A cultural recovery: Does history offer a glimmer of hope?

Cultural enrichment is vital to society. Engaging with the arts, heritage and creative industries teaches us, inspires us, help us to formulate our identities and can positively transform our health and wellbeing. But most importantly, it is a coping mechanism; a way of lifting our spirits when life feels a bit too much. It is not surprising, therefore, that in this new socially distanced world where cultural venues are closed, there has been a dramatic increase in cultural outputs being made available online.

The arts and heritage industries, however, are in a desperate state with many organisations struggling to survive economically, leaving workers in the sectors extremely concerned. There have been increased calls for the UK Government to provide emergency bailouts, particularly for theatres and music venues; a petition for which has been launched this month. As I have watched all this unfold, I have wondered at the potential for the cultural sectors in a post-lockdown world and how the crisis could lead to their renewal, but providing of course, they survive in the first place.

It is with great hesitation that we should compare Second World War experiences with the current pandemic, as clearly the circumstances are entirely different. But the war was the last time in Britain that society was transformed in such a sudden and all-encompassing manner, and it is worth examining how culture and leisure was used then compared to now. Particularly as an understanding of how culture evolved 80 years ago to fulfil the needs of a post-crisis society, could offer encouragement for the present.

Following Britain’s declaration of war on the 3 September 1939, the government announced to the public that all cinemas, theatres, dance halls and places of public entertainment would be immediately closed. The government, however, soon modified its approach upon realising the positive impact leisure pursuits would have on civilian morale and, despite the difficulties caused by the blackout and air raids, began to extend cultural opportunities across Britain. The Council for the Encouragement of Music and the Arts (CEMA) was formed in January 1940 and was subsidised by the government. In words that sound like they could have been written in 2020, the council was instructed:

to bring together for their mutual satisfaction the needs of artists of all kinds whose livelihood was threatened and people who were starved of recreation which they could give.

The British government, through CEMA, began to economically support the touring of theatre, opera and ballet companies across the country. They arranged for Sadler’s Wells Opera Company to travel to industrial towns to present ‘utility’ Opera (Opera sung in English) and organised the Ballet Rambert’s tour of factories and hostels, as well as the Pilgrim Players’ tours of village halls. These tours were immensely popular, and in 1944 alone, CEMA put on 6,140 recitals and concerts.

Alongside CEMA, the government also supported the Entertainments National Service Association (ENSA) which was formed in 1939 and focused on providing entertainment for British forces and industry workers on the home front. They played everywhere from parish halls to underground stations and during the course of the war, staged over two million concerts, mostly taking the form of ‘Symphony Concerts for War Workers’. The ENSA programme cost £14 million and it is estimated that they employed four out of five British actors at some point during the hostilities.

The queue outside the National Gallery for a lunchtime concert by the pianist, Dame Myra Hess. She played concerts there throughout the Blitz. © The National Gallery.

The entertainment industries thrived during the war and this ‘cultural explosion’ served a twofold purpose. It offered the population the spiritual enrichment needed to cope with the demands of total war, but by celebrating culture, Britain emphasised that it was fighting for what was best in civilisation. The arts came to symbolise the antithesis of Nazism.

In the current crisis, nations are, of course, united in their fight against the coronavirus and there is no need to use culture as a piece of propaganda. However, there is still a need for culture to be deployed as a coping mechanism as we struggle to adjust to new ways of living. On the surface, it may appear inappropriate to say there has been a ‘culture explosion’ at present, given that we are unable to visit cultural sites and venues, and as stated earlier, the sectors are fighting to survive.

However, what has been remarkable is the dedication of individuals and organisations to ensure culture remains accessible for all to enjoy, albeit in new ways. There has been a plethora of content, including virtual tours; podcasts; innovative online exhibitions; streamed theatre productions and concerts; online creative courses; and specific initiatives for those unable to access the internet, such as home delivered art boxes. The UK Government compiled a list of lockdown cultural offerings at the beginning of lockdown, and the Culture Diary have continued to provide an updated list over the past few months. Upon reading them, one must conclude that Britain is again using culture as a coping mechanism.

