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PORTSIDE CULTURE

LADDERS LAST A LONG TIME  
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Florence Sutcliffe-Braithwaite
May 23, 2024
London Review of Books
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_ A collection of essays by Raphael Samuel, the late historian who
was one of the intellectual founders of the New Left in the United
Kingdom. _

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_Workshop of the World
Essays in People's History_
Raphael Samuel
Edited by John Merrick
Verso
ISBN: 9781804292808

Raphael Samuel​ adopted his notetaking method from Beatrice and
Sidney Webb, progenitors of Fabian socialism, who developed it in the
late 19th century:

Each thought or reference to a source was written or pasted onto a
single side of a loose sheet of paper. It might be the source itself
– an advertisement, a jam-jar label or an extract from a Xerox –
it mattered only that it was attributed and subheaded under a theme.
Then the notes were filed in groups. Scholarly prestidigitation
allowed the pages to be constantly reshuffled so that new combinations
of ideas appeared, presuppositions might be overturned and surprising
connections thereby generated ... All that was needed was reams of
rough paper, scissors and a pot of glue, phalanxes of lever-arch
files, and a hole-puncher.

The resulting papers and files ‘perched precariously on the polished
treads of the staircase’ and ‘lay in drifts’ on the floor of
Samuel’s study, Alison Light wrote in _A Radical Romance_ (2019),
her memoir of their marriage. Samuel was one of the most influential
historians of his generation, a prodigious teacher, researcher and
writer. Hosts of historians, trade unionists and Italian Marxists were
forever dropping in on his house in Spitalfields, which Stuart Hall
recalled as a ‘sort of permanently open unofficial conference centre
with some informal seminar always in permanent session in the
kitchen’. In 1967, Samuel founded the History Workshop movement to
democratise ‘the act of historical production, enlarging the
constituency of historical writers, and bringing the experience of the
present to bear upon the interpretation of the past’; it held huge,
radical and ecumenical events, published pamphlets and books, and in
1976 founded its own journal, still running today.

Despite – or perhaps because of – all this activity, Samuel only
published one sole-authored book in his lifetime, _Theatres of Memory_
(1994)_,_ an account of the popular historical imagination in late
20th-century Britain told via case studies, from Laura Ashley fabrics
to the touristification of Ironbridge_._ Since his death from cancer
in 1996, however, Samuel has been prolific. A second volume of
_Theatres of Memory_, titled _Island Stories: Unravelling Britain_,
came out in 1998, followed in 2006 by _The Lost World of British
Communism_, a volume of essays combining research and recollections.
Today Samuel is best known for his work on popular memory and for
History Workshop. John Merrick’s new selection of his essays aims to
rectify that: it brings together a sample of Samuel’s historical
studies, several of which are still thrilling to read, and most of
which would have been difficult to get hold of without access to a
good university library. All of them focus on the 19th century, which
was, as Light puts it, Samuel’s ‘stamping ground’.

Communism and history were both family affairs for Samuel. His mother,
Minna Nerenstein, was one of many relatives who were dedicated
Communist Party of Great Britain activists, and his uncle, Chimen
Abramsky, was a historian of the First International. Samuel joined
the party as soon as he was old enough, but left as part of the mass
exodus prompted by Khrushchev’s secret speech and the Soviet
crushing of the Hungarian uprising in 1956. Still in his early
twenties, he threw himself into the creation of a ‘New Left’. With
Stuart Hall and other friends from his undergraduate days at Oxford,
he founded _Universities and Left Review_ (which ultimately merged
with the _New Reasoner_ to create the _New Left Review_), as well as
the New Left Clubs and the Partisan Coffee House, an espresso bar in
Soho catering to political radicals. In 1962 he joined Ruskin College
(in but not of Oxford), a centre for working-class and trade-union
education. There, he began increasingly to use primary sources in his
teaching: accessing history via secondary literature, he thought,
often crushed students’ confidence in their own abilities; examining
the original documents was far more intellectually stimulating. This
was the origin of History Workshop.

