons, ‘Municipal Enterprise in Pursuit of Profit: Manchester Airport 1945–78’, Manchester Region History Review, 10 (1996), 62. 48 Minutes of the Publicity Committee, 1941–1946; A City Speaks, ­promotional film, North West Film Archives. 49 Larkham and Lilley, ‘Plans, Planners and City Images’. 50 See K. Young and N. Rao, Local Government since 1945 (Oxford, 1997). 51 See G. Cherry, Town Planning in Britain since 1900 (Oxford, 1996). 52 C. Buchanan, G. Cooper, A. MacEwen, D. Crompton, G. Mitchell, D. Dallimore, P. Hills and D. Burton, Traffic in Towns (London, 1963), cited in J. Pendlebury, ‘Alas Smith and Burns? Conservation in Newcastle upon Tyne city centre 1959–1968’, Planning Perspectives, 16 (2001), p. 116. 53 S. Ward, ‘Public-private partnerships’, in B. J. Cullingworth ed., British Planning: 50 Years of Urban and Regional Planning (London, 1999); J. Gold, The Practice of Modernism (London, 2007); P. Shapely, ‘Government and Governance in the Post-war City: Historical Reflections on Public–Private Regimes’, International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 37:4 (2013), 1288–304. 54 See A. J. Kidd, Manchester (Keele, 1993), p. 189. See also http:// shrinkingcities.com/fileadmin/shrink/downloads/pdfs/WP-II_Manches ter_Liverpool.pdf (last accessed 11 November 2013). 55 Daily Telegraph, 18 March 1963. 56 Manchester Evening News, 18 October 1966. 57 Manchester Evening News, 16 January 1967. 58 Guardian, 30 September 1967. 59 Daily Telegraph, 29 May 1968.



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60 ‘Manchester: Suburbia Show the Way’, Shop Property, October 1971, p. 25. 61 Ibid., p. 27. 62 Manchester City News, 14 August 1942. 63 O. Lodge, ‘Preface’, in R. Nicholas, City of Manchester Plan, October 1945, p. iii. For the redevelopment plans see http://personalpages.manchester. ac.uk/staff/m.dodge/mappingmanchester//plans (last accessed 11 November 2013). 64 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 12 November 1968. 65 Telegraph, 5 January 1968. See also O. Hatherley, Militant Modernism (Winchester, 2009). 66 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 12 November 1968. 67 Manchester Comet, 1 September 1965. 68 Ibid. 69 J. S. Millar, ‘Report of the City Planning Department, 1965–67’, Manchester Local Studies Unit, p. 27. 70 Daily Telegraph, 5 January 1968. 71 Ibid. 72 Daily Mail, 23 September 1964. 73 Guardian, 15 July 1964. 74 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 13 August 1968; H. Wilson, ‘Education Precinct: Interim Report’, 12 November 1964, Manchester Local Studies Unit. 75 See P. Shapely, The Politics of Housing (Manchester, 2007), pp. 85–108. 76 Ibid., pp. 161–8. 77 Evening Chronicle, 17 August 1960. 78 Ibid. 79 Ibid. 80 Plans and marketing materials were displayed at the Infra_MANC ­exhibition, held at the Cube, 24 February–17 March 2012. 81 Millar, ‘Report of the City Planning Department’, p. 5. 82 Town Planning Committee, 16 February 1965. 83 Town Planning Committee, 13 April 1965. 84 Town Planning Committee, 14 March 1967. 85 Town Planning Committee, 10 January 1967. 86 Ibid. 87 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 10 December 1968. 88 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 11 June 1969. 89 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 11 March 1969. 90 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 10 February 1970. 91 Ibid. 92 Town Planning and Buildings Committee, 10 December 1968. 93 Times, 27 February 1970.

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94 Manchester Evening News, 2 October 1962. 95 Guardian, 18 October 1963. 96 Guardian, 23 October 1962. 97 Manchester Evening News, 2 October 1962. 98 Guardian, 14 March 1959; Manchester Evening News, 2 October 1962. 99 Manchester Evening News, 3 November 1969. 100 Town and City Properties Limited: Arndale Covered Centres, pamphlet, 1973, p. 5. See also A. Sedlmaier, ‘From Department Store to Shopping Mall: New Research in the Transnational History of Large-scale Retail’, Economic History Yearbook (2005); M. J. Hardwick, Mall Maker: Victor Gruen, Architect of an American Dream (Philadelphia, 2003); A. Wall, Victor Gruen: From Urban Shop to New City (Barcelona, 2006). 101 Town Planning Committee, 16 March 1965. 102 Arndale Manchester, P&O publicity pamphlet, Manchester Local Studies Unit. 103 Manchester Evening News, 3 November 1969. 104 ‘Arndale Manchester: The Second City Office Centre’, pamphlet, Town and Country Properties, Manchester Local Studies Unit. 105 East Manchester Reporter, 7 August 1970; Gorton Reporter, 7 July 1970; Manchester Evening News, 19 June 1968. 106 Daily Telegraph, 28 November 1970. 107 Guardian, 23 February 1972. 108 Report of the Policy Committee: Market Street Development, City of Manchester circular, 22 February 1972, p. 7. 109 Manchester Evening News, 12 January 1971. 110 Guardian, 15 January 1964. 111 Guardian, 24 December 1963; Manchester Evening News, 10 October 1964. 112 Manchester Evening News, 26 April 1965. 113 Manchester Evening News, 1962, cuttings, Manchester Central Reference Library, full date unknown. 114 Letter in Manchester Evening News, 4 January 1965. 115 Manchester Evening News, 1 October 1965. 116 North West Film Archive, film No. 3458, A. E. Taylor, 1953. 117 ‘Opening Ceremony, Manchester Airport, New Terminal Building’, 22 October 1962’; ‘City of Manchester, Opening of the Main Runway Extension, Seating Arrangements for the Luncheon held in the Town Hall’, pamphlet, 17 January 1969. 118 Guardian, 5 May 1967. 119 The foundations were also laid with an accompanying civic ceremony. BBC News, Northwest Tonight, 24 November 2011. 120 www.marketingmanchester.com/#original-modern (last accessed 8 August 2011).



The continuing tradition of civic pride179

121 S. Quilley; ‘Entrepreneurial Manchester: The Genesis of Elite Consensus’, Antipode, 31:2 (1991), 185–211; K. Ward, ‘Entrepreneurial Urbanism, State Restructuring and Civilizing “New” East Manchester’, Area, 35:2 (2003), 116–27. 122 M. Girouard, The English Town (New Haven, 1990), ch. 11, cited in Ward, Britishness since 1870 (London, 2004), p. 60. A number of American studies looking at cities such as New York, Dallas and Chicago have highlighted how various local influences, including professionals, local government, universities and the private sector, both influenced and were affected by local civic pride, a discourse that emerged from within the cities. It impacted on a range of policies in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. See R. Hanson, Civic Culture and Urban Change: Governing Dallas (Detroit, 2003); R. B. Fairbanks, P. Mooney-Melvin and Z. L. Miller, Making Sense of the City: Local Government, Civic Culture, and Community Life in Urban America (Ohio, 2001); K. D. Revell, Building Gotham: Civic Culture and Public Policy in New York City, 1898–1938 (Baltimore, MD, 2005). 123 J. R. Logan and H. L. Moltoch, from ‘Urban Fortunes: The Political Economy of Place’, in G. Bridge and S. Watson, eds, The Blackwell City Reader (Malden, MA, 2002), pp. 464–7. 124 The Whitworth Park Community Archaeology Project, Manchester 2011.

From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’

8

From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’: changing patterns of advice in teenage magazines: Mirabelle, 1956–77 Melanie Tebbutt

Comics and teenage magazines were an important part of girls’ culture between the 1950s and late 1970s. They ranged from popular pre-teen comics like Bunty and Judy (first published in 1960), Tammy (1971) and Jinty (1974) to romance papers like Mirabelle (1956), Romeo (1957) and Valentine (1957). Jackie (1964), the most popular teenage magazine of the 1960s and 1970s, has dominated the analytical landscape of such publications in the wake of Angela McRobbie’s pioneering analysis of the late 1970s, which emphasised the magazine’s ‘ideological power’ in reproducing a deeply constricting version of femininity, ‘a cloyingly claustrophobic environment where the dominant emotions are fear, insecurity, competitiveness and even panic’.1 McRobbie subsequently acknowledged the agency of girls in negotiating and contesting the meanings of what they read, but viewed Jackie’s problem pages as spaces where ‘conformity’ to the behaviours expected of women reinforced the ideological thrust of the magazine as a whole.2 This chapter examines the advice pages of another teenage magazine, Mirabelle, popular during the same period, as a contrast which both supports and contests some of what McRobbie identified in Jackie. Mirabelle’s circulation was not as wide as Jackie’s, but the magazine remained one of the most widely read during the sixties and until its demise in the mid-seventies. Launched in 1956, the magazine was rooted in the early history of the genre. These origins are useful, as much research into the role of teenage magazines in girls’ culture focuses on the 1970s and 1980s or more recent



From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’181

decades, to the neglect of their earlier evolution.3 The intention here is to explore how the content and character of Mirabelle’s advice pages were nuanced between the mid-1950s and 1977, when it ceased publication, setting these changes against a broader context of trends in the personal advice pages of British newspapers and magazines over the same period. Personal advice columns and teenage magazines Personal advice columns, known in various forms in Britain since the late 1600s, had become a significant feature of many women’s magazines by the early twentieth century and in the inter-war years, particularly the 1930s, moved into the mainstream press, where their well-established popularity among female readers was exploited to boost sales in a fiercely competitive commercial market among masscirculation newspapers such as the Daily Mirror and the Daily Mail. Like the ‘human interest’ stories, which were also a feature of such publishing in the same period, they reflected an informalising cultural climate in which the public discourse of feelings and emotional life was becoming more relaxed.4 The heyday of problem pages in the popular press was, however, after the Second World War, when they attracted a broad range of readers, including many more men and teenagers. Mark Abrams observed that The News of the World, The Sunday Pictorial, Weekend, Titbits and Picturegoer were very popular among teenage readers, although he does not specify at what age they read them.5 At least 40 per cent of all teenagers, particularly working-class ones, were said to read at least one ‘love comic’, Valentine, Mirabelle or Roxy, a week and two-thirds of them at least ‘one of the Reveille and Woman’s Mirror type. Girls often gravitated towards women’s magazines from their midteens and about half of these teenage readers read at least one woman’s magazine (Woman’s Own, Woman’s Realm) a week.’6 Teenage magazines are part of the broader history of women’s magazines but were fairly recent arrivals in Britain. They had emerged first in the United States, where teenagers achieved earlier recognition as a distinctive social group, with the growth of a consumer-focused high school culture in the 1930s and 1940s. More than 80 per cent of US 14- to 17-year-olds attended high school in 1940, and constituted a ‘niche market’ of consumers, very attractive to advertisers, whose distinctive consumption patterns included magazine purchase.7 For example, 1944 saw the launch of the pioneering teenage publication,

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Seventeen, targeted at 13- to 18-year-old young women,8 mostly from white middle- and upper middle-class backgrounds.9 The market for distinctive teenage publications in Britain was a post-war phenomenon which developed with rising living standards and the growth of consumption. ‘Old type romance periodicals’, such as True Romance, Love Stories, Red Letter, True Stories, True Confessions and Heartbeat, remained popular in the early 1950s, but new publications emerged as the austerity which had marked the immediate postwar years relaxed, economic conditions improved and a distinctive teenage consumer market grew.10 The newer type of teenage ‘romance’ magazines launched from the mid-1950s included ‘down-market’ titles such as Marilyn (1955–65) and Mirabelle (1956–77), both published by C. Arthur Pearson Ltd., Romeo (1957–74), published by D. C. Thomson, Valentine (1957–74) and Roxy (1958–73), both published by Fleetway, and Boyfriend (1959–66).11 Their readership, largely in the early to mid-teens, was not substantially different from the age groups which had read Girl and Girls’ Crystal, but there was a much stronger ‘sense of themselves as young women’.12 ‘Romance’, markedly absent from earlier comics, was a significant component of these new magazines, which presented girls as more dependent on male attention than the ‘independent achieving’ girls of comics and magazines published in the mid-1950s.13 The format of these new magazines varied. Some, such as Romeo, looked like cheaply produced comics. Others, like Mirabelle, with its early colour front covers similar in style to the pre-war ones of Woman magazine, had a more polished appearance.14 Fantasy romance magazines, with ‘picture strips’ and ‘real life’ photographs, which combined fantasy with the hint of ‘real’ experience’, were particularly popular in the early1960s, when they were read by older young women in their twenties, as well as those in their teens. Marty, based on the popular British pop star Marty Wilde, was launched in 1960 as the ‘first ever photo romance weekly’.15 Several teenage magazines had advice pages, like the women’s magazines of which they were a junior branch. A survey of Trend, Valentine and Jackie in the mid-1960s suggested that ‘problem letters’ comprised 3 per cent of content in Trend, ‘the most sophisticated of the magazines’, which catered to ‘a slightly older age group’, 4 per cent in Valentine and 5 per cent in Jackie. Michael Frayn offered a typically cynical view, however, when he observed how Marty’s biggest scoop



From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’183

was ‘getting ten letters from readers before there was even a magazine for them to be readers of’. Mirabelle published a letter from an unmarried mother, intended as a warning to other girls, ‘but nowhere else do these strange magazines breathe a word about any of the problems their readers must really want help with’: They hang suspended in a sexless limbo where ‘hotly passionate kisses’ (I quote) are just rungs on the ladder to marriage and where marriage means simply status and release from loneliness.16

Mirabelle was originally intended as a ‘romance comic’ for young women over 18, and early writers to the advice column were often in their late teens or twenties.17 Some were newly married, struggling with the pressures and expectations of being a wife, although the presence of letters from girls aged 14 and 15 suggests a younger readership, which grew as the magazine established itself and became particularly popular among younger girls aged between 13 and 16.18 Romance magazines were, from the mid-1950s, on the cusp of a changing youth market, as can be followed in the shifting format of Mirabelle, which, despite a declining circulation from the mid1960s, managed to remain one of the most popular teen magazines. Mirabelle’s early problem page took a while to adapt to an emerging audience of young readers and its character during the first few months, under the authorship of ‘Vivien Ashley’, was strongly shaped by the traditional assumptions of the pre-war era.19 Ashley specialised in ‘love problems’ and introduced herself by explaining how her business of ‘making wedding bells ring’ was run from an office in Manchester, where her Marriage Bureau on Corporation Street had been operating since 1953.20 The photo of the sensible-looking professional woman which accompanied the column perpetuated a long-established image of the magazine adviser as a wise and experienced mature older woman.21 Ashley’s views on women’s role in personal relationships were conservative and writers who sought advice about their boyfriends were usually urged to be more sensitive and nurturing: My boyfriend and I are both 17. We are always having rows and he says it’s my fault. Should I break with him? I expect that the trouble is that you are both rather headstrong and want your own way. Growing up means learning to give and take and to be more reasonable about the other person’s wishes. Try to be a little more understanding with your boy friend.22