The historian, Arthur Marwick, once stated that ‘the stirrings of the human spirit of the times can be traced in the condition of the arts’. Now, while the arts may be struggling economically at the moment, the innovation and talent with which individuals working in the cultural sectors have responded to the COVID-19 crisis has been inspiring. By finding new ways to share culture, their dedication has helped sustain many a human spirit during the past few months. Indeed, by evolving into new forms, cultural offerings are finding new audiences.

Interestingly, this also happened during the Second World War. The government’s drive to make cultural and leisure pursuits accessible nationwide, meant previously high-class leisure pursuits were no longer constrained to the intelligentsia of London but instead were dispersed across Britain and became increasingly mainstream forms of entertainment. People engaged with new leisure pursuits because, for many, it was the first time these forms of culture were made available to them. The pre-war rules that defined and categorised upper, middle and working class leisure became less defined and people embraced culture with a new enthusiasm. In the process a start was made towards the nation’s cultural sectors becoming more inclusive.

It is, of course, too early to draw definitive conclusions for the present. However, initiatives, such as the ‘National Theatre At Home‘, have undoubtedly removed geographical and economic barriers for many. The last few months has shown what is possible and how a rethinking of how we consume culture could lead to a reduction of the barriers that in the pre-COVID-19 world, stopped many people in society engaging with culture on a regular basis. Will online theatre shows become a regular occurrence? Will digital art festivals become more commonplace? Finances will dictate this, but I do wonder if future historians will identify the COVID-19 crisis as a step change in how we access and use culture.

Indeed, the wartime explosion of culture and leisure led to lasting change that has shaped how we access the arts today. During the war, CEMA devised early plans for a Civic Theatres Scheme and in 1942, after already having begun to subsidise numerous theatre companies, they took over the lease of the Theatre Royal (later the Bristol Old Vic) and it became the first state-run theatre in the country. The new post-war Labour government committed to expanding this work and in their 1945 manifesto stated:

by the provisions of concert halls, modern libraries, theatres and suitable civic centres, we desire to assure to our people full access to the great heritage of culture in this nation.

This was transformed into policy in Article 132 of the 1948 Local Government Act and councils across Britain began to finance the building of new theatres and concert halls. CEMA had always hoped their work would continue following the war, and in their report on the ‘Long Term Planning for the Arts’ published in 1942, they stated that they wanted the future to bring about a linking up of the professional arts with amateur work and educational programmes. The increased building of civic theatres in the post-war period meant regional companies evolved who developed strong links with local communities and nurtured local talent, and in many ways achieved this wartime vision of CEMA.

The Arts Council of Great Britain became the post-war successor of CEMA and continued, as was the tradition under CEMA, to channel state funding to the promotion and maintenance of British culture. In the post-war world, arts and culture had become a ‘beacon of hope’ for renewal in a society still living with the turmoil and austerity caused by years at war. Multiple arts festivals emerged including The Edinburgh International Festival and, most famously, the Festival of Britain; a national exhibition in 1951 which used the opportunity of the centenary of the 1851 great exhibition to promote British science along with the arts. The encouragement of cultural enrichment was a way of heeling the nation, and as a side effect, culture opened up to more people and became stronger than ever.

Crowds at the South Bank Exhibition of the Festival of Britain, 1951. © Southbank Centre Archive.

The post-war enthusiasm for making culture more accessible is maintained by many cultural institutions, but there are still significant disparities in how differing socio-economic groups engage with cultural activities. The 2018/19 Taking Part Survey by the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport found that:

Of those living in the 10% most deprived geographic areas, 66.8% reported having engaged with the arts at least once in the past 12 months whilst this was 85.0% for
those living in the 10% least deprived areas.

The same survey also found that only 61% of those in the lower socio-economic group enagaged with heritage at least one in the last 12 months, compared to 81.6% in the upper socio-economic group. For those who said they did not engage with arts or heritage, three of the top reasons included 1) a health condition or disability 2) too difficult to get to 3) too expensive. Cultural organisations have been working hard to combat these disparities for a long time, but in our current new mindset of making the arts and heritage accessible beyond physical spaces, it is likely that the increased availability of digital content has, for many, alleviated some of the barriers outlined above.

As we find news way for people to engage with culture from their own homes, I hope it is not too optimistic of me to think that a precedent will be set leading to cultural pursuits becoming increasingly accessible and inclusive in the long term. This, however, all depends on whether funding for the cultural sectors are given due consideration by the UK Government in COVID-19 recovery plans.