The opening essay in _Workshop of the World_ is one of two editorial
prefaces Samuel wrote for the proceedings of the December 1979 History
Workshop. In it, he set out his stall as a practitioner of
‘people’s history’. This was a capacious category: it could be
liberal, radical, nationalist or socialist; macro or microhistorical.
Its defining feature was the attempt to ‘broaden the basis of
history’ – who wrote it, what it was about and what sources it
could be based on. An essay on Headington Quarry included by Merrick
shows Samuel doing all three. He began the research with a group of
Ruskin students in 1969, and one of them, Alun Howkins (later a
distinguished scholar of the rural poor), introduced him to his first
interviewees, at a time when oral history was regarded with suspicion
by many academic historians.

Headington Quarry is now a residential suburb of Oxford but was
originally an ‘open village’ – not built on a great estate but
growing up unplanned on wasteland – of claypits, brickworks, narrow
alleys and slum housing. It had a reputation for unruliness. In a much
longer essay Samuel published on the village in one of History
Workshop’s early books, he described its economic and social
structure, showing how casual most of the waged labour was and the
importance of ‘informal’ and illegal activities such as poaching
and pig-keeping – in other words, how tangential to capitalist
accumulation much economic activity was. In the shorter essay
reprinted here_,_ Samuel observes that it was in studying the social
and economic history of poaching that oral sources proved most
revelatory. His interviews showed that the relatively small number of
poachers who appeared in court records in the late 19th century were
not the most prolific but the worst at getting away with it. In the
years before the Great War, poaching was organised and knitted into
the local economy and seasonal patterns of labour. Gangs of poachers
took orders, traded door to door, and sold on to fences who supplied
butchers in Oxford’s covered market. A retired practitioner, a
longtime antagonist of the local gamekeepers, trained lurchers for the
gangs. Amateurs, in it perhaps partly for the thrill, were not
considered ‘real’ poachers by the pros.

Marginal groups were one of Samuel’s abiding interests, and his
study of the mid-19th-century itinerant and semi-itinerant poor put
him in pursuit of their ‘lairs’ and livelihoods. These men (and
some women and children) often slept rough when the weather was good
or when circumstances required, huddling next to the kilns of
brickworks in cold weather, and congregating under the ‘Dry Arch’
hotels made by bridges or viaducts when it rained. If they had a bit
of money, they stayed in common lodging houses, of which there were
nearly a thousand in London in 1889. These were often clustered in
slum districts, like the area of Merthyr Tydfil that outsiders called
‘a sort of Welsh Alsatia’. Sometimes they resorted to the
workhouse casual ward, though in the later 19th century that generally
meant a day’s forced labour to ‘earn’ their hard resting place
and meagre provisions. According to the journalist Henry Mayhew, many
wanderers returned to town in the winter ‘as regularly as
noblemen’, and from November free night refuges financed by
charitable subscription opened in large cities to accommodate the
influx. The Charity Organisation Society (bastion of less eligibility)
blamed the refuges for attracting the homeless. In fact, there was
often more work in the big cities in winter: in the run-up to
Christmas there was a rush of spending, which generated jobs in shops,
luxury trades and services; throughout the cold months there was work
to be found in gasworks or in occupations like roadsweeping; and when
unemployment got bad, vestries often laid on public works. With the
coming of spring, many left the cities. Gypsies and performers
followed the circuit of wakes and fairs; pedlars sold their wares, and
skilled men as well as navvies and labourers of all sorts tramped the
country in search of work. Summer brought further migrations, as men,
women and children followed harvests around the country. Large numbers
left London for a late summer hop-picking jaunt: the common lodging
houses were ‘almost deserted’ as their ‘Bohemian inmates’ went
down to the ‘pleasant fields of Kent’, and some even departed the
workhouses temporarily to join in. Mayhew called these groups
‘wandering tribes’, but Samuel shows that the wandering was very
seldom random or purposeless: his ‘comers and goers’ had their
routes and routines, even if these were obscure to outsiders.

Samuel too traversed the country, in search of the ‘fugitive
sources’ needed to write the history of liminal groups. He invited
the reader along to the ‘parishes and record offices of northern
England’ where he began seeking records of the Irish Catholic poor
in 1966: the churches that often stood in ‘half-deserted urban
wastelands’ created by slum clearance; the ‘lumber-room of the
town hall’ where he unearthed documents; the dinners he shared with
a Wigan priest in a ‘tobacco-stained waistcoat’ and his Irish-born
housekeeper. In the 19th century, Irish migrants were among the
poorest of the poor, vastly removed from the old recusant families or
the elite Catholic revival that kicked off in 1833. Churches were
often in rented rooms – one was thrown up in Camberwell in 1863 on a
site comprising ‘a ragshop with a pigsty in the rear’ – and were
subject to anti-Catholic hostility.