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The notion that romance should, ultimately, be transformed into a young woman’s expected goal of marriage, was reflected in the advice page’s early title of ‘Marriage Bureau’. This changed towards the end of 1956, however, into ‘Vivien Ashley’s Love Problems Page’ and moved further from the stuffiness of the earlier title to ‘Strictly in Confidence’, in spring 1957, when the column was taken over by ‘Anne B’, a youth worker who ran a youth club in the Midlands. Anne B, like Ashley, provided an adult voice, yet she was also more visibly in tune with a younger audience, spending ‘most evenings with her teenage friends’, each week sharing with readers some of the problems they ‘posed’ her.23 Anne B held sway over the column for three years, until spring 1960, when the emerging culture of popular music introduced a celebrity variation on the romantic fantasy with another new letters page entitled ‘Ask Adam’. Intended to provide a novel ‘boy’s eye-view of a girl’s world’, this was ostensibly ‘written’ by the pop star Adam Faith, whose single, ‘What do you want’, had risen to the top of the singles’ chart in 1959, to be followed by a run of other hits in the early 1960s. Faith’s presence as resident heart-throb was complemented by that of another stalwart of British rock ’n’ roll, Tommy Steele, who had a column in the magazine and often appeared in features, including when he married Ann Donoghue, in 1960.24 Both exemplified the ‘clean-cut’ rock ’n’ roll image associated with the ‘innocent-boy’ expectations of British popular musicians of the early-1960s. Faith, hip enough to appeal to the magazine’s young readers, was also safe and reassuring, as exemplified by a picture of him posing in a comfortable jumper.25 A strong moral tone still pervaded advice about the boyfriend and love problems discussed in the early 1960s, although the language used had become rather more forceful, echoing the dating ­conventions of American popular culture rather than the discretion of Mirabelle’s earlier pages, when writers were typically advised: ‘Don’t try too hard to find that boyfriend – or he’ll fight shy.’26 Should a girl kiss a boy on the first date? I always think if you feel like kissing somebody – kiss them.27 How can I go about teaching my boy to kiss properly? I’m his first girlfriend and he hasn’t a clue. Tell him you’ll kiss him for a change. Then put your heart into it.28



From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’185 Two boys we like very much say horrible things to us when they are together. Yet alone they are as nice as can be. What can we do? Tell them to drop the Jekyll and Hyde stuff or you’ll drop them.29 Can you give me a hint on how to tame a terrible flirt into a reliable fiancé? When he’s ready to settle, honey, he’ll tame himself. Until then, there isn’t a thing you can do. Well, maybe one thing. Threaten to leave him if his roving eye doesn’t stop roving. You sound ready for a showdown, anyway.30

Sex, albeit veiled in euphemism, was referred to more directly, with references to ‘making love’ and sleeping together, although advice still highlighted the pitfalls of agreeing to it: My boyfriend just seems to look at me as a sex machine. You can be shocked if you like, but it’s the truth and I’m desperate. I agreed because I was frightened of losing him, but now he expects me to give in all the time. How can I make him realize that’s not all a girl is for?31

The ‘Ask Adam’ column lasted until March 1966, by which time Faith was probably already losing his appeal as a heart-throb to a new generation of teenagers whose magazines were becoming even more dominated by pop music; more than 50 per cent of material now was pictures and features about pop stars, and correspondents frequently requested information about members of their favourite groups.32 Tinkler’s survey of young women’s magazines in the 1960s suggests a ‘noticeable shift around 1963 towards a more youthful and dynamic image’.33 Romance magazines, what Tinkler calls ‘love comics’, were already past their peak by the mid-1960s. By the end of the 1960s, their ‘well-tried’ formula was becoming less popular among a new generation of readers, which led to several amalgamations.34 Valentine, for example, combined with Marilyn, and Boyfriend was absorbed into a new title Trend and Boyfriend (in much smaller lettering).35 This decline exemplified a characteristic of publications aimed at teenagers – their vulnerability to ephemeral popular trends, which led to frequent closures and amalgamations over following decades.36 A new market of ‘interim’ ‘teen-magazines’ for girls emerged, targeted at those had left childhood comics behind them, but who were not ready for adult women’s magazines. They tended to take up such magazines from the age of 11 and reached Woman and Woman’s Own towards their mid- to late teens, often reading their mothers’ magazines – a reminder of how girls more generally did not necessarily

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confine themselves to just one magazine.37 This new type of teenage publication had a more general format than the narrow romance emphases of the earlier generation of teen magazines.38 Some ‘teenmagazines’ launched in the sixties were geared towards older readers aged between their mid-teens and mid-twenties, although they were also read by younger ones. Honey’s readership included students in further and higher education, and young workers with O levels or A levels. Its sister magazine, Petticoat, was aimed at a slightly different market of 15- to 19-year-olds, most of whom had left school and were in work.39 Jackie, the best-known magazine for teenagers, was also a creation of these trends and quickly became one of the most popular. Launched in 1964, with a largely working-class readership aged 10 to 14, it dominated the market for almost 20 years, ceasing publication in 1993. By 1968, sales had risen to 451,000 and it retained many characteristics of the high point of teenage culture in the sixties well into the following decade.40 Mirabelle was also hit by a declining readership, its early weekly sales of 540,000 falling by the mid-1960s and dropping to 175,000 by 1968.41 Like other teen titles struggling to survive in a competitive market, it started to develop a different tone, exemplified by the problem page which replaced ‘Ask Adam’, called ‘Letters to Lesley’. ‘Lesley’, ‘the girl with the personal touch’, conveyed a much greater sense of generational intimacy with her readers, who were urged, if they were ‘worried about anything’, to write in ‘and talk things over’ with her. The column referred to the ‘many hundreds of letters’ that Mirabelle received each year, with those that were published described as ‘the typical problems of young people’.42 The problem pages in magazines aimed at teenagers were no different from those of other popular newspapers and magazines, in that the published letters were the tip of a much larger volume of correspondence.43 Advisers were also similar to those on adult publications, in that they had no specific training for the job.44 Unlike the ‘authority and professionalism’ which advisers on women’s magazines maintained through the use of full names (Marje Proops, Evelyn Home or Anna Raeburn), ‘Lesley’ on Mirabelle and ‘Cathy and Claire’ on Jackie, who became the best-known advisers on teenage magazines, were more like ‘sympathetic elder sisters’ than ‘professional counsellors’, ‘young and trendy enough to understand the girls’ problems but also experienced and wise enough to know how to deal with them’.45 The reality behind these names was somewhat different. They ‘may have



From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’187

sounded like understanding sisters’, but, as the journalist and broadcaster Bel Mooney observed of Jackie, their replies were ‘concocted by a changing posse of staff writers’, some of whom were married and ‘quite sensible Scottish ladies’. ‘There were maybe six or seven Cathies or Claires’ who replied to readers who supplied the requisite stamped addressed envelope.46 Mooney’s comments underline the importance of distinguishing between the approach and content of different magazines.47 Connie Alderson, in 1967, described letters published in Trend as ‘more serious’ than those in Jackie, providing ‘a glimpse of real problems’. These letters were answered by ‘Secretary Sally’ and an advisory panel made up of a psychologist, the ‘beauty editress’ and a pop star, suggestive of the balance of entertainment and information which marked advice in teenage magazines.48 The tone of replies on teenage advice pages was often light hearted, although some magazines actively solicited amusing letters from readers, as in Jackie, where the best ‘humorous’ ones received a cash prize. This was perhaps a way of dealing with the hoax letters, which were a thorn in the side of advice columnists, although they were usually ‘quite easy to spot’. ‘You’ll get a bunch of schoolkids or students getting together and sending in a joint effort, or sometimes people send a letter in under someone else’s name.’49 The changing cultural climate The explicitness of the subject matter discussed in advice columns across magazines and newspapers started to change from the late 1960s, when legislative revisions in relation to abortion and homosexuality allowed advisers to respond more openly to problems which once could never have been published. Discussion of hitherto sensitive issues was in many respects pioneered on the problem pages of women’s magazines and popular national newspapers, where columnists started to write more directly about personal matters, such as contraception, abortion and sexually transmitted diseases. Some acquired more specialist expertise than in the past, with training in counselling, psychiatry or medicine.50 A new generation of advisers emerged in the 1970s, more overtly influenced by the professional counselling movement.51 The British Association for Counsellors, for example, was established in 1976, and by 1977 had 1,000 individual members.52

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Magazines aimed at teenagers tended to be slower to adapt to this changing social and cultural climate than were publications aimed at older audiences, although commentators tended not to distinguish between the styles and approaches of different magazines. The features and letters pages of Honey and Petticoat, for example, often discussed sexual matters in the sixties, although girls were commonly advised to avoid pre-marital sex.53 More generally, story-lines adjusted to accommodate ‘the odd case of drug-taking or skinhead violence’, but ‘underlying attitudes’ showed ‘little sign of change’. Girls were depicted as ‘obsessed’ with finding a boyfriend, ‘the happy endings are as unreal as ever’ and they had ‘no ambitions beyond finding a mate’.54 While the adult women’s magazines have been making a determined effort to grapple with the harsher realities of life, these teenage versions display a remarkable case of arrested development in their attitude to their readers.55

This was very clear in Jackie, whose problem pages in the 1960s and 1970s were not spaces for the discussion of ‘taboo’ topics. Jackie was published by D. C. Thomson, a Scottish publishing company based in Dundee, which was known for conservatism and the strong moral tone of its publications. Romance dominated and references to sexuality and sexual behaviour were unusual, more likely to appear in the ‘Dear Doctor’ column, where they were ‘treated in purely clinical terms’. Girls were ‘reassured about irregular periods, pubic hair, weight and so on’, but there was ‘no mention of masturbation, contraception or abortion’.56 Advisers on Mirabelle were, by contrast, discussing contraception and sexually transmitted diseases by the mid-1970s, a reminder of how the approach and content of columns in teenage magazines could vary. The content of ‘Lesley’s’ published postbag remained largely preoccupied with boyfriends and love, although the page’s format had become more serious by the early 1970s; ‘interesting’ problems were still featured in a picture strip, but published letters and replies were longer. They were also accompanied by publicity photos of Lesley which bore an uncanny resemblance to those publicising Marje Proops in her advice column during the same period; Lesley was often depicted wearing thick-rimmed glasses, thoughtfully clenching her pen and wearing a similar hair style.57 The homage may not have been lost, even on younger readers. Proops, who had become



From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’189

agony aunt on the Daily Mirror in 1954, was an influential pundit in the 1960s, ‘doyenne’ of post-war advisers, who pioneered the more open discussion of personal and sexual issues, one of several columnists from a range of newspapers and magazines who argued strongly in favour of abortion reform.58 The tone of advice in ‘Letters to Lesley’ continued to valorise the male role in relationships and urge oblique strategies on girls who wanted to get their own way, but by the late 1960s and early 1970s the assertiveness urged in the early sixties had become more marked. Readers were more frequently encouraged not to accept unfair treatment by their boyfriends and to look after their own interests. My boyfriend says he loves me, but I sometimes find this hard to believe. We only ever do the kind of things that he enjoys, go to the places he likes, or the parties his friends give. If I complain he says that if I don’t like going out with him then we’d better break up. I couldn’t bear this, as I think the world of him, and in every other way he’s a wonderful boyfriend. He just seems to think that my wishes don’t count for anything.

The reply elicited was direct and challenging: It’s not surprising that he’s a wonderful boyfriend if he’s always allowed to have his own way… Call his bluff, and if he loves you as he says he does, he’ll quickly back down. At the moment he’s getting away with too much.59

A different, less conciliatory focus emerged, one less concerned with trying to discuss the problem, or leaving if unhappy about an aspect of a relationship, and more to do with how to make a boy jealous or retaliate: I can’t stop my boyfriend making rotten remarks about my figure in front of other people. I’m very flat-chested and I’m very conscious of it, but he still keeps joking and commenting although he knows it upsets me … I’ve told my boyfriend how terrible it makes me feel, but he seems to enjoy getting a cheap laugh at my expense. J.G. (Coventry) I wonder how he’d feel if you turned the tables and picked on some weaknesses of his, which he feels insecure about, and made it into a public joke. Maybe you should try. This boy is either too thick to understand that his remarks just aren’t funny, or too unkind to care, and either way it doesn’t say much for him. I suggest you stop asking him to show more consideration and tell him that he’d better pack it up at once or you’ll find yourself a boyfriend who’s a good deal more sensitive.60

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For older young women, a new style of magazine shaped by feminist emphases on female independence and autonomy and women’s right to sexual pleasure emerged in the 1970s.61 Magazines like Nova and Cosmopolitan (launched in the UK in 1972) were known for their ‘frank’ discussion of sexual matters.62 Secularising social movements like feminism and egalitarianism were accompanied by higher levels of divorce and cohabitation, greater openness about sexual diversity and less social deference,63 and changes in the style and content of personal advice columns across a range of popular newspapers and magazines came to exemplify these trends,64 as the ‘private world of sex’ started to enter the popular public domain in ‘quite unprecedented’ ways.65 Cosmopolitan most obviously pushed the boundaries of heterosexual discussion, but ‘the mood of even the most traditional women’s magazines’ started to change in the 1970s. Woman and Woman’s Own (both owned by IPC) became more ‘forthright’ about ‘women’s rights and expectations, morally, legally and sexually’.66 Overt and under-stated feminism, or sympathy with feminist ideas, played an important part in raising public awareness of sexual behaviour and social issues through problem page writers in the popular press and on women’s magazines in the 1970s and 1980s, where some columnists had been actively involved with the women’s movement or acknowledged its influence, as in the case of Anna Raeburn, Virginia Ironside and Irma Kurtz. Others, like Marje Proops and Angela Willans, were influence by feminism in a broader sense, as ‘the themes of feminist politics’ encouraged franker and more campaigning approaches to a range of issues, including domestic violence and homosexual equality.67 By the mid-1970s, many topics which even a decade previously would have received little public airing in advice columns were being discussed in the mainstream press and women’s magazines.68 The period also saw the emergence of ‘teenage confession’ magazines, such as Love Affair, Loving, New Love and Hers, which were associated with ‘explicit sexual content’. ‘Purported to be aimed at seventeen year olds’, they were ‘read by girls as young as eleven’ and stimulated considerable criticism and concern among right-wing commentators.69 The ‘agony’ columnist Claire Rayner who started on The Sun in the early 1970s, also advised in teen magazines, such as Petticoat, where she attracted the ire of Valerie Riches, honorary secretary of the ‘Responsible Society’, founded in 1971. Riches, who campaigned against teaching about contraception, sex education and the



From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’191

Family Planning Association, described advice columns such as those Rayner wrote for Petticoat magazine as Superficial and damaging. In fact, I’d like to see them suppressed altogether. They tend to be anti-parent. A child will write in a moment of pique, and when her problem is aired it becomes the problem of a whole generation. 70

Riches attributed the contemporary ‘breakdown’ of the family to a ‘network’ of largely interlinked organisations that exploited the ‘natural anxieties’ of young people by encouraging the use of contraceptives and discussing topics such as masturbation, a topic about which Rayner said she received hundreds of letters.71 The social and cultural expectations of teenagers were changing. The voting age was lowered to 18 in 1969. Young people aged 18 could marry without parental consent from 1970, and the pill became available on the National Health Service in 1974.72 The moral tone about pre-marital sexual relationships which had characterised Mirabelle in the late 1950s and early 1960s started to dissipate in the 1970s, replaced by health concerns and the more open discussion of sexual matters, albeit sometimes recycling the same slang phrases for sexual orgasm, as in the following two examples. I started sleeping with my boyfriend Pete a couple of weeks ago – and quite frankly, I don’t find it anything more than quite pleasant. Where are all the stars and stripes and passionate feelings you’re meant to get. I’m a bit worried that I may be frigid or something – or that I’m going to miss out on all this wild excitement that magazines are always on about. Of course you’re not frigid, Louise, so you stop worrying about that! It’s just that a satisfactory relationship takes a little while to achieve. As long as you’re always honest with your boyfriend, and never fake orgasm, I’m certain you’ll see those stars and stripes before long.73 When girls first start having sex, more often than not they do find it a bit of a disappointment – but without meaning to sound crude, practice makes perfect! It takes time to get to know each other sexually. Also, you’d get a fulfilling relationship together much more quickly if you’re honest with your boyfriend, and never fake orgasm, I’m certain you’ll see those stars and stripes before long.74