For now, economic survival is a priority, but just maybe, the sector as a whole might, in the long term, arise from the ashes anew, freshly inspired to not leave anyone behind in the search for the nation’s cultural enrichment. If properly funded, culture can again be used to inspire the nation and so help with our recovery. It’s not just about lifting the lockdown, but lifting spirits, and the arts, heritage and creative industries are all uniquely placed to do this, albeit in new socially distanced ways.

An Officer’s kindness at the Battle of Loos

Historical research necessitates hours and hours of trawling through archives seeking relevant information. But sometimes you find something that completely stops you in your tracks and affects you in a very emotional way.

This was the case when I came across the Private Papers of 2^nd Lieutenant G C Jackson at the Imperial War Museum. The story contained was both humbling and inspiring and serves as a powerful reminder that even during the darkest of times, the best of humanity is still there, shining through.

Lieutenant George Conway Jackson of the “A” Coy, 6^th Battalion, King’s Own Scottish Borderers was born in 1890 in Fife, Scotland to Mrs Eliza Sophia Jackson and Mr Edward James Jackson. He studied at Exeter College, Oxford, and prior to the First World War, was forging a career for himself in business in British Colombia. Upon the declaration of war, however, he quickly returned to Scotland to enlist into his brother Edward’s regiment.

Lieutenant George Conway Jackson © IWM

Before he left for war in December 1914, his mother, Eliza, gave him her Daily Light prayer book. In the inside cover she wrote, ‘G. Conway Jackson from his mother, Dec 1914’, alongside a verse from the Bible: ‘I pray God your whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ’ (1 Thessalonians 5:23). Previously she has also used the prayer book to record important dates, such as Conway’s birthday, the day he left home for Oxford University in 1909, the day he arrived in Montreal in 1913, and various other family anniversaries and occasions.

In his letter home from the front, dated 23 September 1915, Conway included a passage to be read only by his mother in which he referred to the strength and comfort that the prayer book had given him and stated that if anything should happen to him, then she should know that he was ready for it and went ‘cheerfully and thankfully’ to meet God. Tragically, Conway died two days later on 25 September 1915 during a battle south of the canal of La-Bassée-Lens (start of the Battle of Loos) and has no known grave.

Four years after his death, in June 1919, Eliza, with no prior warning, received a letter in the post from a British officer called Captain E. Wynne Hughes who was serving in the British Army of the Rhine. Contained with his letter was her son’s Daily Light prayer book and an account by a German officer detailing the events surrounding her son’s death in 1915.

Lieutenant substitute Fritz Hirz, found the book in the hands of Lieutenant Jackson following the battle on the canal of La- Bassée, and he described in a report how he was struck by the peaceful look upon Lieutenant Jackson’s face. He stated, ‘he must have been a child of God and must have found that rest in Jesus, which the world does not know’. Upon reading the inscription written by his mother inside the book, he determined it must have been a dear souvenir of his and kept it with the intention of returning the book to his mother after the war. Despite all the chaos around him, the feelings of a mother somewhere, unknown to him, were still paramount in his thoughts.

The officer, however, died later during the war and it was his brother who prepared the account to send to Eliza. Captain Hughes was billeted with the siblings’ cousin and decided upon hearing the story that he would find Eliza’s address through the war office and facilitate the returning of the prayer book to her.

Eliza’s response to the letter is not recorded, but one can assume that the return of this memento must have been of great comfort to her. In her son’s last letter home, he specifically referenced the Daily Light book, and moreover, she had used the prayer book to record the normality of family life before the war. It was a family keepsake, but more than that, it had comforted Lieutenant Jackson in his last moments, and so the return of the book may have allowed Eliza, and indeed the rest of the Jackson family, to feel closer to Conway, particularly in the absence of him having any known grave.

Ultimately, they were only allowed this kindness because of the thoughtful actions of a German officer who saw Lieutenant Jackson not as an enemy, but a young man like himself, who would be deeply missed by his loved ones. At that moment and under the most trying circumstances, the German officer exemplified the best of humanity, as did his brother and Captain Hughes who later completed the Officer’s wishes and insured Eliza was reunited with her son’s great source of comfort.

Information summarised from Private Papers of 2^nd Lieutenant G C Jackson, IWM, Documents.3240.