Priests lived among their congregations, often in ordinary workmen’s
cottages, in constant and familiar intercourse, yet also ‘remote’,
enjoying a ‘peculiar and esoteric power’. In addition to leading
services and hearing confession, which earlier in the century they
sometimes did in the rooms where they lived, they spent their days
‘child hunting’ for their ‘Poor Schools’, visiting the sick,
defusing fistfights and domestic rows, and generally ministering to
the secular as well as religious needs of their congregations. The
social investigator Charles Booth thought they were ‘lenient judges
of the frailties that are not sins, and of the disorder that is not
crime’. In 1843, the temperance advocate Father Mathew administered
the pledge to some penitents who were actually ‘in a state of
intoxication’ and may well have been, as Samuel suggests,
experiencing the fleeting regret of the very drunk rather than a
lasting desire for reform. In Birmingham in 1863, a priest implored
his flock to put in requests for sick calls before 10 a.m., ‘except
in very urgent cases which seldom happen as those which are _called_
urgent are nearly always nothing of the kind’. The meetings of St
Bridget’s Confraternity in the early 1880s, led by Father Sheridan,
a priest at St Patrick’s in Soho, mainly comprised humorous
readings, with rosaries the only brief nod to observance. In his
register, Sheridan constantly congratulated himself on the uproarious
laughter he provoked. Priests had a relationship not only with the
devout but also with the lapsed: when one passed ‘groups of girls
whose looks and attire betrayed their infamous calling’ in Drury
Lane, they dropped curtseys to him.

The Church treated ‘Irish’ and ‘Catholic’ as synonyms, and its
infrastructure sustained Irish communities and identities. In Irish
homes, religious and patriotic decorations sat side by side: ‘a
picture of the Saviour on one wall and one of J.L. Sullivan, the
bare-knuckle fighter, opposite’. Oral tradition, too, entangled
national identity and religion. (Samuel wasn’t interested only in
oral history as a technique of the professional historian but in oral
traditions as live transmitters of political history and collective
identity.) One autobiographer, who grew up in Leicester in the 1860s,
wrote that his father ‘was a Limerick man, and we were often hearing
of the hero Patrick Sarsfield [a Jacobite military commander], and the
women of Limerick who fought and repelled the English during the siege
of that city’; if he found himself accidentally singing a Protestant
hymn, he would ‘spit out to cleanse my mouth’. As a ‘form of
inquiry’, Samuel wrote in the _LRB_ of 14 June 1990
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history is a ‘journey into the unknown’. These essays suggest how
keenly he felt this to be true.

In​ 1880 Britain could with some justification be called the
‘workshop of the world’: it produced more than 20 per cent of
global industrial output and about 40 per cent of the world’s
manufactured exports. In the nearly half-century since Samuel
published his essay of that name, historians have done much to
undermine the narrative of an ‘industrial revolution’ bookended by
the invention of the spinning jenny in 1764 and the New Poor Law of
1834. Nevertheless, it endures as one of our defining national myths.
The ‘industrial revolution’ is often understood imprecisely and
expansively, encompassing anything and everything from mechanisation
and the development of the factory system to the division of labour
and the shift of employment from agriculture to manufacturing, as well
as commercial and financial innovations, the take-off of economic
growth and the development of capitalism itself. This conceptual
slippage makes the heroic British inventor the protagonist of the
story of 19th-century economic accumulation, instead of, for example,
the employer of sweated labour or the investor in the transatlantic
slave trade. The classic account of industrialisation was David
Landes’s _The Unbound Prometheus_ (1969)_,_ which argued that
economic transformation was rooted in three crucial substitutions: of
‘machines ... for human skill and effort’, of ‘inanimate for
animate sources of power’, and of ‘mineral for vegetable or animal
substances’ as raw materials.