Mirabelle’s advice pages were less explicit than many teenage publications became in the 1980s and 1990s, but letters did cover many sexual issues which once would have been unmentionable.75 Sex in

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heterosexual relationships was discussed not only in relation to those going ‘steady’ but also encompassed more casual liaisons. A range of personal issues which would never have appeared in earlier magazines became more common, from domestic violence and underage sex, to inter-racial sex, rape, sexual abuse, incest and menstruation, a boyfriend’s inability to get an erection, and health advice about sexually transmitted diseases, cystitis and contraception.76 Work and careers, less visible on the advice page the 1950s and 1960s, appeared more frequently and were not necessarily subordinated to ­expectations of marriage.77 In part, these changes reflected the reciprocal aspect of advice columns as the greater frankness with which personal and sexual matters could be discussed also helped elicit more explicit correspondence from readers. Sexual and social matters were discussed in language which reflected broader changes in the character of gender relationships.78 Wow, it’s enough to make your blood boil, isn’t it! It’s about time you gave this chauvinist a taste of his own medicine … start taking a firm hand now.79

Letters published in Mirabelle throughout the 1970s hint at how changing social mores were beginning to unsettle girls’ own views of what was appropriate feminine behaviour: We were discussing ‘Women’s Lib’ at school, and somebody said it was unfair that girls had to change their names when they got married and take the same surname as their husband.80

They also intimate how traditional attitudes still lingered among writers, possibly more so among those who did not live in large metropolitan areas. Jennifer (Suffolk), who had been going out with her boyfriend for six months, did not want to finish with him, but felt she was ‘missing a lot of chances by being tied to him. What do other girls think of this? I do wish we could go out with anyone we like and not have to be faithful to one boy.’ The reply warned that while it was fine to ‘have several boys in your life’ if they weren’t particularly important, there were likely to be ‘problems’ where ‘deeper feelings were involved’. You’re perfectly free to choose, but it’s difficult to change over when you’ve been going steady for as long as six months and then you decide you’d like other dates as well. Robert might agree, or he might want to finish altogether. This is something you’ll have to discuss together.81



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One of the most noteworthy trends in teenage magazines from the 1970s onwards was how ‘photo-love stories’ acted out by ‘real people’ were superseded by ‘true-life’ stories based on readers’ experiences.82 This change, part of a broader social move away from seeing girls as dependent children and towards accepting them as autonomous individuals, became apparent in Mirabelle in the mid-1970s, when ‘Lesley’ was replaced by advisers whose much younger appearance was closer to the age of the magazine’s readership. The first of these was a new column called ‘Evie’s Place’, illustrated by a photo of a young woman who looked in her teens. The casual title was suggestive of readers being able to just drop by to see ‘Evie’, who was described as ‘a friend to talk things over with’, although it was also made clear that she was part of a ‘regular team’, who would call on expert help if unable to answer the reader’s questions.83 ‘Evie’ was soon joined by two other advisers, a young woman called ‘Jan’ and a young man called ‘Mark’, not a celebrity like ‘Ask Adam’ but an ‘ordinary’ young man whose tone was much less ­flippant. Mirabelle now featured letters under the heading ‘Boy’s Eye View’, which included correspondence such as that from 17-year-old ‘Michael from Romford’, who was anxious about his lack of success with girls, who towered over him with their ‘six-inch heels’ and went for much taller boys.84 Mark’s presence on the advice pages poses questions about how the readership of Mirabelle was changing in this period. Challenges to traditional masculinity in the popular culture of the early 1970s were epitomised by glam rock musicians such as Slade and David Bowie, who ‘reached across genders and were featured regularly in Jackie and Mirabelle and similar publications aimed at teenage girls’.85 There are no figures to confirm how many boys read such magazines, but it is possible that more were doing so than in the past. Philip Cato, who grew up in Rugeley in the West Midlands, for example, bought girls’ magazines like Jackie because of ‘the quality of the posters of his favourite stars’.86 Mark and Jan’s column, ‘Between Friends’, lasted until May 1977, when they were replaced by another young duo, ‘Kenny’ and ‘Caroline’, in a column called ‘Points of View’, which presented a novel juxtaposition of adult and more youthful opinions.87 Kenny and Caroline, described as ‘resident experts’, picked a weekly ‘selection of interesting letters’ to answer in print, while Sue Butler, ‘a young mother with two teenaged daughters’, was invited to comment on them. Butler, who tended to provide sensible referral details of professional agencies after Kenny and Caroline had supplied their brotherly

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and sisterly comments, reintroduced a visible adult influence which had been lost in recent years.88 A belief still prevailed on teenage magazines that girls in their early teens should be protected, which continued to set boundaries around how issues should be discussed.89 The adult presence and emphasis on professionalism may have been, however, a response to contemporary concerns about how such pages undermined parental influence, which underlay criticism from groups of the ‘moral Right’ in the 1970s, such as the ‘Responsible Society’.90 Columnists across the period, probably aware of the fact that many readers were in their early teens and below the age of sexual consent, did, in fact, frequently refer to the importance of readers respecting parental views about their behaviour, although they also encouraged girls to make their own decisions. Readers were urged to show respect for parents, to see their point of view and to try to accommodate to their wishes, although tensions over negotiating older expectations and newer desires for cultural freedoms were often clear in published queries, even in the case of small issues such as wearing make-up, which elicited a mix of practical and subversive advice: Oh, dear, I’m torn between the devil and the deep blue sea here! Personally, I think you should be allowed to wear make-up if you want to – but if your mum objects, there’s very little I can say. You could, of course, get some make-up together and leave it at a friend’s house – and then make sure that you always remove every scrap from your face before going home again. But I don’t want to encourage you to be deceitful. Whatever you decide, just keep trying to win your mum round!91

The interpretation of feminism on these pages may have been ambiguous, but the strongest feminist message on teenage magazines like Mirabelle was often in advice columns.92 Emphases on female appearance and women’s sexual desirability remained, but greater willingness to discuss sexual matters was accompanied by significant changes in how the dynamics of social and sexual relationships with boys were perceived, with girls more likely to be encouraged to take the initiative, as in influential women’s magazines like Cosmopolitan. It’s up to you to make the move. I should take up your friend’s suggestion. Of course girls can ask boys out these days.93

Replies were also coloured by the objectification of boys, which would become much more blatant in later generations of teenage magazines in the 1990s.



From ‘marriage bureau’ to ‘points of view’195 From this moment on, you must train yourself to see all members of the male sex as potential bits on the side. Put his hand on your thigh – take your clothes off and hope he takes the hint. Sniff out all the most likely places to find the male of the species. Men as we all know, are rather stupid creatures.94

‘Evie’, who left Mirabelle in April 1976, reflected on the changes that had taken place even during the short time she had been answering the ‘thousands of letters’ that the magazine received. Perhaps the most significant change was ‘one of attitude’. When I first started answering problem letters most of them were about traditional problems (personal problems like spots or emotional problems like a treacherous best friend). But of late my postbag has contained many more letters from girls facing new kinds of problems – the problems spring from a general desire to live life to the full and a refusal to accept traditional attitudes.95

McRobbie’s feminist critique of the problem page on Jackie condemned the way in which it ‘privatized’ the ‘personal experiences which feminism sought to publicise and politicize’: ‘the logic which informs the very existence of the problem page depends on problems being individual, not social and their solution likewise revolves around the individual alone, not on girls organizing together’.96 How problem pages were received, however, was more complex than this. They were very popular among school-aged girls, as was highlighted by Alderson’s survey of comic and magazine reading among school pupils in the mid-1960s. Some laughed at them, but most seem to have taken them seriously and regarded the advice offered as more accessible than having to approach their parents. They ‘recognized the problems as familiar; they took the difficulties seriously: “Sometimes when I read a letter from a girl I think I could have written that myself.”’97 Informal sources of sexual information had always been more important in young people’s lives than sex education in schools, which in the 1950s and 1960s tended to be confined to discussions of the human reproductive system in biology lessons. Sex education changed in the 1970s to cover information about contraception and dispel embarrassment, guilt and ignorance but its quality and scope remained very narrow and the media, especially advice pages in magazines, was an important source of sexual information which would become even more important in subsequent decades.98

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Ethnographic work with the readers of teenage m ­ agazines in the 1980s and 1990s and interviews with older women who recalled reading them when they were teenagers have suggested the complex ways in which they related to their context and text.99 Sampling the content of advice pages in Mirabelle across the magazine’s history reveals a similarly nuanced picture. Advice was not as uniform as McRobbie originally argued and change is clearly discernible over time, from the traditional emphases on romance and marriage of Vivien Ashley in the 1950s to encouragement of greater assertiveness, which became much clearer from the early 1970s as discussions of sexual behaviour became detached from marriage. Emphases remained upon heterosexuality, and protective boundaries around girls in their early teens were maintained, particularly in terms of smoothing relationships with parents, but the moral underpinning of Ashley’s era weakened, albeit unevenly and inconsistently.100 By the time Mirabelle ceased as an independent publication in 1977, a more professional approach to advice giving had developed in terms of recommendation to professional agencies, while more open discussion of sexual matters supports McRobbie’s argument that teenage magazines published more sexual content from the 1970s.101 Nevertheless, although teenage magazines shared many common features, their format, style and content differed between publications, as Tinkler has also observed. This small study suggests that there is considerable scope not only for comparing the content of such pages across similar publications but also for learning more about the writers behind such pages, who, like much of their readership, remain shadowy and little known. Acknowledgement I owe a considerable debt to my graduate student Rob Deeble, whose sampling of Mirabelle forms the basis of the content analysis on which this chapter is based. My thanks also go to the British Academy for providing a small grant which has supported this research and to my colleague Pat Ayers for helpful comments on an earlier draft. Notes 1 A. McRobbie, Jackie: An Ideology of Adolescent Femininity (Birmingham, 1978). The research took place when McRobbie was a researcher in the



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Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at the University of Birmingham; A. McRobbie, Feminism and Youth Culture. From Jackie to Just Seventeen (London, 1991), p. 84; A. McRobbie, ‘Working class girls and the culture of femininity’, in Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, Women Take Issue: Aspects of Women’s Subordination (London, 1978); A. McRobbie, ‘Just like a Jackie story’, in A. McRobbie and T. McCabe (eds), Feminism for Girls: An Adventure Story (London, 1981); A. McRobbie, ‘Jackie magazine: romantic individualism and the teenage girl’, in Feminism and Youth Culture. From ‘Jackie’ to ‘Just Seventeen’ (London, 1991). 2 McRobbie, Jackie, p. 28. 3 For early analyses, see McRobbie, Jackie. A. McRobbie, ‘More! New sexualities in girls’ and women’s magazines’, in A. McRobbie (ed.), Back to Reality? Social Experience and Cultural Studies (Manchester, 1997), p. 195. For a more recent examination, see P. Tinkler, ‘“Are you really living?” If not, “get with it!” The Teenage Self and Lifestyle in Young Women’s Magazines, Britain, 1957–70’, Cultural and Social History, 11:4 (2014), 597–619. 4 For an overview of the evolution of problem pages in British popular newspapers in the twentieth century, see A. Bingham, ‘Problem Pages and British Sexual Culture, c. 1930s–1970s’, Media History 18:1 (2012), 51–63. 5 M. Abrams, The Teenage Consumer (London, 1959), p. 15. For the market in magazines aimed at teenage girls, see P. Tinkler, Constructing Girlhood: Popular Magazines for Girls Growing Up in England, 1920–1950 (London, 1995); McRobbie, Jackie; McRobbie, Feminism and Youth Culture; D. H. Currie, Girl Talk: Adolescent Magazines and Their Readers (Toronto and London, 1999). For women’s magazines, see M. Ferguson, Forever Feminine: Women’s Magazines and the Cult of Femininity (London, 1983). 6 Guardian, 26 January 1961, citing the results Mark Abrams’s survey of teenage consumer spending, published in 1959. 7 K. Schrum, ‘“Teena means business”: teenage girls’ culture and Seventeen magazine, 1944–1950’, in Sherrie A. Inness (ed.), Delinquents and Debutantes: Twentieth-century American Girls’ Cultures (London and New York, 1998), p. 136. 8 C. A. Mitchell and J. Reid-Walsh, Girl Culture (Westport, CT, 2008), p. 527. 9 Schrum, ‘“Teena means business”’, p. 139. 10 C. Alderson, Magazines Teenagers Read (London, 1968), pp. 84–5. 11 B. Braithwaite and J. Barrell, The Business of Women’s Magazines (London, 1979), p. 26; M. Frayn, ‘Romances for Sale’, Guardian, 20 January 1960. 12 D. Philips, ‘Good citizenship and girls in British postwar popular culture’, in D. Jones and T. Watkins, A Necessary Fantasy? The Heroic Figure in Children’s Popular Literature (New York, 2000), p. 82.

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13 Ibid. 14 J. Chapman, British Comics: A Cultural History (London, 2011), Kindle edition. 15 Guardian, 20 January 1960. 16 Frayn, ‘Romances for Sale’. 17 Mirabelle, 21 January, 1957, p. 19; Mirabelle, 8 October, 1960, p. 23. 18 White, Women’s Magazines, p. 174. 19 Guardian, 1 July 1971, p. 4. 20 Mirabelle, 10 September 1956, p. 25. 21 Woman’s Own, 6 October 1934; M. Beetham, A Magazine of Her Own? Domesticity and Desire in the Woman’s Magazine, 1800–1914 (London and New York, 1996), pp. 166, 170. Woman at Home was published between 1893 and 1920; R. Kent, Aunt Agony Advises: Problem Pages Through the Ages (London, 1979), pp. 1–6. 22 Mirabelle, 19 November 1956, p. 21. 23 Mirabelle, 4 March 1957, p. 9. 24 Mirabelle, 30 July 1960, pp. 10–11. 25 G. A. M. Mitchell, ‘A Very “British” Introduction to Rock ’n’ Roll: Tommy Steele and the Advent of Rock ’n’ Roll Music in Britain, 1956–1960’, Contemporary British History (2011) 25:2, 17. 26 Mirabelle, 10 September 1956, p. 21. 27 Mirabelle, 9 December 1961, p. 19. 28 Mirabelle, 24 February 1962, p. 19. 29 Mirabelle, 25 November 1961, p. 19. 30 Mirabelle, 27 January 1962, p. 26. 31 Mirabelle, 23 December 1961, p. 23. 32 Alderson, Magazines, p. 50. 33 Tinkler, ‘“Are you really living?”’, p. 600. 34 Chapman, British Comics, Kindle edition. 35 Alderson, Magazines, pp. 5–6. 36 P. Childs and M. Storry (eds), Encyclopedia of Contemporary British Culture (London, 1999), p. 520. 37 Alderson, Magazines, pp. 84, 97. 38 Chapman, British Comics, Kindle edition. 39 Tinkler, ‘“Are you really living?”’‘, p. 600. Honey, 1960–1986, had a strong emphasis on fashion. Its links to women’s magazines were clear in its takeover of Woman and Beauty in 1964. In 1986, it was absorbed by 19, established in 1968, targeted at those aged 16–19. 19 closed in 2004. Petticoat, published between 1966 and 1975, also appealed to the fashion-conscious. 40 McRobbie, Jackie, pp. 1, 8. 41 L. White, Women’s Magazines, 1693–1968 (London, 1970), p. 324. 42 Mirabelle, 26 March 1966, pp. 30–1.