Civilian Internment in First World War Britain

At the outbreak of the First World War, Britain arranged a mass internment operation for citizens of the enemy states living or travelling in its territories. These individuals were known as enemy aliens and they were detained on the grounds of protecting the nation from a potential internal security risk. Many, however, had been long-term residents in Britain and had laid the foundations of their lives here.

By 1915, over 30,000 men of military age had been interned in camps across the British Isles and most were not released until 1919. Women, children and elderly enemy aliens were not interned but were either repatriated or remained living in Britain and were treated as pariahs by the rest of society.

The experiences of these individuals, however, have been somewhat overlooked in British public memory and war commemorations. A recent episode of A House Through Time explored the topic and many individuals who posted comments on Twitter in response to it expressed regret that they were unaware of the suffering of enemy aliens. Many also stated they were disappointed that the stories had not featured more highly in the First World War Centenary commemorations.

 

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These comments made me remember a conversation I had as a child with my Nan when she showed me a memoir that was written by my great-great grandfather, Paul Meier, whilst he was interned at Alexandra Palace for being an enemy alien. I asked my Nan what he had done wrong, to which she replied, ‘Nothing’. To my child’s brain this made no sense. Naively, I thought, how could someone be imprisoned if they had not committed a crime?

Of course, I can now situate my great-great grandfather’s experience within the political climate of the time, but my childhood observation that my ancestor was treated unfairly is exactly why I believe there have been so few conversations about enemy aliens in public discourse. Britain has always liked to think of itself as an upholder of justice but its imprisonment of innocent civilians during the First World War undermines this prevailing narrative.

An extract from Paul Meier’s diary in which he refers to ‘this dreadful murderous European war’.

From the outbreak of war, the British state endeavoured to convince the British public that the war was a righteous fight against barbarianism, and by extension, propaganda began to depict German people as aggressors who were the very antithesis of British values. Anti-immigrant attitudes had been growing in the country since the late 19th century, and now much of this, encouraged by the overt messages in state-sanctioned propaganda, came to the forefront of British public life. As reports of German atrocities circulated, some actual and some fabricated, ordinary Britons became increasingly suspicious of and hostile towards Germans, Austrians and other enemy aliens living in their communities. Under these circumstances, a mass panic ensued, in which many people feared that numerous spies were operating in Britain to sabotage the war effort.

There were indeed spies in the country, and it is important to remember that this was wartime and emotions were heightened, particularly for those who had loved ones fighting overseas. The panic, however, spiralled out of control and led to the press and the public pressuring the government into dealing with the perceived ‘German threat’.

Prior to the war, a vibrant German community existed in Britain, particularly in London where they were the second largest migrant group. Many of these individuals considered themselves very much integrated into British society. This included my great-great grandfather who emigrated to Britain from Bavaria in the early 1900s and married an English woman, Emily Myall, in 1905. Prior to the war, they lived in Croydon with their two daughters where Paul worked as a watchmaker.

For individuals like Paul and Emily, however, the outbreak of the war led to the unravelling of the very foundations on which they had built their lives. The Aliens Restriction Act was passed on 5 August 1914 and required ‘enemy aliens’ over the age of 16 to register their details with the police. Four further acts were passed that month, which together were called the Aliens Restriction Order. Combined they restricted enemy aliens from travelling more than five miles from their home, from living in prohibited zones, from forming social clubs, and gave the Home Office the power to deport individuals. Enemy aliens considered by the government to be particularly dangerous to national security were immediately interned at makeshift camps across Britain, and these amounted to 10,500 by 23 September 1914.

The treatment of enemy aliens with contempt had been sanctioned by the government, and for those still at liberty, hostility towards them increased dramatically in public life. They were dismissed from their jobs, made to feel unwelcome in public spaces (some shops had signs discouraging the custom of Germans), and they became the targets of violent retaliation attacks by family members who had lost loved ones. Waves of anti-German riots also became commonplace, whereby the homes and businesses of Germans were ransacked.

The Anti-German League (later renamed The British Empire Union) was established in 1915 with the explicit aim of eradicating German and Austrian influence from the country, and in adverts posted in national and regional newspapers across Britain, they called for support to help ‘wind up all enemy businesses’, ‘intern all enemy aliens’ and make ‘Britain for the British’.

