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Troy Boone - Youth of Darkest England - Working-Class Children at The Heart of Victorian Empire (Children's Literature and Culture) (2004)
Troy Boone - Youth of Darkest England - Working-Class Children at The Heart of Victorian Empire (Children's Literature and Culture) (2004)
Darkest
England
Youth of
Darkest
England
Working-Class Children at the
Heart of Victorian Empire
TROY BOONE
Routledge
New York • London
Published in 2005 by
Routledge
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New York, NY 10016
www.routledge-ny.com
“To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s
collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.”
Chapter 4 first appeared in a different form as “Remaking ‘Lawless Lads and Licentious
Girls’: The Salvation Army and the Regeneration of Empire” in John C. Hawley,
Historicizing Christian Encounters with the Other, 1998, Macmillan Press Ltd. Reprinted
by permission of the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in
any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter in-
vented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval
system without permission in writing from the publisher.
PR990.B66 2005
820.9'3523'09034—dc22 2004019682
Acknowledgments xi
List of Illustrations xv
Introduction 1
Notes 163
Bibliography 209
Index 225
vii
Series Editor’s Foreword
JACK ZIPES
ix
Acknowledgments
I’ve spent a number of years occupied with “darkest England,” and I’m grateful
to the bright people who have made those years enlightening and more light-
hearted ones than my topic might suggest.
This book was written in two different, but very congenial, academic
environments. In the Department of Literature at the University of California,
Santa Cruz, Earl Jackson, Jr., and Richard Terdiman offered uncompromising
support of this project and the career of its author. Among the numerous
outstanding graduate students with whom I had the pleasure of working at
Santa Cruz, Stuart Christie and Michael Doylen deserve particular thanks for
their dedicated interest in my work. The advocacy of Julie Brower and espe-
cially Patty Lease practically enabled me to continue my career as a scholar
and teacher, and without them I might not be writing this now. Finally, I am
grateful to and for the many exceptionally talented undergraduates whom I
taught at Santa Cruz—too many to name individually, but all remembered
with the greatest fondness. I must give special acknowledgment to the students
in the various instantiations of my senior seminar “Vision and Power: Urban
Spectatorship,” who engaged so intelligently with materials and arguments
that found their way into this book; and to Stefanie Wright, who was the first
person to advise me to make a book about the Victorian working classes
focus specifically on youth.
I am very fortunate in my colleagues in the Department of English at the
University of Pittsburgh, who could not be more intellectually generous or
professionally supportive. I must thank several people in particular, first of
all Valerie Krips, who deserves a medal for her tireless efforts on behalf of
me and this book, for reading the manuscript (much of it more than once),
and for her mentoring of a junior colleague. I have also benefitted much from
the attention of Eric Clarke, Nancy Glazener, and Kathryn Flannery: their
lynx-eyed reading of chapters has made the book better, and their sage pro-
fessional advice has made my life easier at many points. The students in two
of my graduate seminars at Pitt—“Young Britain: Nation, Class, and Youth”
and “Imperialism and Modernity”—were wonderful interlocutors as this book
xi
xii Acknowledgments
was nearing completion, and they made a project some years in the works
seem fresh to me again.
A number of other individuals have aided in the production of this book.
Research in London was greatly enabled by Catherine Goodfellow of the
Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood and by the staff members in the De-
partment of Documents, the Photograph Archive, and the Department of Art
at the Imperial War Museum. Jack Zipes read the manuscript while on re-
search leave in Rome, an instance of accommodating graciousness that I did
not expect but appreciate very much. From first to last (which was as short a
time as an author could wish), the editors involved in publishing the book—
Matthew Byrnie, Richard Tressider, Lynn Goeller, and Nina Sadd—were the
exemplars of calm efficiency; I’m sure the anxieties of an author publishing
his or her first book must be trying to a seasoned editorial professional, but
they never let on.
I also gratefully acknowledge the following institutional sources that
have granted permissions or given money. Chapter 4 is a considerably revised
and expanded version of “Remaking ‘Lawless Lads and Licentious Girls’:
The Salvation Army and the Regeneration of Empire,” which was published
in John C. Hawley, ed., Historicizing Christian Encounters with the Other
(Macmillan Press, 1998), reproduced with permission of Palgrave Macmillan.
The “Salvation Army Social Campaign” lithograph is reproduced with the
permission of the Salvation Army. The photograph of the 16th North Poplar
(Bow Church) Wolf Cub Pack, 1916, is reproduced by permission of The
Scout Association (U.K.) licence no. 0304. Various sources of funding at the
University of Pittsburgh supported my work on this book. Research in London
was funded by a John G. Bowman Faculty Grant from the Nationality Rooms
and Intercultural Exchange Programs, a Hewlett International Grant from
the University Center for International Studies, and a grant from the Depart-
ment of English. A third-term research grant released me from teaching for a
semester’s worth of writing. The Richard D. and Mary Jane Edwards En-
dowed Publication Fund offset costs associated with reproducing the illus-
trations in the book.
My greatest debts are to those people whose kindnesses to me antedate
the start of this project. Whatever is good in the pages that follow is largely to
the credit of Morris Eaves and J. W. Johnson, who did all they could to teach
me how to write a book. Of course, they and all the other friends named in
these acknowledgments are not in the least responsible for any of my blun-
ders. Ron and Helen Lougheed have cheered me on all the way and knew the
precise psychological moment when to mention a trip to Las Vegas. Pamela
Lougheed’s contributions to this book are countless: beyond the tremendous
intellectual, editorial, and critical talents she has brought to, and the energy
she has expended on, its pages, she has always, over the years during which
Acknowledgments xiii
the book was written (and then some), known what to do when the universal
thump was passed round. I cannot expect to acknowledge properly the many
gifts from and sacrifices made by my parents, Bob and Brenda Boone, al-
though I dedicate this book to them with respect and love.
List of Illustrations
xv
xvi List of Illustrations
Figure 15 “Step into Your Place.” Recruiting poster, Great Britain, 1915.
(Negative Number Q33089) Courtesy of the Imperial War Museum,
London.
Figure 16 “Join the Brave Throng That Goes Marching Along.” Recruiting
poster, Great Britain, 1915. (Negative Number Q33106) Courtesy of
the Imperial War Museum, London.
Figure 17 Australian soldiers in Chateau Wood, Third Battle of Ypres, 1917.
(Negative Number E(1914) 1220) Photograph courtesy of the Imperial
War Museum, London.
Figure 18 Aerial photograph of the trench system, taken on 15 July 1915
before the Battle of Loos. (Negative Number Q60546) Photograph cour-
tesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
Introduction
1
2 Youth of Darkest England
That Act was founded on a confidence that the great body of the people of
this country were “Conservative.” When I say “Conservative,” I use the
word in its purest and loftiest sense. I mean that the people of England,
and especially the working classes of England, are proud of belonging to
a great country, and wish to maintain its greatness—that they are proud of
belonging to an Imperial country, and are resolved to maintain, if they
can, their empire . . . and I am not misled for a moment by wild expres-
sions and eccentric conduct which may occur in the metropolis of this
country. There are people who may be, or who at least affect to be, work-
ing men, and who, no doubt, have a certain influence with a certain por-
tion of the metropolitan working classes, who talk Jacobinism. . . .