Samuel took issue with all three claims. In Lancashire cotton
production, coal power, machinery and the factory system were
completely dominant by the mid-19th century – but Lancashire was an
outlier. What about the armies of needlewomen still toiling away in
their own homes? What about the inhabitants of Headington Quarry, with
their arduous work in the brickmaking industry, their market gardens,
pigsties and poaching? The spread of capitalism was profoundly uneven,
Samuel argued; economic growth was ‘rooted in a subsoil of
small-scale enterprise’ and often driven by hand power – by men,
women and children. In the later 19th century ‘there were few parts
of the economy which steam power and machinery had left untouched’,
but there were ‘fewer still where it ruled unchallenged’.

Employers fantasised about a ‘self-acting’ mechanism, particularly
when faced with the rise of trade unionism, but only specific parts of
labour processes were amenable to mechanisation. A machine invented in
1824 was supposed to produce a complete pin, but four decades later
the heads were still often being put on by hand. Though biscuits could
be mass-produced, breadmaking was, as Marx put it in _Capital,_ still
‘pre-Christian’. In 1892 a leatherworker told the Royal Commission
on Labour that ‘I do not think you will ever get machinery into our
trade until you can grow all the animals of one size with just the
same blemishes.’ Many trades, like building, expanded output through
the proliferation of small tradesmen and through tapping the vast
reserve army of labour. Sawmills could produce only the crudest
products; rather than putting masses of woodworkers out of business,
they made raw materials cheaper, allowing what had once been luxury
goods to become available to sections of the working class (hence
anxieties in the 1870s about miners with pianos).

Steam-powered ventilation and drainage allowed coal mines to expand,
but at the coalface the shovel and pick, ‘tools of the most
primitive description’, prevailed. In fact mining remained
shockingly primitive in most pits until nationalisation in 1947, when
one of the new National Coal Board’s main goals was mechanisation.
China and crockery were produced in factories as early as the 1760s,
but ‘the same essential appliances as were used in Egypt four
thousand years ago’ were still in use in the mid-19th century; new
machinery made only slow progress from the 1870s onwards, as workers
resisted its encroachment. In some cases, it was employers who
resisted mechanisation. Paint manufacturers in Newcastle reacted
negatively to the idea of installing hoists to replace the women
employees who carried pots of lead weighing between thirty and fifty
pounds up 15-foot ladders: machinery ‘wants to be put in order’,
but ladders ‘last a long time’. A large amount of human input was
often required to make a finished product of sufficiently high
quality. In 1914 railwaymen still thought that rivets ‘put in by
hand are far more trustworthy’ than a machine’s work. If trade
union agitation made employers keener on mechanisation, an excess of
cheap labour in the mid-Victorian period, as Marx suggested in
_Capital,_ constrained the extension of mechanisation and steam power.
In America, where labour was scarcer and wages higher, machinery more
frequently represented a good investment: in the US ‘navvy’ refers
to the steam navvy, patented there in 1841; in Britain, the term still
evokes the armies of itinerant labourers, often Irish, who were still
doing much of the heavy lifting for big infrastructure projects into
the 1890s.

Samuel’s thesis has obvious relevance for our current debates about
AI. In 1750, more than a million women and children were employed in
spinning, and their earnings accounted, in many cases, for more than a
third of their household income. When new technology put them out of
work, these families suffered. But spinning was an extreme case. One
study of the linen industry in 1860 suggested that while mechanisation
improved productivity in spinning by a factor of 320, it only
quadrupled output in weaving and often reduced the quality: the
progress of mechanisation in the latter area was therefore much
slower. The impact of machine learning will likely be similar: graphic
designers or call-centre workers or radiographers or solicitors may
turn out to be the spinners of the 21st century, but change will be
lumpier and more contradictory than both tech-boosters and
tech-doomers assume. ChatGPT is good at answering some questions, but
computers still can’t even read as well as humans – optical
character recognition makes frequent mistakes (digitising ‘Workshop
of the World’ it rendered Wal Hannington, the communist agitator, as
‘Hennington’). Who will be our equivalent of those out-workers
still putting the heads on machine-made pins in the 1860s?

As well as unpicking neat ideas about orderly ‘economic
development’ under the guidance of the invisible hand of the market
and the genius of British invention, Samuel wanted to turn
historians’ attention away from tables of wages and prices and
towards the experience of labour. Factories and machines certainly did
not make work lighter: in fact, there was an ‘enormous deterioration
in working conditions’ as workplaces sped up and got hotter, wages
and piece rates were held down, and sweating and ‘dangerous’
trades proliferated.