For citizens of the enemy nations living in Britain, especially those who had not naturalised, it was a terrifying time and matters worsened following the sinking of the passenger cruise liner, the Lusitania, by a German U-boat on 7 May 1915. Anti-German riots immediately intensified, first beginning in Liverpool and Manchester before spreading to London and the rest of Britain. The extract below describes the mob that descended on East London to target German homes and businesses:

Some Germans were pursued into their homes by the mob and pitched through the windows into the street, others were ducked in troughs, and others had their clothing stripped off their backs…Terrified Germans who were found hiding under beds, were thrown out into the street, beds and all. (Guardian, 13 May 1915).

Such scenes were replicated across the country, but the worst violence took place in London where 257 people were injured. Polices forces were overwhelmed as they struggled to protect the fleeing victims, and consequently, despite enemy aliens themselves being victims of crime, the Government decided it was they who should be detained in order to maintain public order. On the 13 May, Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, announced that all non-naturalised aliens of military age would be interned, and the elderly, women and children would ‘in suitable cases’ be repatriated.

The policy was introduced with immediate effect and by November 1915, the number of civilians interned had reached 32,440. Many long-term residents of Britain found themselves stripped of their freedom and forcibly separated from their families, despite having committed no crime or there being any evidence of them holding allegiances to their birth nation. Individuals who had naturalised were not interned, but worryingly for them, in August 1918, the British Nationality and Status of Aliens Act, gave the Home Secretary new powers to repeal naturalisation certificates.

The devastation that internment and widespread xenophobia caused to the lives of enemy aliens should not be underestimated. There are, for example, more than a few cases of individuals who committed suicide because they could not cope with the fear of internment and the persecution they experienced. The last words of a grocer from Bermondsey, in his 1915 suicide letter, were:

My dear wife and children, the agony you have suffered these two days is breaking my heart. Why don’t Englishmen of military age fight the Germans in the trenches instead of old men and women and rob them of their few sticks (Daily Mirror, 1915).

Moreover, for those who were interned, a long-term decline in mental health was a serious possibility. For many internees, the separation from their families, combined with not knowing for how long they would be interned, led to severe bouts of depression, or what was later termed Barbed Wire Disease. The inability to achieve privacy and, of course, the loss of freedom and identity, also caused great distress.

My own great-great Grandfather, Paul Meier, was transferred from Alexandra Palace to Croydon Union Infirmary on Armistice Day after being certified as ‘insane’ by the Camp’s medical officer. Eleven days later he was moved to Warlingham Park Mental hospital where he remained until he died in 1947.

Importantly, moreover, the wives and children of men interned also suffered greatly as a result of the polices. Women acquired the nationality of their husbands upon marriage, meaning many British women found themselves ostracised by their neighbours and friends for being ‘enemy aliens’ in the only country they had ever known. They had also lost the financial stability that was provided by their husband and, in many cases, their economic assets were seized by the government.

For families left destitute, they were reliant on charities for help, the largest of which was the Friends Emergency and War Victims Relief Committee (part of the Quaker Society of Friends). They assisted women in finding housing and with the costs of visiting their husbands who were interned. Individuals and organisations who tried to help, however, were themselves subject to hostility and were accused of being ‘hun coodlers’.

Internees reported that one of the most disturbing factors of internment was the inability to financially provide for their families or offer moral support through such hardships. Emily Meier, my great-great grandmother, was pregnant with my great-grandfather when her husband was interned in May 1915 and being an orphan, she had no family to turn to as she tried to provide for her two daughters. Ultimately, life must have become unbearable as she struggled to raise her children in a deeply Germanophobic society. She was admitted to the same hospital as her husband in 1922 after insisting that he was being persecuted there.

Both Paul and Emily remained in Warlingham Park Hospital until their deaths. It was the trauma of internment that negatively transformed their lives and left their children without a family and being raised in care. Their story, however, is just one among thousands of enemy aliens whose lives were transformed, to varying degrees and in varying ways, by the British state and the British public’s treatment of enemy aliens both during, and beyond, the First World War.

In the lead up to the 1918 general election many politicians made promises to prevent enemy aliens from remaining in Britain following their release from internment, and the 1919 Aliens Restriction Act did just this, by making the deportation of former enemy aliens mandatory unless a licence to remain was granted. Ultimately, the German population, through forced repatriation, declined in Britain form 57,000 in 1914 to 22,254 in 1919. For those who did remain, the hostility they experienced during the war continued into the inter-war period and The British Empire Union invented a new slogan with which to torment them; ‘Once a German, Always a German’.