I say with confidence that the great body of the working class of
England utterly repudiate such sentiments. They have no sympathy with
them. They are English to the core. They repudiate cosmopolitan prin-
ciples. They adhere to national principles.4
Introduction 3
I was in the East End of London yesterday and attended a meeting of the
unemployed. I listened to the wild speeches, which were just a cry for
“bread,” “bread,” “bread,” and on my way home I pondered over the scene
and I became more than ever convinced of the importance of imperialism. . . .
My cherished idea is a solution for the social problem, i.e., in order to save the
40,000,000 inhabitants of the United Kingdom from a bloody civil war,
we colonial statesmen must acquire new lands to settle the surplus popula-
tion, to provide new markets for the goods produced by them in the factories
and mines. The Empire, as I have always said, is a bread and butter question.
If you want to avoid civil war, you must become imperialists. 6
and could be guided to realize a higher self.”13 For many writers in the period,
that “higher self” is synonymous with self-identification as a loyal citizen of
the English nation and the British Empire.
This incorporative fantasy is best defined as “social imperialism”: an
ideological project attempting, as Bernard Semmel puts it, “to draw all
classes together in defence of the nation and empire and . . . to prove to the
least well-to-do class that its interests were inseparable from those of the
nation”14—and thus, implicitly, to obscure the fact that the interests of these
classes, under capitalism, could not be more divergent. The social-imperialist
fantasy regarding working-class youth prominently brings together discourses
on English national identity and discourses on British imperial identity.
Thomas Richards argues that, in imperialist writing, the “usual recourse . . . is
to make national identity look like the template for imperial identity” so as to
lend to “the Empire a sense of symbolic unity that it so often lacked in prac-
tice.”15 This is, of course, a central characteristic of imperialist discourse:
exporting Englishness from the metropolis to the colonies is seen as a means
of unifying the “mother country,” white settlers, and non-white natives. For
instance, Cecil Rhodes (with characteristically manic ambition) argues “for
the bringing of the whole uncivilised world under British rule, for the recov-
ery of the United States, for the making the Anglo-Saxon race but one
Empire,” since “the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the
human race.”16 However, where English class relations are concerned, the
primary recourse taken by imperialist writers is precisely the opposite of the
one that Rhodes here exemplifies and that Thomas Richards summarizes.
Rhodes’s comments on the rally in the East End testify to an awareness that
English national identity could hardly be less unified, and what Rhodes (like
Disraeli) seeks, in effect, is to make imperial identity (pride in “belonging to
an Imperial country,” as Disraeli puts it, rather than to, say, a socialist group
or a trades union) into a template for national identity so as to lend England
the symbolic unity it lacks due to class difference.
The ultimate goal of this operation is what I will call hegemonic imperi-
alism. It is a commonplace of postcolonial theory that maintenance of
colonial domination largely operated through the ideological process that
Richards describes. As Abdul R. JanMohamed argues, such domination
depends less on “direct and continuous bureaucratic control and military
coercion” than on the establishment of hegemonic colonialism, whereby
the colonized subject accepts “a version of the colonizers’ entire system
of values, attitudes, morality, institutions.”17 Hegemonic imperialism is
a metropolitan variant of hegemonic colonialism, a variant that is di-
rected at the urban poor rather than at colonized natives, and that seeks
to render imperialist sentiment hegemonic among all classes by teaching
the working classes to accept middle-class “values, attitudes, morality,
institutions.”
6 Youth of Darkest England
working-class children, and the adults they became, were united with the
middle classes in their patriotic, indeed jingoistic, support of British imperial-
ism, at least until the First World War. Thus, even as erudite a scholar as
Edward W. Said can claim that “there was scarcely any dissent, any departure,
any demurral from” the central tenets of imperialism, namely the belief that
“subject races should be ruled” and “that one race deserves and has consis-
tently earned the right to be considered the race whose main mission is to
expand beyond its own domain.”21 Moreover, Said remarks:
Although the final sentence of this passage would seem to admit that
some metropolitan individuals and groups, including working-class ones, held
different views regarding imperialism, Said never actually takes the “great
pains” to show that such was the case. Instead, he rests quite comfortably
with the notion that English men, women, and (presumably) children were
almost uniformly pro-imperialist (“uncomplaining members of this imperial
consensus”), and the qualifications that Said offers are so minute as to be
hardly qualifications at all (“scarcely any dissent,” “few exceptions,” “virtual
unity”).
There are two major interpretive problems with such claims that impe-
rialism achieved hegemonic status in Victorian and Edwardian England. The
first problem has to do with the historical interpretation of texts. By assum-
ing that social imperialists (and the texts they wrote) achieved their desired
goal, the critic posits an equivalence between the intent of the author and
the effect on the audience, flattens out the history of a text’s reception,
and fails to register any audience resistance to the author’s intent. This book
is primarily about the middle-class fantasy of hegemonic imperialism and its
textual manifestations, and it is extremely difficult to determine precisely
what effect those texts had on working-class Victorian and Edwardian chil-
dren, who have left few written records of their responses. Nevertheless, I
have tried to include enough examples of resistant practices (for instance,
penny fictions written for working-class children by working-class adults,
working-class expressions of disdain for the imperialist social reform
schemes of the Salvation Army, and the recollections of poor children who
quit the Boy Scouts) to demonstrate that, as Laura Chrisman usefully observes,
8 Youth of Darkest England
that fractures English society in the period of high imperialism. Such texts
display what Gail Ching-Liang Low claims is a prominent feature of imperi-
alist children’s literature: “in trying to secure the child that is outside the
book,” such works “give their strongest indication of the insecurity and in-
stabilities which characterise the contradictory demands of imperial identi-
ties.”25 Perhaps the most contradictory such demand is the one that asks
working-class people to identify with the middle classes and as imperial sub-
jects, while the social and economic realities of Victorian and Edwardian
England everywhere confirmed the massive disparity between (on the one
hand) the benefits that accrued to middle-class imperialists and (on the other
hand) the privations that typified the lives of the working poor. Moreover,
social-imperialist texts actively seek to maintain this contradiction. At the
manifest level, the works I study in this book posit that domestic class con-
flict could be eradicated if the working classes could be transformed into full
citizens of the English nation, and could be led to view themselves as impe-
rial subjects. At a more subtle level, however, these works reinscribe an es-
sentialist notion of class difference. This contradiction does not signal
rhetorical failure or logical confusion but is the strategic necessity of the
middle-class social-imperialist project: to eradicate class conflict—which
caused the middle classes such insecurity and instability—while maintaining
the unequal class relations necessary for the continuation of capitalist impe-
rialism. This strategic contradiction operates through two representational
tactics that have great power in social-imperialist discourse: first, a represen-
tation of the poor as juvenile; and, second, a representation of the middle
classes in terms of vision and the working classes in terms of the body.