‘Workshop of the World’ was supposed to be the first instalment of
a trilogy: the second and third parts never appeared, but some of the
directions of Samuel’s thinking can be traced through the files on
‘sweating’ in his archive, held at the Bishopsgate Institute. An
account from early 19th-century Lancashire describes one
‘putter-out’ of weaving work who was known as ‘Jimmy Squeezum’
since he always deducted large sums from his workers’ pay for
supposed flaws. In 1856 a trade union for Glasgow tailors challenged
anyone to find a sewing machine and ‘machine-driver’ who could
beat a pair of tailors in making any garment a ‘gentleman’ might
wear. The Labour MP George Edwards recalled in his autobiography,
_From Crow-Scaring to Westminster,_ that in the mid-19th century, he
had ‘known my mother to be at the loom 16 hours out of the 24, and
for these long hours she would not average more than 4s a week, and
very often less than that’. James Allen, a shoemaker, took his
employer to the Northampton Petty Sessions in 1879 alleging that he
had not been paid £1 12s 7d for work closing uppers. In 1882 London
shoemakers went on strike to protest against the practice of docking
part of their wages to pay rent and lighting costs for the factories
in which they worked. A note in _The Hosiery Review_ from 1888 pointed
out that in Leicestershire workers were still being charged frame rent
by their employers.

There are blind spots in Samuel’s perspective. Empire figures
remarkably little in _Workshop of the World_, despite its title.
Britain didn’t just expand its share of global trade in the 19th
century, it did so as an imperial power: it didn’t just replace
India as the biggest transoceanic exporter of cotton fabrics, but
turned India into the largest market for its own exports. In many
regards, however, Samuel’s research agendas remain live today and
his arguments have only been supported and extended by later writers.
Economic historians such as Nick Crafts now emphasise that
productivity gains from new technology in the late 18th century (and
well into the 19th) were modest. They also point out how long it took
to get foundational technologies like steam engines working
effectively. Samuel’s rejection of the idea of ‘mechanisation as a
self-generating process’ and his suggestion that employers’ fears
of worker combination helped drive the adoption of some technology
finds support in Andreas Malm’s _Fossil Capital,_ which holds that
factory owners turned definitively from water power to coal after
around 1830 not because coal was more abundant or more powerful, but
rather because steam-powered machinery made it possible for them to
relocate factories, discipline unruly labour and escape from the
system of shared reservoirs and streams that required them to
collaborate rather than compete with other employers. David
Edgerton’s global history of technology since 1900, _The Shock of
the Old,_ demonstrates how halting the march of scientific progress
was. Samuel lamented in 1977 that there were no historians attempting
to ‘compute the comparative mortality of the trades’ or
‘reconstitute the aetiology of industrial disease’. Since then
there has been an explosion of historical interest in experiences at
work. The ‘Living with Machines’ project, a collaboration between
the Turing Institute and the British Library along with several
universities, deployed optical character recognition, computer power
and machine learning to examine the ways new technology changed
everyday life and death in the long 19th century; between 2018 and
2023, it was funded to the tune of £9 million.

The​ 1979 History Workshop staged a rehashing of what was already
one of the most vituperative disputes on the New Left, between E.P.
Thompson and the advocates of ‘theory’. Thompson ripped into the
other speakers, Stuart Hall and Richard Johnson. The atmosphere, as
Sophie Scott-Brown describes in her excellent biography of Samuel from
2017, was already bad. The Ruskin student collective organising the
conference wasn’t keen on the theoretical preoccupations of many
academics in the _History Workshop_ editorial collective; some members
had already suggested forming a breakaway workshop to get back to the
study of labour history. After Thompson’s blow-up, the final plenary
session was quietly cancelled. Samuel, who probably took this
decision, was essentially a Thompsonian: he defended a focus on
‘real life experience’ and empirical work, which he suggested
could ‘do more for our theoretical understanding of ideology and
consciousness than any number of further “interpellations” on the
theme of “relative autonomy”’. (A dig at Althusserians.) Samuel
pointed out that, like ‘any other intellectual artefact’, theory
isn’t timeless but ‘has its material and ideological conditions of
existence’. But he wasn’t entirely a sceptic, arguing that good
history required a ‘theoretically informed’ understanding of
language, and that socialism required a serious analysis of
‘bourgeois ideology’.