British Empire Union Poster, 1919.

The hostility with which the British public treated their German neighbours and the subjection of innocent civilians to imprisonment is something that is uncomfortable for many British people who are accustomed to believing that the nation fought against tyranny in a united and courageous manner. But it is an episode of British history that is a powerful reminder of how easily fear and scaremongering can devastate the lives of individuals, families and communities, and for that reason it needs to be more readily discussed in public representations of the war.

The First World War was a time of immense suffering for many and rightly so, every Armistice day, we remember those killed, disabled or who suffered psychological trauma. There is, however, also space to remember those who were not directly involved in the fighting, but who nonetheless had their lives negatively transformed by the political and social shock waves that the global military conflict unleashed across the world. The suffering of enemy aliens is a part of this, and if we are more honest about this episode of British history, it could help us as a society better understand how destructive ‘othering’ is, especially in times of crisis; a lesson still pertinent today.

The Politics of Victorian Music Halls

Victorian music halls are often depicted as overtly conservative spaces. Michael Grade in his 2011 documentary, ‘The Story of the Music Hall’, referred to audience members exclusively as ‘working class Tories’. Such claims are often supported by citing the acceptance of the class order within songs and the enthusiasm with which audiences sang along to jingoistic choruses. 

However, this depiction is actually a misconception; a conservative tone was by no means entirely universal. Opposing opinions were present on the halls, and political loyalties varied depending on geography and audience dynamics. It is important to acknowledge these discrepancies if we are to understand the complexity of working class political attitudes during the 19th century.

The association of the halls with conservatism is understandable. In the later decades of the 19th century, the Liberal party began an attack on the alcohol trade; the lifeblood of the music hall business. In 1871, the Liberal Licensing Act, implemented by William Gladstone’s government, restricted the opening hours of public houses, regulated beer production and gave local boroughs the option to ban alcohol. The act was deeply unpopular and contributed to a Conservative victory in the general election of 1874. Music hall proprietors saw these Liberal policies as a direct attack upon their livelihood, and the audiences interpreted it as an attempt by the middle classes to control working class culture. 

Moreover, from the 1870s, the larger, commercialised West End music halls became popular with aristocrats, military officers, students and clerks, many of whom were traditional Conservative supporters. The audiences of these establishments became increasingly pro-Conservative and so the songwriters, eager to impress, provided music hall stars with conservative material. Themes of patriotism and a preference for a maintenance of the status quo were frequently presented on stage. A general pattern emerged in the West End; Conservatives were praised, while reformers were mocked.

This narrative, however, largely represents a London pattern, and overlooks the strong anti-Conservative sentiment held in the provinces. Undoubtedly, the London-centric view with which we often reflect on Victorian music halls has skewed our national perspective of the politics presented and discussed within them.

West End artists toured the country with their repertoire of popular songs. However, they often found that the audiences of provincial halls were less unified in their support for the established order and took an anti-heroic approach to war.  Halls in Scotland and the north of England were far less enthusiastic about imperialism, and though London was more conservative than the rest of the country, pockets of Liberal support remained within the capital. The political opinion of the crowd changed with geography, and accordingly, some artists adjusted the lyrics of their songs, or purposely chose songs that would be unproblematic for more liberal leaning audiences.

The chairman of the Plough Variety Hall in Northampton declared in an interview with the Northampton Mercury in 1888 that in Northampton music halls, ‘as a rule the name of Liberals and Radicals go down remarkably well’. Moreover, G.H. Macdermott, when interviewed by the Pall Mall Gazette in 1886, stated:

 ‘You are quite mistaken in thinking that music halls are all conservative. My own experience, if it worth anything, teaches me that where you have a music hall in the centre of a conservative district you will as surely have a conservative audience. Take the case of the Pavilion. That is the centre of a great Conservative district…At the Pavilion, then, you get a distinctly Conservative audience. But take the other extreme. At the South London Gladstone is in a majority, and a Tory song is received with howls. The Paragon (Mile End) too, and the Cambridge (Shoreditch)’.