As Harry Hendrick argues, Victorian and Edwardian texts commonly
equate working-class city dwellers with adolescents:
In many respects the urban working class appeared to share some of the
characteristics of young people: they were indisciplined, disordered,
volatile, emotional, and liable to be subverted through undesirable influ-
ences, not least of which was their own collective personality. It seemed
that while both the crowd and adolescents had within them potential for
good, they also had a destructive or anarchic potential.26
It is on a far other basis that the well-being and well-doing of the labouring
people must henceforth rest. The poor have come out of leading-strings,
and cannot any longer be governed or treated like children. To their own
qualities must now be commended the care of their destiny. . . . Whatever
advice, exhortation, or guidance is held out to the labouring classes, must
henceforth be tendered to them as equals, and accepted by them with their
eyes open. The prospect of the future depends on the degree in which they
can be made rational beings.28
Although Mill claims that the poor “cannot any longer be governed or
treated like children” and instead now must be understood to participate in
political life “as equals,” his metaphors tactically undermine this apparently
progressive argument—which would, particularly in 1848, be seen to iden-
tify him with the most committed working-class radicalism. First, the state-
ment that the working classes have “come out of leading-strings” implies
that at some time previously it was appropriate to view this group as infantile.
Second, coming out of leading-strings does not constitute entering adult-
hood: leading-strings were used to guide children when they were just begin-
ning to walk, and, thus, if the working classes have “come out of
leading-strings” this group is actually still childlike. Later in his text, Mill
asserts, “Children below a certain age cannot judge or act for themselves; up
to a considerably greater age they are inevitably more or less disqualified for
doing so.”29 According to Mill’s metaphor, the working classes just out of
leading-strings would, at best, be comparable to the latter stage of childhood—
Introduction 11
that is, “more or less disqualified” to “judge or act for themselves.” Thus,
finally, the childlike status of the working classes is confirmed by the final
sentence in the quote about leading-strings: now that the working classes are
no longer comparable to a bunch of crawling infants but, rather, resemble a
mass of promising little toddlers, this class should be made into a group of
“rational beings.” Although Mill does not state that this education of the
working classes is the responsibility of middle-class “superiors,” such a peda-
gogical relation between the classes is, as we will see, a chief emphasis of
social-reform texts throughout the Victorian and Edwardian periods. Indeed,
in spite of his seeming opposition to a “patriarchal or paternal system of
government” whereby the “rich should be in loco parentis to the poor, guid-
ing and restraining them like children,”30 earlier in his text Mill describes the
“improvement in the habits and requirements of the mass of unskilled day-
labourers” as a process of educating the least rational and most unintellectual
individuals: “the aim of all intellectual training for the mass of the people
should be to cultivate common sense. . . . Whatever, in the intellectual de-
partment, can be superadded to this, is chiefly ornamental.”31 And, according
to Mill, one of the chief means of achieving this “improvement” is one ea-
gerly recommended by social imperialists such as Rhodes and many of the
youth experts discussed in Youth of Darkest England: “a great national mea-
sure of colonization. I mean, a grant of public money, sufficient to remove at
once, and establish in the colonies, a considerable fraction of the youthful
agricultural population.”32
The strategic contradiction at the heart of social-imperialist discourse—
seeking to eradicate class conflict so as to achieve hegemonic imperialism,
while maintaining the unequal class relations necessary for the continuation
of capitalist imperialism—also operates through a second, equally potent,
representational tactic: a depiction of the middle classes in terms of vision
and the working classes in terms of the body. Both the privileging of vision
in Victorian and Edwardian culture and a profound attention to the body in
the period have been noted before.33 The invention of a whole range of
technologies for and practices of seeing (photography being only the most
obvious) constituted, as Jonathan Crary claims, a new form of subjectivity
based on the visual in the nineteenth century,34 a fact to which John Ruskin
gives only the most grandiloquent testimony in his famous statement that
“Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think
for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion,—all in
one.”35 In the chapters that follow, I will be concerned with the ways in which
a highly privileged and abstracted concept of vision is rhetorically tied to
power, in particular the power that the middle classes seek to obtain over the
urban poor. The association of vision and power is as old as the ancients, of
course. In Western culture, the ability to see things is frequently understood
12 Youth of Darkest England
the very division of work that enabled the nation to prosper under a liberal
government also kept the poor man from becoming a self-governing
individual. . . . The fact that these inequities seemed to be an inevitable
aspect of national progress, paradoxically, seemed to draw the working
poor into the emergent community of the nation at the same time that it
set them apart.42
perialism in England. The isolation of the poor “as a special problem,” such
that “full membership” as citizens of the imperial nation is withheld from
them, is accomplished not only by a representation of the poor as childlike,
but also by a depiction of them as utterly embodied, and, therefore, as essen-
tially different from the middle classes that possess the vision necessary for
one to be a “social analyst” capable of solving the “special problem” of the
poor by providing them with “discipline and care.” In turn, assertions that the
middle classes are justified in thus “helping” the poor are buttressed by a
representation of the latter group in terms of mere physicality rather than
intellectual or “visionary” subjectivity and thus the inability to engage in a
self-help that, in Victorian terms, would imply self-determination. The so-
cial-imperialist discourse I discuss extends the reformist works that Poovey
studies in that this discourse “imagines working men . . . as simultaneously
more material (in the sense of being embodied, not imaginative, crea-
tures) and more amenable to aggregation (in the sense of being less indi-
vidualized or particularized).”43 The last two chapters of Youth of Darkest
England address the early twentieth-century apotheosis of this de-
individualizing discourse: the representation of the working-class body as a
machine, which corresponds not only to the increasing mechanization of in-
dustrial production but also to the development of technological warfare as
the by-product of imperial aggrandizement.