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43 V. Ironside, Problems! Problems! Confessions of an Agony Aunt (London1991), 85; A. Willans, ‘Problem Page Ethics’, British Journalism Review, 4:2 (1993), 41. 44 A. Phillips, ‘Advice Columnists’, in B. Franklin (ed.), Pulling Newspapers Apart: Analysing Print Journalism (London, 2008), p. 98; P. Makins, The Evelyn Home Story (London, 1976), pp. 13, 54. 45 McRobbie, Jackie, p. 27; McRobbie and McCabe (eds), Feminism for Girls, pp. 120–1. 46 B. Mooney, ‘Job Satisfaction? Take My Advice’, British Journalism Review 21:25 (2010), 25; www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2007/ mar/07/art.gender (accessed February 2014). 47 R. Smith, ‘Part Time Agony Aunt in Trousers’, British Medical Journal, 287 (8 October 1983), 1029. 48 Alderson, Magazines, pp. 56–7. 49 S. Perera, ‘Agony and Empathy’, Guardian, 29 June 1987, p. 32. 50 L. Bondi, ‘Is Counselling a Feminist Practice?’, online papers archived by the Institute of Geography, School of Geosciences, University of Edinburgh, 2005, pp. 3–4. 51 Willans, ‘Problem page ethics’, p. 43. 52 By 2003, membership was over 20,000. Bondi, ‘Counselling’, p. 1. 53 Tinkler, ‘“Are you really living?”’, p. 611. 54 M. O’Connor, ‘Romantic Fantasies’, Guardian, 11 September 1970, p. 7. 55 Ibid. 56 McRobbie, Jackie, p. 29; Mirabelle, 9 October 1976, p. 32, 16 October 1977, p. 32, 20 November 1976, p. 32, 22 January 1977, p. 32. 57 Phillips, ‘Advice Columnists’, p. 104. 58 White, Women’s Magazines, p. 43. 59 Mirabelle, 1 January 1972, p. 29. 60 Mirabelle, 18 December 1971, p. 29. 61 J. Winship, Inside Women’s Magazines (London, 1987), p. 101. 62 Guardian, 8 March 1975; cited in S. Todd, ‘Models and Menstruation: Spare Rib Magazine, Feminism, Femininity and Pleasure’, Studies in Social and Political Thought (Brighton), 1 (2009), p. 67. 63 C. L. Ponce de Leon, Self-Exposure: Human Interest Journalism and the Emergence of Celebrity in America, 1890–1940 (Chapel Hill, NC, 2002). 64 C. Wouters, Informalization: Manners and Emotions since 1890 (London, 2007), p. 3. 65 D. Gauntlett, Media, Gender and Identity: An Introduction (London, 2008), p. 84. 66 Guardian, 8 March 1975. 67 Bondi, ‘Counselling’, pp. 5, 10. 68 K. Whitehorn, ‘Now It’s Orgasms on the Front Cover’, British Journalism Review, 9:32 (1998), pp. 34, 39; Independent, 14 April 2000.

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69 S. Feldman, ‘Why I’m Glad My Daughter Had Underage Sex’, The Humanist, 64:6 (2004), p. 7. 70 Valerie Riches, quoted in M. De-la-Noy, ‘The Irresponsible Society?’, Guardian, 19 September 1974, p. 13. 71 S. Faludi, Backlash: The Undeclared War against Women (London, 1993), p. 457; A. Adonis and T. Hames, A Conservative Revolution? The Thatcher–Reagan Decade in Perspective (Manchester, 1994), p. 88. 72 Tinkler, ‘“Are you really living?”’, pp. 613, 619. 73 Mirabelle, 9 October 1976, p. 32. 74 Mirabelle, 29 January 1977, p. 32. 75 Guardian, 26 March 1993. 76 Mirabelle, 6 November 1976, p. 32; 26 February 1977, p. 29; 9 April 1977, p. 30; 23 October 1976, p. 32; 20 November 1976, p. 32; 14 May 1977, p. 30; 18 December 1976, p. 32; 13 November 1976, p. 32; 12 February 1977, p. 30; 1 January 1977, p. 32; 17 September 1977, p. 30. 77 Mirabelle, 23 October 1976, p. 32; 5 March 1977, pp. 6, 26. 78 Mirabelle, 9 October 1976, p. 32; 16 October 1976, p. 32; 8 January 1977, p. 32; 29 January 1977, p. 32; 12 March 1977, p. 7; 9 April 1977, p. 30; 26 March, 1977, p. 28. 79 Mirabelle, 26 March 1977, p. 28. 80 Mirabelle, 1 June 1974, p. 31. 81 Mirabelle, 30 October 1971, p. 29. 82 P. Childs and M. Storry (eds), Encyclopedia of Contemporary British Culture (London, 1999), pp. 520–1. 83 Mirabelle, 14 February 1976. 84 Mirabelle, 21 January 1976. 85 Thompson, cited in K. Gildart, Images of England through Popular Music: Class, Youth and Rock ‘n’ Roll 1955–1976 (London, 2013), p. 158. 86 P. Cato, Crash Course for the Ravers: A Glam Odyssey (Lockerbie, 1997) p. 85, cited in Gildart, Images of England, p. 169. 87 Mirabelle, 19 February 1977, p. 26. Such boy and girl duos were not unique. The problem page editors of Boyfriend in the late 1950s were the Talbot Twins, Jeannie and Johnny. Tinkler, ‘“Are you really living?”’, p. 606. 88 Tinkler, ‘“Are you really living?”’, p. 606. 89 F. Inglis, A Short History of Celebrity (Princeton, NJ, 2010), p. 14; Bingham, Family Newspapers? p. 53. 90 The Responsible Society subsequently became Family and Youth Concern. Guardian, 23 July 1985, p. 22. 91 Mirabelle, 23 April 1977, p. 30. 92 A. McRobbie, in The Culture Society: Art, Fashion and Popular Music (London, 1999), p. 55.



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93 Mirabelle, 20 November 1976, p. 32. 94 Mirabelle, 26 February 1977, p. 29. 95 Mirabelle, 24 April 1976. 96 McRobbie, Jackie, p. 28. 97 Alderson, Magazines, p. 102. 98 M. J. Kehily, ‘More Sugar? Teenage Magazines, Gender Displays and Sexual Learning’, European Journal of Cultural Studies, 2:1 (1999), 65–89. In 2003, ‘a poll of readers of the teenage magazine CosmoGIRL! suggested that if they had a sex related question 79% would first consult a magazine agony column. Only 3% would speak to a doctor or a Brook adviser, and only slightly more (18%) would ask their parents.’ P. B. Boynton, ‘The Value of Agony Aunts. (Personal View)’, British Medical Journal (28 June 2003). 99 M. Gibson, University of Sunderland, ‘Remembering Reading: Memory, Comics and Post-war Constructions of British Girlhood. Some Initial Thoughts’, https://mediamatrix.wikispaces.com/file/view/mel_gibson. pdf, p. 4 (accessed June 2014). 100 For American teenage magazines, see J. A. Schlenker, S. L. Caron and W. A. Halteman, ‘A Feminist Analysis of Seventeen Magazine: Content Analysis from 1945 to 1995’, Sex Roles, 38:1–2 (1998), 135–49; Schrum, ‘“Teena means business”’, pp. 34–163. 101 P. Boynton, ‘Whatever happened to Cathy and Claire: sex advice and the role of the agony aunt’, in F. Attwood (ed.), Mainstreaming Sex: The Sexualization of Western Culture (London and New York, 2009), p. 115.

‘Hoping you’ll give me some guidance’

9

‘Hoping you’ll give me some guidance about this thing called money’: the Daily Mirror and personal finance, c. 1960–81 Dilwyn Porter

Arguably, no newspaper has taken readers’ letters more seriously than the Daily Mirror. ‘Our Live Letter Box’ was a prominent pre-war feature. Some wanted an answer to a question that was puzzling them; some had a point to make or an axe to grind; some sought advice from the Mirror’s ‘agony aunt’. In 1945, when its political stance was probably most closely aligned with the aspirations of its readers, ‘an astonishing proportion of the paper’ was given over to their letters and to stories based on their experiences.1 The Mirror’s editorial director, Hugh Cudlipp, claimed in 1953 that 3,758,441 letters had been received over the previous ten years; each had received at least an acknowledgement. Cudlipp, ‘a propagandist with a public service credo’, believed that newspapers had the capacity to be ‘an immense power for good’, and this meant taking readers and their letters seriously.2 ‘Solving the problems of perplexed humanity’, he argued, ‘was as much [the Mirror’s] line of business as explaining the dollar crisis or being sued for libel by the Prime Minister.’3 At this time, however, neither Cudlipp nor his editors saw financial news and investment advice as the Mirror’s ‘line of business’, even though there was a well-established tradition of financial journalism elsewhere in the popular press, for example in the Sunday Express, in which readers’ letters had come to play a part. As the number of small investors grew newspapers had responded by trying to make their money articles more accessible. One indication that this had been achieved was a burgeoning correspondence with readers who



‘Hoping you’ll give me some guidance’203

found writing to a newspaper less intimidating than seeking advice from a bank manager or a stockbroker. Such inquiries confirmed that the City editor had a following, and responding to them became part of his brief. In the early twentieth century the Mirror had conformed to this trend. Within a few days of its first issue in 1903 it was carrying a paragraph of Stock Exchange news and by the 1930s an anonymous ‘City editor’ was supplying a daily column. ‘Advice is given only on the understanding that no legal or other liability is incurred’, ran the disclaimer in bold at the end of each article, implying that readers were seeking and being given financial advice at this time.4 After converting from broadsheet to tabloid in 1935 and repositioning itself politically on the left, the Daily Mirror dominated the mass-circulation end of the market after the war. At around the time that sales of newspapers peaked in 1960 its circulation averaged over 4.6 million daily. This converted into an estimated readership of 15 million, around 80 per cent of them skilled, semi-skilled or unskilled workers and their families.5 The Mirror’s money article had ceased when war broke out in 1939 and had not reappeared when hostilities ended in 1945. Throughout the 1950s, with the Mirror committed to Labour and operating under the banner ‘FORWARD WITH THE PEOPLE’, there was no City editor, no news relating to stocks and shares and no advice offered to readers about looking after their savings. Thus, when it was announced in May 1960 that a City editor, Derek Dale, had been recruited from the Evening Standard to write a weekly feature on stocks and shares, and that a new cartoon strip would advise on investment, media commentators were intrigued. For financial journalist Paul Bareau, editor of the Statist, it represented a ‘highly significant milestone ... given the faithful reflection of popular taste which [the Daily Mirror] provides’.6 The Daily Mirror, along with the Sunday Mirror, has continued to offer a distinctive brand of financial journalism ever since. The intention here is to answer three related questions. Firstly, why did the Mirror, having turned its back on ‘the City’ for over 20 years, begin covering finance and investment again in 1960? Perhaps it was simply trying to keep up with its readers as they became more affluent and moved up in the world.7 If so, the necessary realignment was not easily achieved and other factors, notably the pressing need to tap new sources of advertising revenue, may also have been important. Secondly, why did the tone and content of the Mirror’s money article change in the 1960s and 1970s? By 1967, ‘Stocks and Shares’,

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the title under which Derek Dale’s words of wisdom first appeared in 1960, had become Robert Head’s ‘Your Money’. It will be argued that the enthusiastic advocacy of popular capitalism to which Dale and his successor were naturally inclined was moderated in response to a readership which wanted to ‘play it safe’ rather than ‘think big’.8 The third question concerns the relationship between those who wrote the Mirror’s money article and the people who read it. Head, who replaced Dale in 1962, stayed for 30 years. When he joined the Mirror, Head had hoped that it would lead to a more prestigious City page appointment in due course. While he was considering a move to the Sunday Telegraph, however, he received a letter from a reader in Bradford. She had just inherited £2,000 and did not know what to do. She did not even know the name of a bank, not even the Halifax Building Society. I couldn’t believe it and I thought, bloody hell, if that’s the job that needs to be done then the hell with traditional City journalism, P/E ratios and tycoons. The lady in Bradford is the reason I have stayed here so long.9

Kenneth Fleet, an eminent City editor who spent 14 years at the Daily and Sunday Telegraph, claimed that financial journalists enjoyed a special relationship with their readers. Their particular expertise and the integrity with which they went about their work meant that they were trusted. ‘This faith runs across the board’, he noted, ‘from the widow in Bournemouth to the institutional fund manager in the City.’10 Using letters sent to Robert Head in 1981, it will be argued that this also applied to council house tenants, old age pensioners and redundant workers learning to live with unemployment.11 In the end it was their concerns as much as the efforts of the City editors to introduce them to the world of high finance that shaped the Mirror’s money article. ‘Keeping up with the Joneses’: the Mirror’s money article revived The enormous popularity of the Daily Mirror in the post-war period owed much to Cudlipp’s vision of a newspaper that was simultaneously serious and entertaining, blending news and comment with human-interest stories, showbiz and sport. It helped that Jack Nene, editor from 1953 to 1961, had an instinct for what Mirror readers liked, as well as knowing what was good for them. ‘I want some tits



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to go with the rail strike’, he once explained helpfully, on a visit to the pictures desk.12 Editorial direction of this kind helped to ensure that ‘Jane’, a cartoon strip featuring a scantily clad heroine which had been popular with servicemen during the war, was still running in the late 1950s. News coverage relating to money was negligible, but the Mirror’s indifference probably matched that of its readers. A selection of letters published in 1950 under the headline ‘IF I HAD A FORTUNE’ was instructive. ‘Thirty thousand pounds!’ wrote Mrs B of Wealdstone, ‘I should be scared stiff if I had half that ... What a worry!’ All she asked was for ‘father’s fiver’ each Friday. Correspondents declaring that they would give their fortune away to a good cause also betrayed some anxieties regarding personal wealth, though a reader from East Anglia dismissed such views as ‘tripe’. ‘I would do the same as ninety-nine persons out of a hundred’, he declared, ‘have a good holiday and then invest the money in securities so that I would not want in my later years.’13 Mrs B was probably more typical. Both Ferdynand Zweig and Richard Hoggart, close observers of working-class life in the 1950s, suggested that most people muddled through, budgeting from week to week, putting small amounts aside to pay for Christmas or a decent funeral. ‘Mistrust of a more general kind of saving is still quite common,’ noted Hoggart in 1957.14 Even in the early 1950s, however, attitudes were changing. According to Zweig, the advent of the welfare state in an era of full employment meant that ‘the will and the ability to save as well as the ways of saving are undergoing constant change for the better, and are tending towards the standards of the middle classes’.15 This trend appears to have strengthened over the next ten years, carrying many of the Mirror’s readers along with it. Moreover, it was not simply attitudes to saving that were changing; attitudes to spending and borrowing were also in transition. Media attention at the end of the 1950s focused on refrigerators and washing machines, television sets and cars, on home improvements and foreign holidays. Some critics looked down on those who took advantage of credit facilities to buy the goods and services now within their reach for the first time. This was snobbish, patronising and unfair. ‘When I was born’, Dennis Potter wrote on returning to what was left of the Forest of Dean coalfield, ‘my father was on two shifts a week, and it took a World War to change that.’ His mother now had ‘a washing machine and a refrigerator’, and it was ­ungenerous to cast aspersions.16