In response, the interviewer asked, ‘then Mr Gladstone is not so unpopular in the music halls as one would think?’, to which Macdermott replied ‘well, he may be now, after the Irish business, but in less momentous times not a bit of it’. Tellingly, Macdermott’s response suggests political leanings within music halls changed not only with geography but also time; like today, government policy determined a party’s popularity. The Liberal Licensing Act lost the Liberal Party support in the immediate, but as the importance of political issues changed, so did political leanings across the country. 

Indeed, a large working-class Liberal vote existed from 1867 until the First World War, and it is unreasonable to think, given that music halls were one of the main leisure pursuits of the Victorian working classes, that the opinions of these individuals were not present in the halls and on stage. 

Indeed, some music hall stars represented the opinions of the left leaning audience members and instead of following the patriotic trend, questioned the futility of fighting for the British Empire. Herbert Campbell was famous for parodying the grotesque patriotism of his colleagues, and as Laurence Senelick sates, his song ‘I don’t want to fight’, ‘threw cold water on the very sentiments his audience had been bellowing and applauding moments before’. The chorus states:

I don’t want to fight, I’ll be slaughtered if I do
I’ll change my togs, I’ll sell my kit, and pop my rifle too
I don’t like this war, I ain’t a Briton true
And I’d let the Russians have Constantinople.

A dramatic sketch by Charles Godfrey, entitled ‘On guard, a Tale of Balaclava’, highlighted the hypocrisy of halls calling for young men to do their honourable duty and enlist, for them only to be cruelly forgotten upon their return from war. The sketch followed the life of a Crimea veteran who had been left to die because of his country’s ingratitude. He requests a night’s lodging in a casual ward, only to be told ‘Be off, you tramp! You are not wanted here!’. The veteran replies ‘I am not wanted here. But at Balaclava- I was wanted there!’.

Such songs challenged the assumptions of society, and Herbert Campbell’s song ‘They Ain’t No Class’, directly criticised parliament and the class system.

I ain’t a bloke as rhands upon the lords
Jist ‘cos they’ve got a bit o’ brass.
For among the Upper Ten there are lots of gentlemen
Though some on ’em ain’t no class

Admittedly, however, the halls never became a breeding ground for radical politics, despite being a predominately working class space. Most individuals who visited music halls during the 19th century did so with the expectation of being distracted from the hardships of their everyday lives, such as overcrowding and unsanitary living conditions. They did not want to be reminded of them during their leisure time, and so often, the presentation of politics on music hall stages was met with hostility from the audience. 

However, when political themes did seep into music hall songs and acts, the political statements made on stage were certainly more varied that previously has been acknowledged, and in some regions, liberal politicians received great praise on stage. Anti-establishment themes were more prominent than is often acknowledged, and so, it must be concluded that conservative support was by no means universal within British music halls. The politics of any given music hall was defined by the attitudes of its audiences, and these were often fluid, changing according to geography and present concerns. 

In consideration of this, Herbert Campbell alluded to the need of a music hall star to check the political loyalties of an audience before taking to the stage in his comic song, ‘What to Sing Nowadays’

The best songs are political, the reason is, because

They’re easiest to sing, and always gain the most applause;

But just before commencing, you should always ascertain

The Politics of the Audience, and then you’re ‘right as rain’.

As Campbell’s lyrics allude to and as has hopefully been demonstrated here, there are many discrepancies to the traditional belief that Victorian music halls were overtly working class spaces. These discrepancies are certainly worthy of further study, and should not be dismissed as a mere exception to the rule.

 

Victorian Music Halls and the Expression of Working Class Identity

My ancestor, Joseph Tabrar (1857-1931) was an author and composer of the British music hall. Consequently, I have become intrigued in delving beneath the stereotypes of vulgarity and intoxication within the halls to discover the unique characteristics of the predominately working class leisure pursuit, which was prevalent throughout urban Britain between the mid-19th century and First World War. The halls were a sacred space in which the working class could express their identity, and the acts performing were the forbearers of entertainment forms popular today, including stand-up comedy, pop music, and variety theatre. Though ironically, it was in fact the Royal Variety Show, set to return to our television screens next month, which helped end the popularity of the music halls.

Oxford Music Hall, 1875.