For many readers, even this abbreviated discussion of the delineation of
power in terms of vision and the body will likely bring to mind the works of
Michel Foucault, especially Discipline and Punish. Among the most fre-
quently criticized aspects both of Foucault’s work and of new historicist
criticism, the literary scholarship that has employed that work most promi-
nently, is the tendency to argue (or imply) that such power relations are
totalized in society—what Frank Lentricchia, in an unfortunately shrill com-
mentary on Stephen Greenblatt, derides as “Foucauldian tone: the feeling,
usually just evoked, almost never argued through, that all social life is orga-
nized and controlled down to its oddest and smallest details.”44 The chapters
that follow do not argue (nor attempt to evoke the feeling) that the observa-
tional power which middle-class social imperialists sought to wield over
working-class bodies ever amounted to any such totalizing social control of
the latter by the former. The chapters that follow do confirm that, in the pe-
riod I study, a wide range of middle-class writers desired to institute a disci-
plinary, class-based society operating through, as Foucault puts it, “a
mechanism that coerces by means of observation” and “an apparatus in which
the techniques that make it possible to see induce effects of power, and in
which, conversely, the means of coercion make those on whom they are ap-
plied clearly visible.”45 Similarly, for these writers, the desired effect of such
disciplinary observation is a “policy of the body, a certain way of rendering
Introduction 15
the group of men docile and useful” such that the working-class “body is
reduced as a ‘political’ force at the least cost and maximized as a useful
force.”46 For instance (as we will see in Chapter 5), Robert Baden-Powell, in
founding the Boy Scouts, certainly seeks to institutionalize a power relation
in which all working-class boys (not a few here and there) would be subject
to the bodily regulation that constitutes Scouting, under the observation of
middle-class Scout leaders. Moreover, the larger goal of Baden-Powell and
the other social-imperialist writers studied in this book is to “discipline” or
“coerce” by ideological means—put simply, to render working-class young
people not only useful to, but also supporters of the British Empire. This
ideological operation thus seeks to cause the disciplined individual to inter-
nalize the operations of discipline, in a manner similar to that described by
Foucault in “Panopticism” (perhaps the chapter of Discipline and Punish
that most seems to invite the objections of a critic such as Lentricchia): “He
who is subjected to a field of visibility, and who knows it . . . inscribes in
himself the power relation in which he simultaneously plays both roles”—
the observer and the observed—and thus “becomes the principle of his own
subjection.”47 However—and to reinforce a point already made above with
regard to hegemonic imperialism—this book will not seek to demonstrate
that any such internalization was achieved and will, instead, seek to warn
against mistaking authorial intention for social effect.48 On the contrary, I
attempt to provide as much evidence as possible for active resistance, on
the part of working-class young people, to the designs of middle-class
social imperialists. Thus, we will encounter, in Chapter 5, young Robert
Roberts, and his friend Syd, who quickly abandoned their Boy Scout troop
due to their explicit dislike of the Scoutmaster’s disciplinary attention to the
working-class body.
Of course, one need not look far in Victorian and Edwardian history to
find instances where working-class bodies were placed under a rigorous
middle-class surveillance (the factory, the elementary schoolroom) or, indeed,
for instances of pro-imperialism on the part of working-class individuals;
such instances have been the subject of many histories. As a literary scholar,
my concern is rather with the analysis of particular textual representations—
rhetorical or discursive practices, if one prefers—that are deeply involved in
the politics of imperial England but that are not identical to it. At the same
time, although “social reality”—defined as distinct from “textual representa-
tion”—is not my primary focus in this book, I certainly do not argue that the
two never met, that the representations I analyze have no relation to life as it
was lived in the time and place I study—a charge (the precise opposite of
Lentricchia’s complaint) that has also been levelled at new historicist critics,
and, indeed, at many who make use of post-structuralist theory. For instance,
Vincent P. Pecora objects that much new historicist analysis suggests that,
16 Youth of Darkest England
power—affect mid-century notions of the role class mobility (or lack thereof)
plays in the constitution of the English nation. These chapters touch on the
issue of imperialism more briefly than do the remaining ones, as I considered
it necessary to address how these representational tactics dominate under-
standings of domestic class relations and of national identity before turning
(in Chapters 3–6) to the ways in which these tactics inform debates about
imperialism that characterize the period from the 1880s until the First World
War.
The argument sketched above is pursued as follows. The first chapter
argues that Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor—the
most influential topography of the urban space later called “darkest
England”—presents the contradictory discourse on nationalism and class
that dominates imperialist writings in the latter half of the nineteenth cen-
tury: Mayhew’s text exemplifies the widespread desire for an English nation
not divided by class conflict, and, yet, seeks to retain a notion of class
difference that would fix a juvenile and embodied urban poor under middle-
class visual regulation. The second and third chapters reveal the relation of
this discourse to the penny fiction that, in the nineteenth century, was perhaps
the primary form of literature read by (or aimed at) working-class young
people. In Chapter 2, I argue that middle-class critical hostility to the mid-
century “penny bloods” has everything to do with the fact that such works
advocate, as the means for their young working-class readers to participate
in the life of the nation, a sustained agitation that refuses the regulatory fixing
of the working-class body in space. Chapter 3 demonstrates how criticism of
such penny fictions in turn spurred the late-Victorian proliferation of “im-
proving” penny magazines marketed as antidotes to them. Through a reading
of the most famous product of the improving magazines, Robert Louis
Stevenson’s Treasure Island, I show how such fictions treat working-class
political agitation as a problem to be eradicated by dispersing middle-class
values in the form of imperialist sentiment.
Chapters 4–6 address in greatest detail how the discourses on nation
and class, vision and the body—which are articulated, resisted, and reconsti-
tuted in Mayhew’s work and in the mid- and late-century penny fictions—
impinge on representations of imperialism at the turn of the century. Focusing
on the Salvation Army reform scheme advertised in William Booth’s In
Darkest England and the Way Out, Chapter 4 argues that this scheme not
only attempts to make imperialist sentiment hegemonic among all classes in
England, but also adheres to degeneration theory—which posits an inher-
ently flawed working-class culture that causes an inherently flawed working-
class character—and, thus, retains an essentialist notion of a juvenile
working-class population in need of regeneration by middle-class visionaries.
Chapter 5 argues that the literature of what is now the best-known imperialist
18 Youth of Darkest England
The representation of class and youth is at the heart of the urban exploration
narrative, a form of sociological journalism that proliferated in the latter half
of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth. The Victorian
exemplar of this genre, Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London
Poor (1861–1862), seeks to offer exhaustive information regarding the work-
ing classes, as transmitted from the pen of “the traveller in the undiscovered
country of the poor”1 to middle-class readers who can construe themselves
as armchair ethnographers studying an exotic culture existing within the
imperial metropolis itself. Mayhew further advertises the ethnographic nov-
elty of his project thus: “It surely may be considered curious” because it
supplies “information concerning a large body of persons, of whom the pub-
lic had less knowledge than of the most distant tribes of the earth” (LL 1:xv).
Mayhew here anticipates a metaphorical parallel that will become common
in the latter half of the nineteenth century—a parallel between the urban
“savages” of “darkest England” and the non-white “savages” of “darkest
Africa.” This parallel is (as we will see in Chapter 4) most explicitly articu-
lated in William Booth’s In Darkest England and the Way Out (1890), the
title of which sensationalizes Booth’s topic (urban poverty) by borrowing
from Henry Morton Stanley’s bestseller of the same year, In Darkest Africa.