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As Martin Cohen’s work on changing attitudes to personal finance has indicated, the process of transition was complex.17 The economic conditions prevailing in the 1940s and early 1950s meant that more people than ever before were bringing home wages, but at a time when shops were empty and goods subject to rationing. Denied opportunities to spend, wage-earners converted a relatively high proportion of their take-home pay into savings which were cashed in as more goods became available in the mid to late 1950s. The resulting boom was underpinned and sustained into the 1960s by the expansion of various forms of credit; hire purchase and other instalment payment schemes were particularly important for working-class consumers. Moreover, when the British working class made its great leap forward into relative affluence at the start of the 1960s, many households were in a position to borrow, spend and save at the same time, the savings/ income ratio rising from 5 per cent in the mid-1950s to 7.4 per cent in 1960 and 8.9 per cent a year later. What was happening, whatever critics said at the time, should not be lightly dismissed as ‘live now/ pay later’ hedonism, though it did represent the beginnings of a profound change of outlook, especially among the ‘C2s’ and ‘DEs’, where the Daily Mirror’s readers were mostly to be found.18 It was in July 1957 that Prime Minister Harold Macmillan famously observed that ‘most of our people have never had it so good’.19 Poverty had not been entirely eradicated but full employment, regular wages, easier credit and enhanced social security suggested that he was probably right. ‘Nowadays’, Potter noted, ‘I think it is almost completely true to say that most people in the Forest of Dean, in the sum total of things, feel a greater sense of satisfaction and ease than they have ever done.’20 Social science, at least in Britain, became obsessed with ‘the affluent worker’; ‘they briefly became the biggest show in town’.21 For those seeking to convert savers into small investors the prospects were encouraging. In 1959 the Acton Society Trust pointed to recent press articles and pamphlet literature advocating wider share ownership and to the rapid development of unit trusts over the previous decade as evidence of a significant trend. Moreover, many employers now believed that enabling employees to acquire a small stake in the companies they worked for would help to improve industrial relations.22 The Labour Party’s Research Department was sceptical about these developments; ‘so long as the wage earner is being robbed of a good part of the value of his output by the shareholder, an opportunity to join in the racket with whatever small amount he can save out of



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his wages does not bring democracy’.23 However, Labour was soundly defeated at the general election in October 1959 and, as Maurice Macmillan, the Prime Minister’s son and himself a Conservative MP, pointed out a few weeks later, there seemed to be ‘very little opposition on political grounds to the idea of owning shares’.24 Macmillan, writing on behalf of what was to become the Wider Share Ownership Council, was responding to a Times leader which had argued that the main obstacle to widening the social base of share ownership was not that potential investors were without money ‘but a feeling that share buying is a thing that only rich people do’.25 He argued that there was a role for the press in persuading the public that such attitudes were redundant, and the Daily Mirror eagerly picked up the cue. As it happened, the paper was already being remodelled. On the day after Labour’s election defeat the Mirror dropped ‘Forward with the People’ from its masthead. A day later ‘Jane’ appeared for the last time. ‘Jane, darling, now’s the time to say goodbye to the past,’ whispered boyfriend Georgie as they sailed into the sunset.26 It was as if Britain’s best-selling, Labour-supporting newspaper had recognised that it would have to realign itself with its readers, and especially with a new generation that regarded upward social mobility as more important than class solidarity. As 1959 gave way to 1960, there were some clear indications that personal finance was about to become an important theme, notably advertisements for banks and unit trusts.27 Even more indicative of what was to come was a feature aimed at women readers by ‘agony aunt’ Marjorie Proops that sought to demystify the world of finance and ran under the headline ‘I’M BATS ABOUT BULLS AND BEARS’.28 Where this was leading became clear on 7 March 1960, when a front-page announcement signalled the arrival of ‘Keeping up with the Joneses’, a cartoon strip featuring Joe and Prudence Hope, ‘a young married couple who get interested in STOCKS and SHARES under the guidance of shrewd Uncle Forsyte’. This made its debut two days later, on same day as Dale’s first article as City editor.29 One working man interviewed for the Acton Society Trust survey in 1959 had urged newspapers to make shares ‘as easy for the working classes to understand as are, say, football pools, or what is running in the 2.30’.30 Here was a clear signal that the Mirror was responding to this challenge. This development is probably best explained in terms of what Dominic Sandbrook has described as the Mirror ‘belatedly acknowledging the new values of its readers’.31 This adjustment preoccupied the Mirror

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Group for a number of years, not least because it proved so difficult to discover what those values were, despite the best efforts of sociologists and market researchers.32 The possibility of attracting revenue from advertisements offering financial products and services also encouraged the Mirror to move in this direction. Expenditure on advertising by banks, building societies and insurance companies grew by almost 300 per cent in the 1950s. Unit trusts, free to advertise after 1958, were known to be anxious to attract the ‘cloth cap’ investor. Moreover, as the proportion of press revenue derived from retail advertising (food and drink, household goods etc.) declined after the arrival of commercial television in 1955, there was a real incentive for newspapers generally and the Mirror in particular to devote more space to finance.33 Dale created a page that was mainly driven by company news but also featured answers to readers’ queries. An advice bureau was set up and readers were encouraged to ask for help. ‘Your letters will be read by experts’, they were assured, ‘who will give their advice in language you can understand.’34 On occasions the entire column was devoted to answering ‘the questions you are asking’ – ‘What is the smallest amount we can invest in stocks and shares?’; ‘Are building societies a safe investment?’; ‘Are shares a better investment than National Savings?’; ‘What is meant by the term “gilt-edged”?’35 The style was direct and the content accessible, not least when Dale was explaining how the City went about its business. On four consecutive Wednesdays in August and September 1960 Dale worked through an ‘ABC of £SD’ – ‘A is for Account’, ‘B is for Broker’, ‘C is for Contract Note’, ‘D is for Dividend’ and so on.36 For the first 12 months stock market conditions were uncertain but Dale remained upbeat while advising would-be shareholders to proceed with caution. ‘YOU TOO CAN MAKE MONEY,’ ran a typical headline, ‘But don’t gamble on a quick fortune.’37 The evolution of the Mirror’s money article in the 1960s and 1970s Dale’s formula proved successful and he was soon claiming that the Mirror received more letters relating to finance than any other newspaper. ‘We get some astonishingly knowledgeable letters on investment subjects from labourers,’ he observed.38 However, although the money article was firmly established by the time Dale gave way to



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Robert Head in 1962, there had been some changes. Joe and Prudence Hope may have seemed like a good idea at the time but they did not have Jane’s staying power and were dropped in August 1961. As they departed, the Mirror’s front page was already alerting readers to a new strip due to start a few days later: ‘Daughter of Jane’ – ‘She’s gay, lively and lovely.’39 This was a first indication, perhaps, that the Mirror’s management had over-estimated its readers’ interest in getting on and moving up. ‘Male readers of the popular papers’, as Greenslade has pointed out, ‘may not have been wearing flat caps and clogs any longer, but most of them were still manual workers in traditional industries.’40 Moreover, although working-class attitudes to personal finance were changing, they were not always changing rapidly. It was an area, as Sean O’Connell has argued, where ‘cultural practices lagged behind economic improvements’.41 As late as 1967 Head felt it necessary to lead nervous readers step by step through the process of opening a bank account. ‘People without accounts frequently ask me for information,’ he explained. ‘Here are some of their questions.’ At the time, as he noted, only one in three adults had an account with a high street bank.42 Although the Mirror leaned to the left, its City editors were unabashed advocates of economic liberalism and wider share ownership. Both Dale and Head, who had learned his trade at the City Press, exploited the autonomy that specialists on national newspapers traditionally enjoyed. They were free to encourage those who had sufficient capital to take up the investment opportunities on offer and were on hand to offer strategic advice. In 1961, when employees at Imperial Chemical Industries were paid a bonus in shares, Dale’s expert judgement was expressed in terms that any financial novice could understand: ‘If I were an I.C.I. worker I would rather hold the shares for tomorrow than take the cash today.’43 Reviewing the Mirror’s City page in the mid-1960s, Sheila Black of the Financial Times was reminded of agony aunt Dorothy Dix. ‘Every piece of news or advice’, she noted, ‘is in the simplest language, and the columns emanate a strong sense of guardianship of the purses of their readers.’44 At the same time, the City editor’s commitment to the financial sector and its prevailing values was never in doubt. Supplying the latest prices, explaining the ups and downs of the market and breaking company news were very much to the fore. The aim was to make the world of high finance accessible to those who previously had thought that it was not for them. Dale encouraged readers to invest in companies making

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products with which they were familiar. When ‘Co-op shop manager’ Jack Jackson sought advice on how best to invest the £4,000 that he had won in a competition, Head took him to the Stock Exchange and wrote an article about introducing him to a broker.45 There were other ways of reassuring Mirror readers that they – and their money – would be welcome. An article by Head in May 1969 extolling the virtues of unit trusts placed the small investor at the heart of the story: ‘Today I raise my hat to those sterling stouthearts – the small investors who stake their money on the Stock Exchange through unit trusts.’ Prices had been falling but they were ‘standing firm’ and Head made it clear that he approved.46 Positive representations of this kind helped in 1969 when readers were invited to invest in ‘Mirror Bonds’ launched in association with unit trust pioneer M&G.47 The related advertising copy reads as if it had been drafted at the Mirror’s City Office. Wealthy people, it argued, could protect their fortunes against inflation by employing accountants, bankers and brokers; they could invest in jewellery, racehorses, even Picassos; ‘No wonder the rich get richer while the rest get pushed around.’ By pooling their small savings Mirror bondholders would be on an equal footing, not least because the City editor would keep an eye on ‘how your money is being invested’.48 Mirror Bonds were designed to appeal to regular savers who were attracted by the possibilities of capital growth via stock market investment but also wanted to feel that their money was safe. It was an attitude characterised by the kind of prudent adventurism that Dale and Head had been preaching since 1960. In launching a branded financial product targeted at its own readers, the Mirror’s management were banking on the strength of the relationship between their City editor and those who looked to him for advice. Steps were taken to ensure that he was someone with whom readers could readily identify. Both Dale and Head appeared in photographs alongside their weekly by-line. In the best tabloid tradition the journalist was often at the heart of the story, someone who made the news rather than simply wrote about it. ‘Had breakfast at Claridge’s yesterday with an American multi-millionaire’, Head reported. He had then gone on to lunch at the Savoy with Jim Slater, ‘the most exciting and controversial young man on the investment scene just now’; back in the office ‘ the ticker-tape punched out record profits for Rolls Royce to round off a swell day’.49 It helped to convey the idea that Head was well connected and well informed, an expert



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who could be trusted. The volume of mail generated by ‘Your Money’ – around 25,000 queries in 1968 – suggests that Mirror readers were convinced.50 Whereas the relatively benign economic climate of the 1960s had provided ideal conditions for promoting popular capitalism, the situation in the 1970s was more challenging. Financial journalism in the Daily Mirror always meant writing for those who wanted to join the party as well as those who were content to watch from a safe distance. ‘As prices slide, be ready to buy again,’ Dale had advised his more adventurous readers in May 1962, although he added a postscript recommending ‘gilt-edged stocks with definite repayment dates’ for anybody looking for ‘a safe home for your cash during the present shake-out’.51 During the 1970s, however, almost everybody was looking for a safe home for their cash as the British economy entered a period characterised by rising unemployment and high inflation. In January 1972, when the number of people out of work passed what the Mirror had been referring to as the ‘Dreaded Million’, the news was greeted with the front-page headline ‘SHAMEFUL!’ Head’s money article remained focused on company performance and the Stock Exchange, where the news was rather better. Profits were up at Scottish and Newcastle Breweries and its share price had jumped four pence; ‘an amazing performance when you consider the high levels of unemployment in the areas which this brewery dominates’.52 Inflation, at 7.2 per cent in 1970, rose to 15 per cent in 1974 before peaking at 27.2 per cent in 1975; although falling back thereafter, it remained in double figures for the rest of the decade.53 ‘People are out when the gasman and electricity man calls so that they can read their own meters in order to send in exaggerated readings which pre-empt price increases,’ the Economist reported in July 1974.54 ‘Your Money’, although it remained City-centred, now routinely included paragraphs advising readers on how they might mitigate the impact of inflation. People holding old National Savings Certificates were urged to cash them in and seek better interest rates elsewhere. An item headed ‘INFLATION BEATER’ urged housewives to consider the advantages of buying from mail-order catalogues, where prices were fixed for some months ahead.55 For Fleet Street in the 1970s, as Greenslade has recalled, ‘[the] running story was the sickly state of the British economy’, and the evolution of the Mirror’s money coverage has to be seen against that background.56 Many readers, their numbers now declining as the Sun

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ascended, were clearly feeling the pinch. For those who had invested directly or indirectly in stocks and shares market conditions were volatile. A savage bear market saw the FT All Share Index fall by 72.9 per cent between May 1972 and January 1975. The only consolation that Head could offer life insurance policy-holders whose annual bonuses had been cut was by reminding them that ‘investors in shares, property and unit trusts had lost small fortunes’.57 Share prices recovered, but in other respects the outlook remained grim. Looking ahead at the start of 1976, Robert Head predicted that the rate of inflation would fall from ‘last year’s horrific 25 per cent’, but only to ‘a terrifying 12 to 15 per cent’. Unemployment would rise to over 1.5 million and several big firms would ‘go bust’.58 In these circumstances, ‘Your Money’ adopted an increasingly conservative attitude when offering advice. On 21 January 1976 the front page carried news of a sharp rise in unemployment, up 218,000 in a month. Elsewhere, readers were warned to expect an increase in the price of coal. The money article, however, carried the ‘good news’ that ‘old folks’ who had followed its advice and bought inflation-proofed National Savings Certificates, usually referred to as ‘Granny Bonds’, had successfully protected the value of their savings.59 It was a story that would run and run over the next few years. Readers’ letters to the City editor in the early 1980s ‘So I would say, without any reservations’, observed Angela Willans after 29 years as ‘Mary Grant’ on Woman’s Own, ‘that it’s a moral imperative for any problem page that deals with people’s emotional, social and personal problems to have a fully-funded back-up service.’60 Although ‘Your Money’ was not a problem page as such, the nature of many of the letters received from readers makes it clear that financial and personal well-being were often closely connected. Arguably the moral imperative to which Willans referred also applied to the City Office. One of the four journalists working for ‘Your Money’ in the 1980s was employed solely to answer readers’ letters.61 That these still arrived in considerable numbers – Head’s estimate was 10,000 per year – suggests that readers saw the ‘Your Money’ team as people they could trust, often with intimate details of their domestic and financial arrangements.62 Although it was rare for letters from individuals to be referred to directly, they helped the City editor to form judgements about what readers wanted to know. ‘As inflation slows