The music halls were an outlet through which working class social and political commentary could be aired. Performers frequently criticised the Sunday closing of pubs, and often portrayed politicians as brainless, eluding to the gulf between elite concerns and those of the majority. In the song, In a Dark and Dreary Sky (1886) by George W. Hunter, a man fell down the stairs and ‘so he decided to sit as a Member of Parliament, where brains he would not need’. A sense of knowing from the audience was essential for the ironic comedy of variety acts to flourish, and so the opinions on stage had to reflect the discussions frequenting the music hall floors.

Women frequently dressed as men on stage to hold a mirror to the patriarchal British society. The audience was aware they were women, and so could perceive the hypocrisy of them only being able to engage in certain behaviours when dressed as a man. This commentary offered on contemporary British politics and society in an overtly working class space, allows an insight into how the working classes characterised themselves, and the beliefs they held. It is interesting to note, that as is the case today, popular rhetoric was bounced about within entertainment, and it was on this agreed shared culture than an identity was formed.

Vesta Tilley was famous for her portrayal of male characters.

Though, a shared culture did not mean universal agreement. War was a particularly contentious topic within the halls, and G.H. McDermott’s hit, We Don’t Want to fight (1877) is the most famous jingoist song of the halls, with the roaring chorus unashamedly declaring ‘We’ve fought the bear before, and while we’re Britons true, The Russians shall not have Constantinople’. However, the futility of war was also raised within performances, including Fred Earle’s song When they found I was a soldier (1895) and Charles Godfrey’s On Guard (1881), which both suggest recruitment campaigns were a trickery which led not to honour, but rather a draining of morality. Officially the halls propagated government lines by becoming recruitment centres during the Boer Wars and First World War, but undertones of opposing opinions can be observed and help to reconstruct the variety of interpretations on domestic and foreign affairs which would have been discussed across the music hall tables. Perhaps in a similar manner, the material of present comedians and singers will be analysed to enlighten upon the various opinions which formulate shared mass culture today.

An example of music hall sheet music.

The social reformers of the middle classes were appalled by vulgarity within the halls, the revealing costumes of women, the encouragement of drinking and of prostitution. They attempted to control the programming of the halls through the incorporation of ‘Rational Recreation’. Nicholas Till in his First-Class Evening Entertainments article details how the opening programme for Hoxton Hall on 2^nd November 1863 was purposely designed to create an obliging, unquestioning working class. Entertainment forms were carefully selected to present narratives on national identity, inspiring new technologies, the ideal healthy home and propagate positive images of the monarchy. However, the audiences found ‘Rational Recreation’ condescending, and resented the intrusion into their leisure spaces. Working classes audiences wanted to be entertained, not lectured, and so the programme at Hoxton Hall quickly collapsed. The music hall was a sacred space where ordinary Britons could turn their back on regimental ‘Victorian values’, and as argued by Steven Gerrard in his article The Great British Music Hall, ‘navigate socially underlying themes such as age, class, gender and ethnicity’ in a protected space. In the immediate the working classes had reclaimed their identity within the music halls, but this was not to last.

Canterbury Hall in 1856. One of the more respectable music halls, visited by the middle class.

Music Halls were frequented by members of the middles classes for entertainment purposes, and increasingly so in the lead up to the turn of the century, but they were always to be found in the more respectable establishments. The increasing respectability of clientele resulted in King George V insisting in 1912 that the stars from the music halls play at the Palace Theatre for charitable purposes. This show was the beginning of an annual tradition, The Royal Variety Show, which will again be held this year on the 6^th December at the Eventim Apollo Hammersmith. In 1912, the official attention diverted to the music hall stars meant they could never again perform with the same vulgarity and commonality that made them so adored by working class audiences previously. The music hall industry declined, and I ask you to consider when watching the show next month, that variety was re-polished to suit the middle and upper classes, but in turn, deprived the working classes of their long standing unique identity. Indeed, variety, the essence of the music halls, is still a popular pursuit of the majority today, as seen by the emergence of Britain’s Got Talent from 2007, but it lacks the escapist, carefree nature it once was the gatekeepers of within the music halls.

Following the Royal endorsement of variety, music halls transitioned from a relaxed table environment, to a formalised aisled seating arrangement.

Though, it is interesting to see how popular entertainment today has its roots in the expression of 19^th century working class identity, and to note that entertainment is still a platform on which shared culture is built.

By Rebecca Tabrar