In Mayhew, this racialist parallel reveals a problem of both national and
imperial importance. According to Mayhew, the chief characteristic of the
London poor is their uncontrolled wandering, a mobility not subject to the
self-regulation that characterizes middle-class men and women who navi-
gate the city space. For Mayhew, this unregulated mobility disqualifies the
working classes from full and normative civic participation, as citizens of the
English nation, in the life of the imperial metropolis. And because London is
the heart of the British Empire, it is but a short discursive leap for Mayhew to
compare the London poor to more “distant tribes” similarly subject to British
rule without the privilege of citizenship.
Crucially, for the argument of Youth of Darkest England, Mayhew (like
William Booth at the end of the century, as we will see in Chapter 4) does
not elaborate on this racialist parallel. Instead, Mayhew emphasizes, through-
out his work, that the unregulated wandering of the poor is not an essential
defect but, rather, the cultural effect of bad parenting, lack of education,
19
20 Youth of Darkest England
On the first page of London Labour, Mayhew asserts that wandering is the
defining characteristic not of the members of an imperial nation, but of
peoples fit for colonization. “Of the thousand millions of human beings that
are said to constitute the population of the entire globe,” Mayhew states
as an introduction to his text, “there are—socially, morally, and perhaps
even physically considered—but two distinct and broadly marked races,
viz., the wanderers and the settlers—the vagabond and the citizen—the no-
madic and the civilized tribes” (LL 1:1). Mayhew, thus, initially represents
the working classes as a racially distinct nation of wanderers (“the undiscov-
ered country of the poor” [1:xv]) and suggests that middle-class inter-
vention to rescue the poor from their degradation is the domestic and
class-based version of “the white man’s burden”—the imperial nation’s re-
sponsibility to civilize the colonized native. The implication is that the urban
poor can, perhaps, be civilized but are hardly capable of taking part in the
expansion and administration of the British Empire. However, Mayhew’s text
Henry Mayhew’s Children of the Streets 21
quickly deemphasizes this racialist parallel in order to suggest that the work-
ing classes are not essentially excluded from the life of the imperial nation
but, rather, constitute an “outcast” group that needs to be incorporated into it.
What thus seems in London Labour an equation of class with race is, in fact,
a subtle means of implying their similarity in order to then reinforce their
difference.
The problem, according to Mayhew, is that the urban poor exist within
but are not productive members of both nation and empire: “it would appear,
that not only are all races divisible into wanderers and settlers, but that each
civilized or settled tribe has generally some wandering horde intermingled
with, and in a measure preying upon, it” (LL 1:1). Mayhew here retains the
racialist metaphor, yet within a mere three paragraphs, the poor have been
transformed from a “distinct” race whose difference from the civilized English
is “broadly marked” into a “division” of, or a group “intermingled” within,
an English race that includes both uncivilized wanderers and civilized set-
tlers. Although he shies away from the language of essential racial differ-
ence, Mayhew’s parallelisms (“the wanderers and the settlers—the vagabond
and the citizen—the nomadic and the civilized tribes” [LL 1:1]) neverthe-
less reaffirm that working-class people who are wanderers, vagabonds, and
nomads cannot be settlers, citizens, civilized. Mobility is, of course, neces-
sary in order to perform the geographical and cultural exchanges that char-
acterize the work of an imperial nation; but without the self-regulation
according to laws and cultural standards implied by the term “citizen,” such
mobility becomes mere nomadism, which contributes nothing to the work of
an empire in which settlers found colonies supposedly in order to spread
civilization.2
In addition, according to Mayhew, the disqualification of the wandering
poor from English citizenship represents not merely a lost resource but also
a danger to the nation. Mayhew warns, “The public have but to read the
following plain unvarnished account . . . and then to say whether they think
it safe—even if it be thought fit—to allow men, women, and children to con-
tinue in such a state” (LL 1:6). Predictably, the “dangerous classes”—on whose
“predatory” activities London Labour reports at great length—primarily
threaten the civilized, settled, middle-class citizenry: the London poor are
“purely vagabond, doing nothing whatsoever for their living, but moving from
place to place preying upon the earnings of the more industrious portion of
the community” (LL 1:2). By means of another racialist comparison, Mayhew
indicates that the unregulated mobility of the London poor endangers not
only domestic peace but also national security:
we, like the Kafirs, Fellahs, and Finns, are surrounded by wandering
hordes—the “Sonquas” and the “Fingoes” of this country—paupers, beg-
gars, and outcasts, possessing nothing but what they acquire by depredation
22 Youth of Darkest England
This passage might seem merely to repeat the privileging of settled cul-
tures over nomadic groups parasitically attached to them: the agrarian Kafirs
of South Africa “have their Bushmen . . . these are called Fingoes—a word
signifying wanderers, beggars, or outcasts” (LL 1:1); the Fellahs, farming
peasants of Egypt, are distinct from “the Arabian Bedouins,” a “wild and
predatory tribe who sought the desert” (LL 1:1); the “Lappes seem to have
borne a somewhat similar relation to the Finns,” who “cultivated the soil like
the industrious Fellahs” (LL 1:1); and even as stereotypically degraded a
group as the Hottentots have their “Bushmen and Sonquas . . . the term
‘sonqua’ meaning literally pauper” (LL 1:1). However, by comparing the
middle-class English to Kafirs, Fellahs, and Hottentots—all groups subject
to colonial rule by the mid-Victorian period—Mayhew offers the sinister
suggestion that the outcast status of the urban poor, and the resulting lack of
national unity, could render England itself vulnerable to colonization by a
more powerful imperial force. Similarly, although the Finnish are European,
the word “Finn” bears the trace of colonial conquest, being the name used by
Teutonic nations to refer to people calling themselves “Suomi.”
In contrast to the introductory statement of the problem—which relies
on an attention-grabbing parallel between the English working classes and
colonized natives—the bulk of the succeeding three volumes of London
Labour seeks to demonstrate that the mobile, but unregulated, working classes
exist outside national life not due to any essential difference from the
English middle classes, but due to ignorance on the part of the poor. Accord-
ing to imperialist logic, racial difference is a greater disqualification from
citizenship than miseducation (skin color cannot be changed, but ignorance
can be rectified). Accordingly, Mayhew replaces racial difference with edu-
cational lack to suggest the solution to the problem he exposes: middle-class
education and regulation of the poor will enable the incorporation of the
latter group into the life of the nation and empire. The supposed fact that
working-class disengagement from national and imperial affairs is the result
of ignorance is revealed by the often-amusing answers Mayhew receives to
the (unrecorded) questions, regarding politics and geography, that he asks
his interviewees. For instance, Mayhew reports on his interview with a
mudlark (a Thames-side scavenger), “London was England, and England,
he said, was in London, but he couldn’t tell in what part. . . . Such was the
amount of intelligence manifested by this unfortunate child” (LL 2:156). In
other answers that Mayhew cites, such ignorance of national affairs is shown
to be anything but harmless. An older interviewee, a crippled street-seller of
birds, displays the same ignorance as the mudlark, with the addition of a
Henry Mayhew’s Children of the Streets 23
It is idle to imagine that these lads . . . will not educate themselves in vice,
if we neglect to train them to virtue. . . . If they are not taught by others,
they will form their own characters—developing habits of dissipation,
and educing all the grossest passions of their natures. (LL 1:35–36; em-
phasis mine).
racialist comparisons in the passage quoted above have quite different impli-
cations from those in the ethnographic flight of fancy with which London
Labour begins. The very phrase “We might as well” calls attention to the fact
that working-class English children are not equivalent to “various [other]
races,” except insofar as neither group can be blamed for not having been
educated otherwise than it was. That the parents of London street children
are utterly blameworthy is, however, made perfectly clear by the unsubtle
parallelism whereby the working-class mother’s breast, lap, and milk equal
(respectively) a “gutter,” a “kennel,” and degraded “habits and morals.”