Margaret Thatcher’s election in 1979 diverted Samuel’s
intellectual energies down several new courses. First, he turned his
attention to the deconstruction of Thatcherite appeals to ‘Victorian
values’ and nationalist myths, organising a History Workshop to
examine the ‘jingoism’ of the Falklands War and editing three
resulting volumes on patriotism. Samuel, who had long been interested
in J.R. Green’s _Short History of the English People_ (1874), a sort
of _Volksgeschichte_ for England which he saw as part of the genealogy
of ‘people’s history’, had not only a typically leftist
scepticism of intolerant nationalism, but also a more unusual openness
to the positive attractions of imaginative identification with the
nation. In 1984-85 he supported the miners’ strike, and convened a
group of miners and their wives to write their own history of the
dispute. Later in the decade, he weighed in on debates about the new
national curriculum, finding himself in unlikely agreement with the
arch-conservative Geoffrey Elton, historian of the Tudors, on the
value of historical training in inculcating critical and imaginative
skills, and on the importance of teaching British history in Britain.
Samuel thought the latter made sense pedagogically – students would
bring some knowledge and interest to the subject from the outset –
and because it would enable them to engage critically with the images
of the past they would encounter in the culture at large (‘Victorian
values’ again). All these projects fed into Samuel’s main
preoccupation in the 1980s and early 1990s: public history and popular
memory. But where many on the left viewed the history boom of the
1980s as a retreat from politics into conservative nostalgia, Samuel
was excited, seeing popular historical enthusiasm as democratic,
pluralist, potentially even radical – another way of doing
‘people’s history’.

Samuel remained engaged with History Workshop and its journal, but
more distantly. The Workshop was still ecumenical and political, but
it detached from Ruskin and moved around the country, working
increasingly with polytechnics and local heritage and arts
organisations. The journal, by contrast, had long been leaning away
from activism and towards academia, and in 1990 joined Oxford
University Press. Shifts were underway at Ruskin too: during
Thatcher’s time as prime minister, the college’s commitment to
educating trade unionists and activists who would return to their
workplaces and communities as agitators was under pressure.
Nevertheless, Samuel remained there until the last year of his life,
when he moved to the University of East London to set up a Centre for
East London History. After his death, it was renamed the Raphael
Samuel History Centre. The institutions Samuel helped to found are
just as significant for his legacy as his published work. They embody
not a doctrine but an ethos: socialist and pluralist, oppositional but
committed, experimental and enthusiastic.

In 1978, Samuel recommended the Bishopsgate Institute to readers of
_History Workshop_. It is now a popular destination for scholars
working on all sorts of radical movements, but was then ‘very much
off the beaten academic track’. Samuel supplied some of the
institute’s history: founded in 1894 by the vicar of St Botolph’s,
a promoter of secular education for the masses, it developed its
special collections under the aegis of the librarian Charles William
Goss, who set about acquiring specialist tomes on London history and
the archival collections of trade unionists and political radicals. In
1910 Goss got his hands on the minutes of the First International,
which after 1917 became hot property: alarmed by Soviet requests to
see the minutes, the governors of the institute declared that no one
would ever be allowed to look at them and locked them in a deed box in
the strongroom of the Midland Bank in Bishopsgate. They were only
released after the Anglo-Soviet Agreement of 1941, when Churchill
himself intervened on behalf of Moscow, and the Soviet ambassador’s
wife was able to make a complete transcription of the originals. Ever
alive to readers’ temporal as well as intellectual needs, Samuel
also informed prospective researchers that the Bishopsgate had an
‘_excellent_ cafeteria’ with ‘real coffee, freshly scrubbed
vegetables and old-fashioned English cooking’: ‘ham and egg tart,
mashed potatoes and carrots, 48p; steamed fish, 62p; jam pudding
12p’.

 

Florence Sutcliffe-Braithwaite teaches history at UCL. She is
co-editor of _The Neoliberal Age?_, about Britain since the 1970s.
_Women and the Miners’ Strike_, co-authored with Natalie Thomlinson,
is due in October.

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