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down from a gallop to a trot’, he noted at the end of 1980, ‘the over 60s keep asking me whether it will be worth buying new Granny Bonds.’ A week later he reported that ‘several readers’ had been asked by local councils to repay home improvement grants and proceeded to give relevant advice.63 In this way the letters and those who wrote them were integrated into the editorial process as the emphasis shifted from ‘stocks and shares’ to ‘personal finance’. Readers often personalised their relationship with the City editor and approached him as someone with whom they were familiar. Although most began their letters with ‘Dear Sir’, many wrote to ‘Dear Mr Head’. Most incoming letters were handwritten. Many correspondents thought it important to point out that they had a longstanding relationship with the Mirror. ‘I am an old age pensioner, and I have been a regular reader of your paper for many years and I wonder if you could help me please,’ was not untypical.64 Some were deferential and were looking for help from someone better placed than they were to come up with an answer to their problem. ‘I am not well educated like you are. I wish I had been,’ wrote a pensioner who was having problems calculating the interest due on his savings.65 Another correspondent wrote to Head because he considered him ‘quite an expert’ where finance was concerned. ‘I’m only a working man’, he explained, ‘and pretty dim on the aforesaid subject.’66 Some had turned to the City editor for help before: ‘Once again I find myself seeking your expert advice as I have done on many other occasions.’67 Underpinning all this was the idea that ‘Your Money’ was a guide that could be trusted when there were important decisions to be made. Many of the letters received had been prompted by an item in ‘Your Money’ or elsewhere in the paper. At the end of 1980 and the start of 1981 Head received numerous complaints about customers losing their money at or being short-changed by automatic cash dispensers and banks refusing to accept responsibility. Head had first written about what he liked to call ‘robot cash machines’ in October 1980, after which ‘letters flooded in’. He included extracts from some of them in a special feature which appeared in January 1981.68 This led to even more letters from readers, including one which referred to the relative ease with which a customer might inadvertently reveal their PIN to someone waiting behind them in the queue. Head responded by promising ‘to warn readers against allowing anyone to see their robot cash dispenser numbers and to keep them separately from their card’.69 A few weeks later, replying to a query about redundancy

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payments, he observed that the reader’s letter had been ‘very timely’ and one of many. ‘One of my reporters’, he added, ‘has just finished preparing a big article on redundancy payments and problems which we hope to publish in the Daily Mirror within the next week or two.’70 What these exchanges suggest is that readers, through their letters to ‘Your Money’, were helping to shape an editorial agenda which increasingly reflected their immediate concerns. Not surprisingly, redundancy and how best to deal with its financial consequences was a dominant theme at the start of 1981. ‘Thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear that you have been made redundant,’ was how Head and his team began their replies to hundreds of their correspondents. Unemployment was rising fast in the early 1980s, more than doubling in 18 months between 1980 and 1982. It stood at around 2.3 million at the start of 1981. In this climate older workers were especially vulnerable and, once out of a job, they were unlikely to work again, especially if they lived in an area where the shake-out of industrial labour was severe.71 John Husband, the Mirror’s assistant City editor, writing in ‘Your Money’, was critical of the level of payments being made, pointing out that the average was less than £1,000, ‘while the most you can collect under the Government’s redundancy scheme is only £3,600 – no matter how much you earn or how many years you have given your firm’.72 Even relatively small lump sums, however, could be a source of anxiety, especially when workers made redundant realised that having more than £2,000 in capital would mean that they could not claim social security benefits. One correspondent who had recently lost his job had put his relatively generous lump sum of £9,000 in the Yorkshire Bank. But what would happen after 12 months? ‘Will I have to live on the money I have, or will I get my dole money from the social ­security[?]’73 ‘Your Money’ found itself advising readers with over £2,000 to pay off their mortgages or any other outstanding debts. This would ‘cut their outgoings and enable them to claim state benefit’.74 It was useful advice, but a long way from the exciting world of stocks and shares and the Mirror Bond of the 1960s. ‘Your Money’ still covered the stock market and company news, but the emphasis had changed. Head could still find some reasons to be positive. Reflecting on 1980, he noted that unemployment had reached two million and that there had been major crises in Afghanistan, Iran and Poland, but, at the same time, ‘it wasn’t a bad year for investors’. Shares had risen by 27 per cent on average,



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comfortably outpacing inflation, but the market was ‘mighty unpredictable’ and no one should ‘dabble in shares with real money until you first own the roof over your own head, have six months wages in a building society or National Savings and life insurance’.75 Though the Daily Mirror’s circulation was in decline – down to 3.6 million by 1980 – it tended to retain its older readers; in 1966 only 22 per cent had been over the age of 55 but the proportion was rising and was to reach 31 per cent in 1986.76 My initial impression, having surveyed about a third of the thousands of letters to ‘Your Money’ available in the 1981 sample is that this age group was proportionately over-represented. It is clear from some queries that a few – very few – ­actually owned stocks and shares. It is clear that some were fascinated by the idea of owning them. ‘I follow with great interest your column’, one reader explained, ‘but up until now with family commitments have been unable to take part’. Head responded with what was by now habitual caution; ‘you must remember that all shares carry some risk – you can lose as easily as you can win’.77 For most people writing in, the emphasis was on looking after what they had already managed to save in order to see them through an uncertain future. On 30 November 1980 the Sunday Mirror carried a full-page advertisement for a new issue of index-linked National Savings Certificates for the over-60s. On the adjacent page Head urged savers in their 50s to ‘keep their money handy’. ‘They are called Granny Bonds but to raise that kind of money [£3,000 million]’, he predicted, ‘the Government will have to drop the age limit for people eligible to buy them, from 60 to 55 or even 50.’78 This was the kind of tip that the lady from Bradford who made such an impression on Head would have found useful. Conclusion When the Mirror had launched ‘Stocks and Shares’ in 1960, 15 years of full employment had ‘transformed the lives of many working people, bringing an unprecedented sense of security and comfort and hope of lasting improvement, though pockets of insecurity remained’.79 The experience of the 1970s, when savings had been eroded by inflation and employment became less secure, meant that many Mirror readers had come to look at the world in a different way by the early 1980s. ‘Dear Mr Head or Mr Husband’, one letter began, ‘I thought I would pluck up courage and write to you hoping you’ll give me some guidance about this thing called money.’ It went on to ask whether compensation

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received after an accident was taxable and whether the address to which the writer had sent her Green Shield stamp books was correct.80 A pensioner couple from London had read the Mirror’s advice regarding Granny Bonds and had got the details from their local post office but were still baffled. ‘We are not ones to Understand Percentage [sic]’, they explained, or indeed to bother the staff at their local post office who were ‘Usually busy ... so don’t like to hold them up’; please, they asked, ‘make it plainer for us’.81 When the Daily Mirror changed direction in 1960 the hope was that its new money article would engage the newly affluent and the upwardly mobile, but most readers writing to ‘Your Money’ by 1981 were getting on in years rather than getting on in life. The most radical suggestion that Head was likely to make in response to queries was that readers living in council houses, always provided that they could afford it, should seize the opportunity to buy their own homes at the discounted prices available under the Housing Act of 1980, but ‘on the longest mortgage you can get’ and ‘preferably through a building society’.82 Head had a special relationship with his readers, but it was not of the kind that either he or his employers had envisaged on his appointment 20 years earlier. ‘Ever dreamed of making your fortune on the Stock Exchange?’ asked Robert Head and John Husband in a ‘Money Special’ published by the Mirror in 1981. You and Your Cash represents a distillation of much of the advice contained in replies to readers’ queries. It was concerned with the family budget rather than high finance, with savings rather than investments. Inevitably Granny Bonds were heavily featured; they would ‘stop your money being whittled away by inflation’. As for stocks and shares, readers were advised to buy a home of their own, put the equivalent of six months wages in a building society, take out life insurance cover and invest as much as possible in index-linked National Savings schemes. Only when they had secured themselves in this belt and braces fashion was it safe for readers to indulge their fantasies. ‘You could have a lot of fun buying stocks and shares’, observed Head, but they were not for ‘most people’. The clothcapped investor on whom the financial services industry had pinned so many hopes in the 1960s had evaporated into thin air; small investors ‘were a dying breed’, not least because anyone investing in stocks and shares would have seen their returns outpaced by inflation over the previous twenty years.83 It has been said of the Daily Mirror in the 1960s that it ‘tried to keep its finger on the pulse of the nation even if, at times, it had difficulty in locating it’.84 Almost certainly it initially



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over-estimated the appetite of its readership for financial adventure, and over the years that followed ‘Your Money’ was forced to trim its sails accordingly. Notes  1 A. C. H. Smith, Paper Voices: The Popular Press and Social Change 1935–1965 (London, 1975), p. 63.  2 R. Greenslade, Press Gang: How Newspapers Make Profits from Propaganda (Basingstoke, 2003), p. 60.  3 H. Cudlipp, Publish and Be Damned: The Astonishing Story of the Daily Mirror (London, 1953), pp. 244–5, 266–7.  4 See D. Porter, ‘“Where there’s a tip there’s a tap”: the popular press and the investing public, c. 1900–1960’, in P. Catterall, C. Seymour-Ure and A. Smith (eds), Northcliffe’s Legacy: Aspects of the British Popular Press, 1896–1996 (Basingstoke, 2000), pp. 71–96.  5 C. Seymour-Ure, The British Press and Broadcasting since 1945 (Oxford, 1991), pp. 28–9, table 3.2; pp. 125–6, table 6.2.  6 P. Bareau, ‘Financial journalism’, in R. Bennett-England (ed.), Inside Journalism (London, 1967), p. 153.  7 For this argument see H. Hopkins, The New Look: A Social History of the Forties and Fifties in Britain (London, 1964), pp. 452–4; D. Sandbrook, Never Had It So Good: A History of Britain from Suez to the Beatles (London, 2005), pp. 94–6.  8 For a preliminary treatment of this subject see D. Porter, ‘“City Slickers” in Perspective: The Daily Mirror, Its Readers and Their Money, 1960–2000’, Media History, 9:3 (2003), 144–5.  9 Cited in M. Bose, ‘Fallen Stars of the City Pages’, Business, March 1988, 78. For Head’s approach to financial journalism see B. Calvert, ‘The Popular Press, Privatisation and Popular Capitalism in Britain during the 1980s’, unpublished PhD thesis, Coventry University, 2000, pp. 64–7. 10 K. Fleet, The Influence of the Financial Press (London, 1983), p. 7. 11 Mass-Observation Archive, University of Sussex Library, Special Collections: Newspapers: Daily Mirror Readers’ Letters, Financial and Investment Advice, January–June 1981; hereafter DMRL (FIA). 12 Greenslade, Press Gang, p. 59. 13 ‘If I Had a Fortune’, Daily Mirror, 10 January 1950, p. 2; ‘Viewpoint’, Daily Mirror, 14 January 1950, p. 2; see also Porter, ‘Where there’s a tip there’s a tap’, pp. 89–90. 14 F. Zweig, The British Worker (Harmondsworth, 1952), pp. 166–74; R. Hoggart, The Uses of Literacy: Aspects of Working-Class Life with Special Reference to Publications and Entertainments (Harmondsworth, 1957), pp. 133–4.

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15 Zweig, British Worker, p. 174. 16 D. Potter, The Changing Forest: Life in the Forest of Dean Today (London, 1962), p. 75. 17 M. Cohen, The Eclipse of ‘Elegant Economy’: The Impact of the Second World War on Attitudes to Personal Finance in Britain (Farnham, 2012) ), especially chapters 7 and 8. 18 C2 (skilled manual workers), D (semi-skilled and unskilled manual workers) and E (workers in casual employment, old age pensioners and those receiving unemployment benefit) were categories derived from the social grading system developed by the National Readership Survey, established in 1956 to supply audience research for advertisers. Households were graded on the basis of the chief income earner’s occupation; see http://www.nrs.co.uk/nrs-print/lifestyle-and-classificationdata/social-grade (accessed 23 June 2016). 19 For Macmillan’s speech at Bedford on 20 July 1957 and its implications see P. Hennessy, Having It So Good: Britain in the Fifties (London, 2006), pp. 533–4; also Sandbrook, Never Had It So Good, pp. 74–5. 20 Potter, Changing Forest, p. 33. 21 J. Lawrence, ‘Class, “Affluence” and the Study of Everyday Life in Britain, c. 1930–1964’, Cultural & Social History, 10:2 (2013), 283. 22 The Acton Society Trust, Wider Shareholding (London, 1959), p. 1. 23 See The Poor Man’s Guide to the Stock Exchange (London, 1959), pp. 55–60. 24 The Times, 18 December 1959, p. 11. 25 The Times, 14 December 1959, p. 11. 26 Daily Mirror, 10 October 1959, p. 21. 27 See advertisements for British Shareholders International Trust, Daily Mirror, 12 October 1959, p. 18; Barclays Bank, 21 January 1960, p. 20; 16 February 1960, p. 19; Lloyds Bank, 31 January 1960, p. 4; Trustee Savings Bank Association, 10 February 1960, p. 12. 28 Daily Mirror, 27 January 1960, p. 11. 29 See Daily Mirror, 9 March 1960, pp. 16–17. 30 Quoted in Wider Shareholding, pp. 12–13. 31 Sandbrook, Never Had It so Good, p. 95. 32 See Greenslade, Press Gang, pp. 154–8; also Seymour-Ure, British Press and Broadcasting, p. 134; B. Hagerty, Read All About It! 100 Sensational Years of the Daily Mirror (Lydney, 2003), pp. 103–4. 33 See K. Newman, Financial Marketing and Communications (Eastbourne, 1984), pp. 184–93. 34 Daily Mirror, 16 March 1960, p. 16. 35 Daily Mirror, 30 March 1960, p. 13; author’s italics. 36 Daily Mirror, 31 August 1960, p. 10; 7 September, p. 11; 14 September, p. 11; 21 September, p. 11.



‘Hoping you’ll give me some guidance’219

37 Daily Mirror, 25 April 1961, p. 11; for stock market trends in 1960–61 see John Littlewood, The Stock Market: 50 Years of Capitalism at Work (London, 1998), pp. 110–11. 38 Quoted in M. Ivens, ‘Revolution on the City Pages’, The Manager, 30, July 1962, 26. 39 Daily Mirror, 24 August, p. 1; 25 August 1961, p. 13. 40 Greenslade, Press Gang, pp. 156–7. 41 S. O’Connell, Credit and Community: Working-Class Debt in the UK since 1880 (Oxford, 2009), p. 86. 42 Daily Mirror, 22 March 1967, p. 21. 43 Daily Mirror, 9 August 1961, p. 13. 44 S. Black, ‘In the City’, in V. Brodzky (ed.), Fleet Street: The Inside Story of Journalism (London, 1966), p. 143. 45 See Porter, ‘ City Slickers”’, p. 142; Daily Mirror, 7 May 1969, p. 23. 46 Daily Mirror, 28 May 1969, p. 23. 47 See Newman, Financial Marketing and Communications, p. 158. 48 Daily Mirror, 25 September 1969, pp. 16–17. 49 Daily Mirror, 21 May 1969, p. 23. 50 J. Tunstall, Newspaper Power: The New National Press in Britain (Oxford, 1996), p. 359. 51 Daily Mirror, 30 May 1962, p. 26. 52 Daily Mirror, 21 January 1972, pp. 1, 18. For rising unemployment in the 1970s see N. Woodward, ‘The retreat from full employment’, in R. Coopey and N. Woodward (eds), Britain in the 1970s: The Troubled Economy (London, 1996), pp. 136–48. 53 See M.-S. Schulz and N. Woodward, ‘The emergence of rapid inflation’, in R. Coopey and N. Woodward (eds), Britain in the 1970s: The Troubled Economy (London, 1996), pp. 109–15, 123, table 5.4. 54 Economist, 20 July 1974, pp. 65–6. 55 Daily Mirror, 19 July 1974, p. 22; 22 July 1974, p. 22. 56 Greenslade, Press Gang, p. 286. 57 Daily Mirror, 8 January 1975; for the bear market of the early 1970s see Littlewood, Stock Market, pp. 188–218. 58 Daily Mirror, 2 January 1976, p. 19. 59 Daily Mirror, 21 January 1976, p. 22. 60 A. Willans, ‘Problem Page Ethics’, British Journalism Review, 4:2 (1993), 43. 61 Tunstall, Newspaper Power, p. 359. 62 DMRL (FIA), 2/11, Head to Mr S (Middlesex), 6 March 1981 (copy). 63 Daily Mirror, 30 December 1980, p. 23; 6 January 1981, p. 22. 64 DMRL (FIA) 1/4, letter from Mrs T (Bedfordshire), 21 December 1980. 65 DMRL (FIA) 2/7, letter from Mr S (Birmingham), 4 February 1981. 66 DMRL (FIA) 1/4, letter from Mr L (Lancashire), [January 1981].