Employing still another natural metaphor, Mayhew argues for the im-
portance of middle-class intervention to reverse the effects of such a delete-
rious upbringing:
even as the seed of the apple returns, unless grafted, to its original crab, so
does the child, without training, go back to its parent stock—the vaga-
bond savage. For the bred and born street-seller, who inherits a barrow as
some do coronets, to be other than he is—it has here been repeatedly
enunciated—is no fault of his but of ours, who could and yet will not
move to make him otherwise. (LL 1:320)
The gardening metaphor clearly implies that the tendency of the London
poor to vagabondage, however “natural” and thus (at least in the case of
children) blameless, should be averted by “grafting” middle-class values onto
the working-class child: Mayhew thus anticipates one of the central goals of
hegemonic imperialism, which is the subject of subsequent chapters. More-
over, the fact that the coster children “partake of the natural evil of human
nature is not their fault but ours,—who would be like them if we had not been
taught by others better than ourselves to controul the bad and cherish the
good principles of our hearts” (LL 1:213). Mayhew here asserts that the moral
education that the middle-class “we” has received should be provided to
working-class children, and the “gardener” on whom London Labour calls to
perform this work is the collective “we” constituted by Mayhew and his
middle-class readers.
If “culpability cannot be imputed to them [poor children] at the com-
mencement of their course of life” because they “have been either untaught,
mistaught, maltreated, neglected, regularly trained to vice, or fairly turned
into the streets to shift for themselves,” then the “censure . . . is attributable
to parents, or those who should fill the place of parents—the State, or society”
(LL 1:468). It could perhaps go without saying that in Victorian Britain—and
certainly before the Second Reform Act (1867), which for the first time in-
cluded many working-class men in the electorate—”the State, or society” is
an exclusively middle-class entity, although Mayhew says so quite clearly in
the preface to London Labour:
Henry Mayhew’s Children of the Streets 25
My earnest hope is that the book may serve to give the rich a more inti-
mate knowledge . . . of the poor—that it may teach those who are beyond
temptation to look with charity on the frailties of their less fortunate breth-
ren—and cause those who are in “high places,” and those of whom much
is expected, to bestir themselves to improve the condition of a class of
people whose misery, ignorance, and vice, amidst all the immense wealth
and great knowledge of “the first city in the world,” is, to say the very
least, a national disgrace to us. (LL 1:xvi)
although a middle-aged man, had all the appearance of a boy . . . his man-
ners and habits were as simple in their character as those of a child; and he
spoke of his father’s being angry with him for not getting up before, as if
he were a little boy talking of his nurse. (LL 2:488–89)
although only eight years of age, had entirely lost all childish ways, and
was, indeed, in thoughts and manner, a woman. There was something
cruelly pathetic in hearing this infant, so young that her features had
scarcely formed themselves, talking of the bitterest struggles of life, with
the calm earnestness of one who had endured them all. I did not know
how to talk with her. At first I treated her as a child, speaking on childish
subjects . . . I asked her about her toys and her games with her compan-
ions; but the look of amazement that answered me soon put an end to any
attempt at fun on my part. (LL 1:151)
supposedly turns the poor into habitual beggars), the self-effacing descrip-
tion of the middle classes as “assistants of the poor” hardly covers over the
power differential implied in noting that the poor need middle-class
“advisers.”
transit, for he has but a partial view if it; he sees, as it were, only one of its
details” (LL 3:336). This remark is then followed by ten pages of the details
that Mayhew has observed—details regarding the dozens of principal omni-
bus routes, number of omnibuses travelling the London streets, number of
passengers the average omnibus carries, average distance travelled by an
omnibus, the history of the first omnibus proprietor and his competitors, and,
of course, numerous interviews with omnibus drivers, conductors, and time-
keepers. In this way, Mayhew constructs a scale by which to measure a
Londoner’s visual power as urban observer, a scale in which the poor street-
sellers see and know little of the city in which they live; the middle-class
Londoner with a fashionable address has a “partial view,” and the author of
London Labour possesses voluminous knowledge. The logic of Mayhew’s
massive classificatory enterprise presumes that the dweller in the Strand, or
any other middle-class reader, can gain knowledge similar to Mayhew’s by
following, as an armchair explorer of the city, his writings. This possibility is
of course denied to many street-sellers as a result of their poverty, if not
illiteracy.7
Mayhew’s depiction of the working classes as deprived of visual power,
like his depiction of them as a juvenile group, moves freely between figura-
tive and literal expression. Although, as Mayhew observes, the “blind—the
cripple—the maimed—the very old—the very young—all have generally
adopted a street-life, because they could do nothing else” (LL 1:322–23), it is
nevertheless striking how frequently the representatives of the working classes
on whom he chooses to focus are either literally deprived of vision, disabled
such that their physical embodiment is spectacularly evident, or both.
Moreover, even when describing healthy working-class interviewees, Mayhew
is obsessively attentive to their eyes, which he almost uniformly figures as
indicating a lack of visual acuity: one of his earliest interviewees has “a heavy
cast of countenance, his light blue eyes having little expression” (LL 1:22), a
street-seller of tape and cotton has “gray glassy eyes” (LL 1:386), a
costermonger lad’s “two heavy lead-coloured eyes stared unmeaningly at”
Mayhew (LL 1:39), an Irish laborer’s “two small eyes stared . . . without the
least expression even of consciousness” (LL 1:111). Mayhew usually
accompanies contrasting examples of sharp-sighted laborers with a moralistic
qualifier, such that visual acuity in the wandering poor appears to be both
unusual and, where it exists, a sign of duplicitous or predatory tendencies.
Thus, a girl “with bright sparkling eyes” turns out to be unremarkable—
“unless, indeed, it were in the possession of the quality of cunning” (LL 1:477–
78). Similarly, sewer-hunters are—in exact contrast to Mayhew—“not a class
competent to describe what they saw” in the underground labyrinth, “how-
ever keen-eyed” they may be in the hunt for “silver spoons” (LL 2:394) lost
down the drains of middle-class houses.
Henry Mayhew’s Children of the Streets 29
Charles Mackay, subeditor of the Morning Chronicle, uses terms that suggest
the overall project of the book is the formulation of precisely such a theory of
class difference:
If the eyes in a portrait are not seen, and they complain, we take a pin and
dot them; and that brings the eye out, and they like it. . . . The fact is,
people don’t know their own faces. Half of ’em have never looked in a
glass half a dozen times in their life, and directly they see a pair of eyes
and a nose, they fancy they are their own. (LL 3:208–209)
F igur
iguree 1 “Photographic Saloon, East End of London.” From Henry Mayhew, London Labour
and the London Poor, vol. 3 (1861).
the viewer of the illustration) himself contained within the white square that
will form the background in the photograph, and two onlookers (who, inci-
dentally, are placed such that they cannot see what is obviously the object of
their interest, the shooting of the picture) are trapped within door and win-
dow frames. Not only does the depiction of events in the illustration seem to
achieve the goal of Mayhew’s text (the fixing of the wandering poor), but the
photographer’s own description of his trade testifies to his customers’ lack of
vision, renders them an undifferentiated, embodied mass, and reveals their
inability to see themselves as individuals. Indeed, the occasional sharp-sighted
customers who complain about the infidelity with which they are represented
are metaphorically blinded—their eyes are dotted with a pin or brought out,
“and they like it.”
Mayhew later suggests that he uses a technology of representation
metaphorically parallel to that employed by the East End “photographic man”:
London Labour “stands alone as a photograph of life as actually spent by the
lower classes of the Metropolis,” one that can provide “all possible infor-
mation that can prove interesting to the moralist, the philanthropist, and the
statist, as well as to the general public” (LL 4:v). To be sure, Mayhew dis-
tinguishes his writing from the street vendor’s photographs by insisting that
London Labour constitutes a technology of representation that is more
32 Youth of Darkest England
thorough, accurate, and valuable due to the superior vision that he and his
readers share. The difference is ironically suggested by one of the street-
photographer’s more amusing dodges: “People seem to think the camera will
do anything. We actually persuade them that it will mesmerise them. After
their portrait is taken, we ask them if they would like to be mesmerised by
the camera, and the charge is only 2d ” (LL 3:209). As anyone who has read
the entirety of London Labour and the London Poor can testify, Mayhew’s
writing—whatever else it may be—is not what one would call mesmerizing.
It should not pass unnoticed that the photographer’s statements also tes-
tify to a lack of working-class consciousness among the visionless, embod-
ied mass that he and Mayhew, in their different ways, depict.11 Here, as so
often in London Labour, the victims of the various cheats perpetrated by the
working classes are themselves working-class people. Like the photogra-
pher, a vendor of eyeglasses whose “spectacles are sold principally to work-
ing men” boasts:
I’ve persuaded them in spite of their eyes that they wanted glasses. I knew
a man who used to brag that he could talk people blind, and then they
bought! . . . I think perhaps I sold as many because people thought they
looked better, or more knowing in them. (LL 1:444)
who finds at last that his identity has been permanently compromised by this
experiment.”12 Yet, London Labour repeatedly insists that Mayhew is not
merely wandering the metropolis but executing a regimented inquiry that
proceeds in proper fashion from one strategic location to another. Mayhew’s
operations represent what Jonathan Crary calls the “techniques of the ob-
server,” the optical activities that simultaneously enabled “a freeing up of
vision” and instituted “a plurality of means to recode the activity of the eye,
to regiment it.”13 However ambitious Mayhew’s goal to comprehend the en-
tire metropolis, London Labour reveals Mayhew to be an observer as defined
by Crary: a powerful visual subject who nevertheless “sees within a pre-
scribed set of possibilities . . . and limitations” by actively “observing rules,
codes, regulations, and practices.”14 Possessing neither the absolute efficacy
of the panoptic gaze analyzed by Michel Foucault nor the freedom of the
lounging flâneur as described by Walter Benjamin,15 Mayhew aspires instead
to regulate his own movements within the city by means of his project, the
attempt to catalog every possible detail relating to the restless street people
he observes.
Mayhew’s text does at times seem, as Christopher Herbert declares,
“extravagant, anarchic . . . a victim of anomic boundlessness in research.”16
The macroscopic disorder of the work, of course, results in part from the fact
that London Labour is comprised of cobbled-together weekly installments
(themselves often revised versions of daily newspaper columns), which no
doubt did not seem “next to unreadable”17 when consumed in small bits. At
the microscopic level of textual organization, however, Mayhew insistently
makes certain we know where he is and where he is going next. For instance,
in the study of London street-traffic discussed above, Mayhew concludes the
report on omnibus conveyance thus: “I have now described the earnings and
conditions of the drivers and conductors of the London omnibuses, and I
proceed, in due order, to treat of the Metropolitan Hackney-coach and
Cabmen” (LL 3:347). Moreover, although Mayhew clearly represents him-
self as having spent much more time than the average middle-class subject in
walking the London streets, this ability to navigate the metropolis is depen-
dent on Mayhew’s possession of a proper domestic location within the city.
Thus, the conclusion of the third volume of London Labour—the last for
which Mayhew was primarily responsible—includes a significant, if brief,
mention of his home life, in a speech he delivers to a group of ex-convict
interviewees: “I have had many of you in my house with my wife and chil-
dren, and to your honour and credit be it said, you never wronged me of the
smallest article, and, moreover, I never heard a coarse word escape your lips”
(LL 3:430). However physically mobile Mayhew appears, his mobility is
constrained by his settled location as a metropolitan subject: he possesses a
proper middle-class home life that he presumably departs from and returns
34 Youth of Darkest England
they have merely, after each morning’s sweeping and removal of dirt, to
keep a vigilant look-out over the surface of street allotted to them; and to
remove with the hand-brush and dust-pan, from any particular spot, what-
ever dirt or rubbish may fall upon it, at the moment of its deposit. Thus are
the streets under their care kept constantly clean. (LL 2:260)
On the one hand, the report implies that this labor is far less onerous
than the various (and often quite vile) forms of unregulated scavenging (the
collection of dog-droppings and the hunting for valuables in sewers, for ex-
ample) that Mayhew describes at such scatological length in the second vol-
ume of London Labour: the street-orderlies “have merely” to sweep up small
amounts of dirt. On the other hand, the disciplinary alternative to the unregu-
lated mobility of the scavenging poor could hardly be clearer: confinement
to a particular spot, instead of wandering the parks or sewers. Moreover,
although the report suggests that such limitation of mobility confers a degree
of visual power on even the working-class citydweller, the “vigilant look-
out” that the street-orderly thus maintains is directed not only at the dirt of
the streets but at the as yet undisciplined wanderers among his or her own
class.20 According to the report, the street-orderly
troublesome, the street-orderly warns them off; or hands them to the care
of the policeman. (LL 2:260)
Evidently, then, the service the laborer can perform in the imperial na-
tion is that of the “watchman” protecting the property of the wealthy, the
cheerful guide to tourists in whose tracks he or she cannot follow, the unofficial
police-constable who identifies with middle-class interests so thoroughly
(“ever ready, though unpaid”) as to aid in the incarceration of his or her class
equals. Finally, such visible location in a tightly circumscribed bit of the
metropolis, although it might seem to offer the street-orderly a degree of the
legitimate visual power possessed by the police, is, in fact, a means of polic-
ing the street-orderlies themselves, who seem always on the verge of suc-
cumbing to the dislike of continuous labor that is, according to Mayhew,
“innate” in the wandering poor. As Mayhew approvingly notes in his com-
ments on the report, the “street-orderlies are confined to their beats as strictly
as are policeman [sic], and as they soon become known to the inhabitants, it
is a means of checking any disposition to loiter, or to shirk the work” (LL
2:261) on the part of the street-orderlies themselves.21
In this way, conferring a degree (even a minimal one) of metropolitan
subjectivity on the working classes is a means of increasing the disciplinary
regulation of them, a fact that is rendered with particular clarity in the illus-
tration that accompanies the discussion of the street-orderly system (Figure
2). This illustration depicts the street-orderlies as a regimented line of soldier-
F igur
iguree 2 “Street Orderlies.” From Henry Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor, vol.