220

People, places and identities

67 DMRL (FIA) 2/8, letter from Mr W (Staffordshire), 6 February 1981. 68 ‘Scandal of the bank’s robot cash machines’, Daily Mirror, 19 January 1981, p. 6. 69 DMRL (FIA) 1/4, letter from Mrs H (Essex), 21 January 1981; Head’s reply, 21 January 1981 (copy). 70 DMRL (FIA) 2/7, letter from Mr B (Cheshire), 4 February 1981; Head’s reply, 13 February 1981 (copy). 71 See N. Whiteside, Bad Times: Unemployment in British Social and Political History (London, 1991), chapter 1; The Times, 25 February 1981, p. 24, for monthly unemployment figures. 72 Daily Mirror, 16 January 1981, p. 27. 73 DMRL (FIA) 1/4, letter from Mr M (South Yorkshire), [January 1981]. 74 Sunday Mirror, 4 January 1981, p. 36. 75 Daily Mirror, 2 January 1981, p. 21. 76 See Seymour-Ure, British Press and Broadcasting, 28–9, table 3.2; 127, table 6.3. 77 DMRL (FIA) 2/8, letter from Mr W (South Wales) [February 1981]; Head’s reply 16 February 1981 (copy). 78 Sunday Mirror, 30 November 1980, pp. 36–7. 79 Thane, ‘Introduction: Exploring Post-War Britain’, Cultural & Social History, 9:2 (2012), 272. 80 DMRL (FIA) 2/9, letter from Miss M (Northants), 11 February 1981. 81 DMRL (FIA), 1/3, letter from Mrs S (East London), [January 1981]. 82 DMRL (FIA), 2/13, Head to Mr A (Cheshire), 11 March 1981 (copy). 83 R. Head and J. Husband, You and Your Cash: A Lifetime’s Guide to Managing Your Money (London, 1981), pp. 10, 18–19. 84 Hagerty, Read All About It, p. 103; see also Greenslade, Press Gang, p. 254.

Index

Index

Abbotsford Club, Edinburgh 50 Aberdeen 50, 65 Accrington, Peel Institution 68 A City Speaks (1945), film 159 Act of Union (1707) 50 Acton Society Trust 206–7 Adamson, Daniel (1820–90), engineer 158 adoption, children of unmarried mothers 134, 142 Adoption of Children Act (1949) 142 affiliation orders 134–6 ‘affluent worker’ 203–6, 206 agony aunt 189–90, 201–2, 207, 209 Albert, Prince (1819–61) 64, 157 Amateur Historian, The 2, 55–9, 62 Ancoats, Manchester 17, 79, 85, 86, 158 Andrew, John, newspaper proprietor 110 Anti-Corn-Law League 3, 66–9, 78 Anti-German attitudes, First World War 112, 129, Archaeologia Cambrensis 51 A Richer Life (1967) 161 Armitage, Sir Elkanah (1794–1876), bust 76 Art Treasures Exhibition (1857) 157 Ashton, Thomas, trade unionist 157 Ashton Reporter 110 Asquith, Henry (1852–1928), Liberal politician 117 Baily, Edward Hodges (1788–1867), sculptor 67, 77 Bairnsfather, Bruce (1887–1959), cartoonist 29 Bannatyne Club, Edinburgh 50 Bareau, Paul, journalist 203 Bartholomew’s, county maps 53 Bastardy Acts 134, 136–7 Baxter, George, churchwarden 24

Bazley, Thomas (1797–1885), Liberal politician 70 BBC, charity appeal 137 Beardsley, Aubrey (1872–98), illustrator 63, 77 Beatles, The, pop group 77, 82 Behnes, William (1795–1864), sculptor 65–6, 75 ‘Berlin Billy’ 114 Beswick, Manchester 163 Beveridge, William (1879–1963), social reformer 141 Billingham, John, town planner 163 Billington, James, trade unionist 116 Bingham, Nottinghamshire 2, 19–29, 33 Birmingham 43, 45, 48, 66, 75–7, 96, 134, 136, 140, 154, 167 Birmingham and Midland Institute 45 Birmingham and Warwickshire Archaeological Society 45 Black, Sheila (1920–2007), financial journalist 209 Blackburn, Lancashire 68, 75 Blake, Peter, artist 77 Blake Report 40 Blechley 26 Bloxam, Matthew Holbeche (1805–88) 47 Book of Common Prayer 33–4 Bootle, Lancashire 46 Bowie, David (1947–2016), pop singer 193 Bradford, Yorkshire 43, 45, 48, 204, 215 statues 66, 71, 74–5 Bradley, Katharine, historian 132 Bright, John (1811–89), Liberal politician 68, 79, 157 British Archaeological Association 42 British Association for Counsellors 187 British Association for Local History 57 British Medical Association 92, 94–5

222

Index

British Medical Journal (BMJ), provident dispensaries 95 British Pathé News 75 Brodrick, Cuthbert (1821–95), architect 74 Brown, Ford Madox (1821–93), artist 156 Bruce-Joy, Albert (1842–1924), sculptor 76 Buchanan, Colin (1907–2001), town planner 160 Bunty (1958–2001) 180 Burnley, Lancashire 46–7 Bury, Lancashire 67, 69–70, 72, 77–8 Calendars of State Papers 43 Callaghan, James (1912–2005), Labour politician 9, 170 Calthorpe Park, Birmingham 75, 77 Cambrian Archaeological Association 51 Camden Society 42–3 Cardiganshire Historical Society 51 Carlton, Bedfordshire 29, 32 Carmarthenshire Antiquarian Society 51 Carter, Charles (1919–2002), academic 161 cartoons – cotton industry and First World War 3, 4, 109–30 cash dispensers 213 Cass, Eddie (1937–2014), historian 110 Chamberlain, Neville (1869–1940), Conservative politician 133, 136–7 Champneys, Francis (1848–1930), obstetrician 134–5 Charity Organisation Society (COS) 87 Chester Archaeological Society 49 Chetham Society 44, 48, 166 Child Maintenance Agency 146 Child Poverty Action Group (CPAG) 143 Child Support Agency 145–6 Christie, Richard Copley (1830–1901), lawyer 157 Christmas, cartoons 112–14, 124 churchwardens 2, 3, 19, 20, 30–2 and accountability 21–2, 26, 27 City of Manchester Plan (1945) 162 City of Manchester Stadium 171 City Press 209 civic identity 71, 74, 172–3 and architecture 74, 153–4, 161 boosterism 153–4, 160, 171–2 rhetoric 71, 153–5, 164, 168 civic pride 4, 75, 152–5, 159–62, 168–9, 170–3 civic spaces 74–5, 78–9, 157, 163, 168, 171 Clapton, Eric, musician 135 Classic Slum, The (1971) 124

Clynes, John Robert (1869–1949), Labour politician 159 Cobden, Richard (1804–65), Liberal politician 68, 70, 73–5, 79, 157 Cole, Rev William 29, 31–3 community history 3, 40, 57–8 Conference of Teachers of Regional and Local History (CORAL) 57 Congress of Archaeological Societies 43 conscription 112–13, 116–18, 129 conservation, buildings in Manchester 13, 166 conservatism, and county history 56 Conservative Party, attitude to unmarried mothers 146 Cookson, Catherine (1906–98), novelist 135 Co-operative Insurance Society, building 162, 166 Co-operative News 112, 127 Corn Laws, repeal 48, 64, 69, 76, 79, 156 Cosmopolitan (1972– ) 190, 194 Cotton Control Board 127 Cotton Factory Times 3–4, 109–13, 115–16, 122–3, 127–8 cotton famine relief 16, 84 cotton industry 3, 69, 110–12, 114–18, 121, 124–9 and First World War 3, 109, 111–12, 115, 129 piecer shortage 115–16 trade union membership 110–12, 128 county historical societies 2, 3, 39–43, 51–2, 45, 50, 58–9 and provincial culture 2, 42–3, 48 county histories 2, 41 Coventry, provident dispensaries 84, 96 cricket, county organisation 52–3 Cromer, Earl of 169 Crosse and Blackwell 64 Crossley, W. J. 157 Cudlipp, Hugh (1913–98), editor 202–4 Daily Mail 115, 147, 181, 211 Daily Telegraph 204 Dale, Derek, financial journalist 203–4 Dalton, John (1766–1844), chemist 157 Danson, John T. 47 Darbishire, Robert Dukinfield (1826–1908), philanthropist 157 Davies, Thomas 76 deserving poor 88 de Tocqueville, Alexis (1805–59), diplomat 155 Dextor, Matthew, churchwarden 25 Dickens, Charles (1812–70), novelist 157 Digby, Ann, historian 16, 85



Index223

Dingle, Sir Philip, Town Clerk 169 dispensaries, origins 85–8 Disraeli, Benjamin (1804–81), Conservative politician 5, 155, 157 Divorce Reform Act (1969) 143 Dix, Dorothy (1861–1951), advice columnist 209 Dobson, William 46 Donoghue, Ann 184 Dove, Percy M. 47 Dumfries and Galloway Natural History and Antiquarian Society 51 Dundee, Forfarshire 73, 188 East Bridgford, Nottinghamshire 20, 29 East Hendred, Berkshire 30 East Hoathly, Sussex 22–3, 26, 31 Economist 211 Edinburgh 42, 154 Edwalton, Nottinghamshire 27 Edward VII, statue 158 English Historical Review 54 Englishness 3, 52 Evening Chronicle (Manchester) 164 Evening Standard 203 Everitt, Alan, historian 55 Fairbairn, William (1789–1874), engineer 74 Faith, Adam (1940–2003), pop singer 184 family history 3, 10, 40, 57–8 Family Law Reform Act (1987) 145 feckless fathers 146 feminism, teenage magazines 190, 194–5 Fergusson Committee (1871) 87 First World War 6, 132–3, 135, 140 and cartoons 4, 109, 111, 115, 125, 128–9 Fisher, H.A.L. (1865–1940), Liberal Politician 133 Fisher, Lettice (1875–1956), social worker 134, 137, 138, 142 Fitton, Janie, dialect writer 115 Fitton, Sam (1868–1923), cartoonist 3–4, 109–30 Fleet, Kenneth, financial journalist 204 Fleetway, magazine publishers 182 Forfar, statue 65 Frayn, Michael, writer 182 free trade 69–79 Free Trade Hall, Manchester 76, 79, 156, 157 French, Henry 20 friendly societies 85–6, 88, 90, 97

Gaskell, Elizabeth (1810–65), novelist 157 Gawsworth Hall, Cheshire 76 Geflowski, Edward (1834–98), sculptor 76 gender equality, teenage magazines 192–3 ‘German School’ of history 54 Gibson, John (1790–1866), sculptor 65 Gibson, William, churchwarden 19 Gingerbread (2009) 133 Girl 182 Glasgow 51, 65, 109 Gradely Lancashire (1929) Graham, Sir James (1792–1861), Conservative politician 68 granny bonds 212–16 Gray, Percy, architect 167 Greenslade, Roy, media analyst 209, 211 Greenwood, Anthony (1911–82), Labour politician 166 Gregory, Jeremy, historian 33 Grey, Earl (1764–1845), Whig politician 65 Hakluyt Society 43 Hallé, Charles (1819–95), musician 157 Harcup, S. E. 39, 40 Hardwick, Charles 46 Harmsworth, Alfred (1865–1922), newspaper proprietor 115 Head, Robert, financial journalist 204, 209, 212, 216 Heartbeat 182 Heaton Park, Manchester 158 Hendon Police Training College 77 Henn, Rev John (1831–1903), Hospital Sunday Fund 95 Henry, Alexander 70 Herbert, John Rogers (1810–90), artist 72 Heron, Joseph (1809–89), town clerk 70 Heywood, Abel (1810–93), radical 157 Heywood, Oliver (1825–92), banker 157 Hickling, Nottinghamshire 27 Hinde, John Hodgson 46 Historical Association 13 Historical Manuscripts Commission 43 historical societies 1–3, 7, 39, 42–5, 48, 50–1, 53–5, 58–9 historic buildings, protection in Manchester 164–6 Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire 17, 44–5, 48, 51, 59 History Workshop movement 3, 12–13, 57 Hoare, Sir Samuel (1880–1959), Conservative politician 159 Hoggart, Richard (1918–2014), cultural historian 205 Holcombe Hill, Lancashire 67, 70

224

Index

Holland, Rev William (1746–1819), diarist 25, 29, 31 Hollins, Peter (1800–86), sculptor 66 Home, Evelyn, advice columnist 186 Honey (1960–86) 186, 188 Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion 51 Horder, Garnett 99 Hoskins, W. G., historian 55–7 Hospital Reform Association (1872) 87, 99 Hospital for Sick Children, Manchester 89, 93 Hospital Sunday Fund 99 Houldsworth, W. H. (1834–1917), Conservative politician 157 housing 142, 146, 154, 158, 160–1, 163–4, 170, 216 Housing Act (1980) 216 Housing (Homeless Persons) Act (1977) 144 Howe, Gervas, churchwarden 19, 25 Huddersfield, Yorkshire 43, 45, 66, 70, 75 Huddersfield Archaeological and Topographical Society 45 Hulme, Manchester 160, 163–4, 170 Hume, Rev Abraham (1814–84), antiquary 42 Hume, Joseph (1777–1855), radical politician 68, 73 Hunt, Henry (1773–1835), radical politician 73 Husband, John, financial journalist 214, 216 Hutchinson, William, churchwarden 27 illegitimacy legal status 134, 136–7, 145 in Second World War 138–40 Illustrated London News (1842–2003) 64 India, cotton tariff 127 infant mortality 133 inns, vestry meetings 28, 31 Institute of Historical Research 55 International Publishing Corporation (IPC) 190 Ironside, Virginia, advice columnist 190 Jackie (1964–93) 180, 182, 186–8, 193, 195 Jacob, W. M. 29 Jane, cartoon strip 205 Jebb, John, churchwarden 24 Jinty (1974–81) 180 John Rylands Library, Manchester 156 Jones, E. R. 98 Joule, James Prescott (1818–89), physicist 157 Judy (1960–91) 180

Kantorowich, Roy (1917–96), town planner 161 Keith, Rev Charles Skene 34 Keithhall, Aberdeenshire 34 Kinloch, George (1775–1833), radical politician 73 Kultur, cartoons 114 Kurtz, Irma, advice columnist 190 Labour Party Research Department 206 Lancashire, and Sir Robert Peel 69, 71, 78, 79 Lancashire Authors’ Society 112 Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society 45, 48, 51 Lancet, The, provident dispensaries 88, 91, 93, 95, 98 Langar, Nottinghamshire 19, 24 Langworthy, Edward Ryley (1797–1874), Liberal politician 76 Lavin, Tom, Conservative councillor 169 Leeds 43, 48, 66, 74–5, 77, 154 Leeming, Leonard, engineer surveyor 162 Lees, Asa, textile engineers 116 Leicester 47–8, 52, 55–7 Leicester School 55–7 Leicestershire Archaeological and Historical Society 42, 47, 48, 52, 55, 57 Legitimacy Act (1926) 137 Levine, Philippa, historian 40, 42 Lilley, Peter, Conservative politician 146 Literary and Philosophical Societies 44 Liverpool, provident dispensaries 97 Lloyd George, David (1863–1945), Liberal politician 127, 159 Local Government Act (1929) 136 Local Historian, The 57 local history 3, 54–8 London statues 64– 67, 71, 78 Westminster Abbey 65, 73 London Assurance Group, Manchester 165 London County Council, and unmarried mothers 136 London School of Economics, research into child poverty 143 Longdendale reservoir 157 Macmillan, Chrystal (1872–1937), feminist 134, 149 Macmillan, Harold (1894–1986), Conservative politician 206 Macmillan, Maurice (1921–84), Conservative politician207 Maitland Club, Glasgow 50



Index225

Manchester charities 86, 88–9, 92–5, 97, 99, 158 economy 4, 48, 111 festivals 4, 153–4, 157, 171 hospitals 85–6, 88–9, 94–6, 99, 158, 162 IRA bomb 171 municipal centenary 159 music 76, 170–1 Olympic bids 171 planning 160–3, 169 public buildings 68, 74–5, 78, 156–7, 162, 170 public space 4, 153, 159–75 redevelopment 4, 162–4, 166–70 shopping centres 155, 162, 167–8 statues 66–7, 69–70, 73–6, 78, 153–4 Manchester Airport, Ringway 159, 163, 170 Manchester, Athenaeum 156 Manchester, Bank of England 162, 169 Manchester, BBC headquarters 162, 170 Manchester Bridgewater Concert Hall 171 Manchester Building Society 169 Manchester Business School 162, 164 Manchester, City Planning Department 163 Manchester, Crown Square 162–3 Manchester dispensaries Ardwick 85, 89, 91, 97 Ashton Road 98 Medlock Street 89, 93, 97 Pendleton 97, 98 Manchester Education Precinct 164 Manchester Evening News 163, 167, 169 Manchester Guardian 84, 88, 159, 167 Manchester International Festival 171 Manchester Planning Committee 162, 169 Manchester Royal Infirmary 12, 89, 92, 158 Manchester and Salford District Provident Society (DPS) 89, 93–4, 97, 99 Manchester and Salford Hospital Sunday Fund 99 Manchester and Salford Medical Attendance Association 98 Manchester School Board 87 Manchester Ship Canal 158–60 Manchester Statistical Society 87 Manchester Stock Exchange 169 Manchester Town Hall 73 Manchester University 1, 8–11, 13, 17, 58, 161–2, 164 Manchester Velodrome 171 Mancunian Way 163, 170 Mann, William, churchwarden 27, 30 Marilyn (1955–65) 182, 185

Marsh, John Fitchett 46 Marochetti, Baron Carlo (1805–67), sculptor 65 Marshall, William Calder (1813–94), sculptor 66 Marty 182 Marx, Karl (1818–83), philosopher 63, 77 Mawdsley, James (1848–1902), trade unionist 111 Mayhew, Henry (1812–87), journalist 64 McRobbie, Angela, academic 180, 195–6 medical charities 42, 86, 88–9, 92–5, 97, 99 Medical Times and Gazette 96 Medico-Ethical Society 88, 92–3 Metropolitan Police Act (1829) 77 Metropolitan Provident Medical Association (1880) 77 middle class 2, 17, 41–3, 48, 58, 71–2, 86, 98, 109, 143, 152–4, 160, 168, 172, 182, 205 Mill, John Stuart (1806–73), philosopher 69 Millar, John S., City Planning Officer 163–7 Ministry of Health, and unmarried mothers 134, 139–40, 142 Mirabelle 7, 180–8, 191–6 Mirror Bonds 210, 213, 215–16 Montrose, Forfarshire, statue 65 Mooney, Bel, journalist 187 Moore, Thomas 46 Morning Post 73 Moss, Rev John James 46 Mossman, John (1817–90), sculptor 65 Moss Side, riots 170 mother and baby homes 135–6 Mullins, E. C. L. 40 Napoleon III (1808–73) 157 National Assistance Act (1948) 140–1 National Council for One Parent Families (NCOPF) 143–7 National Council of Social Service 137 National Council for the Unmarried Mother and Her Child (NCUMC) 133–48 campaigns for changes in law 134, 136–7, 142, 145 and state welfare provision 137, 140–1, 143, 147–8 National Health Service 84, 99, 141, 191 National Insurance Act (1911) 84, 98 Neale, Charles, churchwarden 24 Nene, Jack, journalist 204 Neville-Rolfe, Sybil (1885–1955), eugenist 134 Newcastle, unmarried mothers 136

226

Index

Newsholme, Arthur (1857–1943), Principal Medical Officer 134 News of the World, The (1843–2011) 181 Nield, William (1789–1864), mayor 70 Noble, Matthew (1817–76), sculptor 65–7, 76 Norris, Thomas (1765–1852), businessman 73 Northampton 52, 65, 155 Northern Institution, Inverness 50 North Staffordshire Infirmary 85 North West Economic Planning Council 161 Northumbria 49–50 Norwich 95, 155 Nottingham, unmarried mothers 136 Nova (1965–75) 190 Nuneham Courtney, Oxfordshire 32 O’Brien, James Bronterre (1805–64), Chartist 73 O’Connell, Sean 209 O’Hanlon, William 87 Oldham, Lancashire 67, 110–12 125 spinners 110, 116 One Parent Families (charity) 133, 143 Open University 58 ‘Operation Rebirth’ (1965) 175 Orston, Nottinghamshire 27–8 overseers of poor 24, 26 Over Stowey, Somerset 25–6 Owens College, Manchester 158 ‘Oxford School’ of history 54 pace egg plays 121–2 parish administration 2, 19, 20, 28–31, 33 officers 22–3, 25–6, 31–3 parks, sites of commemoration 67, 72 Pearson, C. Arthur, publishers 182 Peel, Arthur George Villiers (1869–1956), politician and writer 76 Peel, Sir Frederick (1823–1906), Liberal politician 66 Peel, John (1939–2004), disc jockey 77 Peel, Sir Robert, elder (1750–1830), industrialist 69 Peel, Sir Robert (1788–1850), 3, 63–75 Peel Holdings, property company 78 and Lancashire 66, 69, 71, 78–9 Perceval, Spencer (1762–1812), Tory politician 65 Percy Society 44 Petticoat (1966–75) 186, 188, 190–1 Petty, William, churchwarden 24

Pevsner, Nikolaus (1902–83), architectural historian 19 Phillips, Alan, journalist 166 Phythian-Adams, Charles, historian 55 Picc-Vic Plan 164 Pickstone, John, historian 85 Picturegoer (1921–60) 181 Pinhorn, M. 39–40, 59 Pitman, J. 21, 24 Pitt, William (1759–1806), Tory politician 65 Pitt Rivers, General Augustus (1827–1900) 44 Platt, John (1817–82), industrialist 67 Platt Brothers, engineers 116 police 52, 71, 76–7, 146 Poor Law 7, 9, 13, 15–17, 47–52, 86, 88 and unmarried mothers 132–3, 136, 141 Potter, Dennis (1935–94), writer 205–6 pottery, commemorative 64 Powysland Club, Montgomeryshire 51 Prentice, Archibald (1792–1857), Liberal reformer 70, 72 Preston, Lancashire 46–7, 67, 73, 116 Priaulx, Rev Peter 29 printing societies, historical 42–3 Proops, Marjorie (1911–96), advice columnist 186, 188, 190, 207 Provident Dispensaries Association (PDA) 88–98 provident dispensary movement in Manchester 4, 85, 88–9, 94, 96, 97–9 and medical profession 88–90, 99 public history 3, 12, 17, 58, 73 public libraries 68 public parks 67, 72, 154 Public Record Office, London 43 Public Record Office Act (1838) 43 public statuary 4, 71, 74–6 and civic space 3, 4, 74–5, 78, 157 Radcliffe-on-Trent, Nottinghamshire 21 Raeburn, Anna, journalist 186, 190 railways 158, 162 Ransome, Arthur (1833–1922), doctor 90 Red Letter 182 Redwood, John, Conservative politician 146 Renaud, Frank (1819–1904) 92 Reynolds, George W. M. (1814–79), writer 85 Richards, Raymond (1906–78), antiquary 75–6 Ritchie, Alexander Handyside (1804–70), sculptor 65 Roberts, Robert (1905–1974), writer 124



Index227

Rogers, Rev Benjamin (1686–1771), diarist 29, 32 Romeo (1957–74) 180, 182 Rose, Michael 1, 7, 8, 15, 18, 132 Roxy (1958–63) 181–2 Royal Fine Art Commission 165 Royal Historical Society 43 Royal Manchester Institute 156 royal visits 154 Royle, Peter, doctor 88–9 Russell, Lord John (1792–1878), Liberal politician 68 Rylands, Enriqueta (1843–1908), philanthropist 156 St Mary’s Hospital, Manchester 86, 94 Salford, statues 66, 73, 75–6, 157 Samuel, Raphael, historian 57 Sandbrook, Dominic, historian 207 Scharlieb, Mary (1845–1930), obstetrician 134 Schwabe, Salis (1800–53), industrialist 70 Scotland 2, 34, 42, 45, 49–51, 65 Scottish History Society 51 Screveton, Nottinghamshire 19, 24 settlement movement 17, 132 Seventeen (1944–) 182 sexual questions, teenage magazines 7, 185, 188–9, 191–2, 194–5 Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band 63 Shackleton, David (1863–1938), Labour politician 111 Shaw, Lancashire 111 Sheffield, Yorkshire, statue 74 Shelford, Nottinghamshire 23, 25, 28 Shelter 143 Shone, Kenneth, architect 168 Simon, Ernest (1879–1960), Liberal politician 159 Simon, Shena (1883–1972), social reformer 159 Sinclair’s Oyster Bar, Manchester 165 single parent families 133, 144, 147 Slade, pop group 193 Slater, Jim (1929–2015), financier 210 Smiles, Samuel (1812–1904), writer 71 Smith, John Benjamin (1794–1879), Liberal politician 73 Snell, Keith, historian 20 social deference 32, 190 Society of Antiquaries of London 42 Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle-uponTyne 49 Society of Antiquaries of Scotland 42, 50 Spalding Club, Aberdeen 50 Spinners’ Amalgamation 110–11, 116

Standing Conference for Local History 56–7 Stanton on the Wolds, Nottinghamshire 24 state welfare provision and unmarried mothers 5, 132–3, 141, 143, 147–8 Statist 203 statue mania 65–9 Steele, Tommy, singer 184 Stewart, Alexander, doctor 98 Stockport, statue 73 Stony Stratford, Buckinghamshire 31 Strachey, Lytton (1880–1932), writer 78 Summer Time Act (1916) 121 Sun 190, 211 Sunday Mirror 203, 215 Sunday Pictorial (1915–63) 181 Sunday Telegraph 204 Surtees Society 43–4, 49 surveyors of highways 23, 26, 31 Sybil (1845) 155 Tammy (1971–84) 180 Tamworth, Staffordshire 66 Tate, W. E., historian 23–4, 33 teenage magazines 181–91, 194–6 advice columns 7, 181, 187, 190–1 problem pages 8, 181–2, 184, 186–8 and sexual questions 188, 190–1, 194, 196 Tennyson, Alfred (1809–92), poet 157 Theed, William (1804–91), sculptor 66, 75 Thirlmere reservoir 157 Thirsk, Joan, historian 55 Thomas, Sir Robert, alderman 168 Thompson, A. Hamilton 55 Thomson, D. C., publishers 188 Thorburn, John (1834–85), doctor 87, 94 Times, The 207 Tinkler, Penny, sociologist 185, 196 tithe disputes 31–2 Titbits (1881–1989) 181 Tomkins, Alannah, historian 85 Town and Country Planning Act (1947) 160 Town and Country Planning Association 161 town planning, Manchester 160, 163, 167, 169 Toynbee Hall, Tower Hamlets 132 Trades Unions Congress, conference 111 Traffic in Towns (1963) 160 Transactions of the Leicestershire Archaeological Society 55 Trend 182, 185, 187 Trevelyan, Sir Charles (1807–86), civil servant 96 True Confessions 182

228

Index

True Romance 182 True Stories 182 Tudor, R. A. 46 Turner, Thomas (1729–93), diarist 22–9 U-boats 125 UMIST 162, 164 United Textile Factory Workers’ Association 111 Unmarried (1921), film 137 unmarried mothers, see NCMUC Urbis, Manchester 171 Urmston Urban District Council 162 Valentine (1957–74) 180–2, 185 vestry meetings 24, 26–8, 29 Victoria, Queen (1819–1901) 54 Victoria County History 54 Victorianism, critics 74–5 visitations, archdeacon 31, 33 voluntary hospitals 85, 99 voluntary recruitment 113 voluntary welfare provision 5, 137, 141, 143, 147 role in welfare state 132–3, 140, 148 Wales 40, 45, 49–51, 59, 136, 146 Waterbeach, Cambridgeshire 32 Waterhouse, Alfred (1830–1905), architect 156 Watt, James (1736–1819), inventor 157 Watt, Richard, churchwarden 24 Watts, John (1818–87), social reformer 4, 84, 87, 94–5, 99 Watts warehouse, Manchester 165 Waugh, Edwin (1817–90), dialect writer 76 Weaver, O. J., Inspector of Ancient Monuments 165 Webb, Beatrice (1858–1943), social reformer 110 Weekend 181 Wellington, Duke of (1769–1852) 157 Wellington Inn, Manchester 165 Wells, H. G. (1866–1946), writer 135 Wells, William, churchwarden 19 West, F. G. 167 West, Rebecca (1892–1983), writer 135

West Bridgford, Nottinghamshire 26 Weston Longville, Norfolk 22, 29 Whittaker, John, Bury entrepreneur 77–8 Whitworth, Joseph (1803–87), engineer 158 Whitworth Institute, Manchester 13, 158, 172 Wider Share Ownership Council 207 Wilde, Marty, pop singer 182 Wilde, Oscar (1854–1900), writer 63, 77 Wilkinson, Thomas (1825–1916) 46 Willans, Angela (Mary Grant), advice columnist 190, 212 Willoughby on the Wolds, Nottinghamshire 27 Wilson, George (1808–70), Liberal campaigner 73 Wilson, Harold (1916–95), Labour politician 9, 75, 144, 163, 170 Winckley Square, Preston 67 Woman (1937– ), and women’s rights 137, 182, 185, 190 Woman’s Own (1932– ), and women’s rights 181, 185, 190, 212 Woman’s Realm (1958– ) 181 Wood, Michael, historian 58 Wood of Bingham, mason 19, 22, 29 Woodforde, Rev James (1740–1803), diarist 22, 29–31 Woodward, Rev George 30–1 World War I, see First World War Wright, Henry, churchwarden 19 Wright, Thomas 46 Wrigley, Ammon (1861–1946), dialect writer 109 Wysall, Nottinghamshire 27 Wythenshawe 159–60 Yarwood, Elizabeth, Lord Mayor (1967–68) 164 Yorkshire Archaeological Society 45, 59 Yorkshire Factory Times 110 Young, George Malcolm (1882–1959), historian 64 Zeppelin attacks 119–21 Zweig, Ferdynand (1896–1988), labour economist 205