2 (1861).
Henry Mayhew’s Children of the Streets 37
scavengers—holding brooms as the weapons with which they wage their war
on dirt, and being inspected by a middle-class officer. In addition, the organi-
zation of the illustration in terms of Renaissance perspective identifies the
street-orderlies with, and fixes them within, the street architecture.22 The
buildings and lamp posts radiate from the vanishing point as do the two sets
of street-orderlies (the flank on the left, standing at attention, and the three
figures on the right, busily at work collecting rubbish), all of whom are con-
tained by the location in which they labor. This visual depiction is quite dif-
ferent from the bulk of the hundred-odd illustrations that appear in London
Labour, of which the picture of the London scavenger (Figure 3) is typical.
F igur
iguree 3 “The London Scavenger.” From Henry Mayhew, London Labour and the London
Poor, vol. 2 (1861).
38 Youth of Darkest England
F igur
iguree 4 “The London Dustman. Dust Hoi! Dust Hoi!” From Henry Mayhew, London Labour
and the London Poor, vol. 2 (1861).
Henry Mayhew’s Children of the Streets 39
comment about emigration suggests that, in this case, the best route for a
vagrant to take is one that leads to Australia. Indeed, Mayhew’s interviewees
suggest that emigration is desirable even in the form of penal transportation.
As another vagrant observes, “I should like to have a look at some foreign
land. Old England has nothing new in it now for me. . . . if I were transported
I should be better off than I am now” (LL 3:381-82).24
It should be clear by now that Mayhew represents any such positive
redistribution of working-class bodies as one that must be regulated by middle-
class supervision. Mayhew’s basic definition of working and middle classes
in terms of body and vision, which is so prominent in London Labour, is
employed in various forms, and with various ideological inflections, in later
imperialist writings on the working classes. To anticipate briefly the argu-
ments of succeeding chapters of my book, William Booth’s In Darkest En-
gland and the Way Out (1890) imagines the emigration of “surplus labor” as
entirely under the surveillant control of the visionary William Booth—and
the panoptic structure of the Salvation Army scheme might in part explain
why even middle-class readers critiqued it as the fantasy of an egomaniac.
By contrast, Robert Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys: A Handbook for In-
struction in Good Citizenship (1908) imagines the organization of working-
class boys in much more egalitarian terms—the very subtitle of
Baden-Powell’s handbook presumes that such boys will become citizens,
even if they need to be told how to be good ones. This rhetorical difference
between Booth’s and Baden-Powell’s schemes might, in part, explain why,
in contrast to the suspicion Booth inspired, middle-class readers found the
Boy Scout organization so attractive and lionized its founder. Mayhew’s text
exists between the two extremes. Like Booth’s, it finds desirable the rigorous
organization of the working classes into units employed in the service of
empire and under the supervision of the middle classes; yet, with its concep-
tion of a middle-class subject whose observational powers are necessarily
circumscribed, London Labour refuses to indulge in the fantasy of middle-
class possession of absolute visual power.25 Thus, in one of his early letters to
the Morning Chronicle, Mayhew describes his view of London from the gal-
lery at the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral with traditional aesthetic terminology
to value positively the fact that he does not possess, as his elevated position
might imply, the panoptic ability to survey the metropolis: “as the vast city
lay there beneath me, half hid in mist and with only glimpses of its greatness
visible, it had a much more sublime and ideal effect from the very inability to
grasp the whole of its literal reality.”26
Predictably, however, London Labour is much less ambivalent when it
addresses the possibility—implicit throughout Mayhew’s developmental nar-
rative—that the English working classes might come to possess even the
circumscribed visual power that the middle-class subject enjoys and might
Henry Mayhew’s Children of the Streets 41
Here the man took the lids off a couple of boxes, about as big as bin-
nacles, that stood on the table: they each contained 190 different eyes, and
so like nature, that the effect produced upon a person unaccustomed to the
sight was most peculiar, and far from pleasant. The whole of the 380 op-
tics all seemed to be staring directly at the spectator, and occasioned a
feeling somewhat similar to the bewilderment one experiences on sud-
denly becoming an object of general notice; as if the eyes, indeed, of a
whole lecture-room were crammed into a few square inches, and all turned
full upon you. (LL 3:232)
43
44 Youth of Darkest England
their own literature and their own literate practices, both of which were often
in tension with common notions about the way to manage the working
classes—such as Mayhew’s interest in fixing the mobile poor in urban spaces
subject to middle-class supervision. With increased diligence after the
Courvoisier trial, middle-class critics also condemned the “penny bloods”
that proliferated at mid-century. A generic hybrid of the criminal biography
and the gothic, and popular among working-class readers in the 1840s, the
penny bloods were, due to the class of their audience, seen as even more
dangerous than the Newgate novels.6 By taking advantage of cheap machine-
manufactured paper, speedy rotary steam presses, and a battery of prolific
hack writers, publishers of penny bloods such as Edward Lloyd and G. W. M.
Reynolds instituted a new product (quickly produced novels at an affordable
price) designed for a new market (an increasingly literate working class).7 To
create and maintain demand for their product, Lloyd and his competitors
shrewdly integrated new publishing techniques and proven generic materi-
als. The remarkable success of Charles Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers (1836–
1837) had demonstrated the profitability of continually maintaining reader
interest through serial publication, which, from the first, was the standard of
the penny blood industry. In turn, authors of penny bloods plundered gothic
fiction and the Newgate Calendar for tales of horror and crime, narrative
forms that are especially productive of the suspense that keeps readers buy-
ing. Lurid narratives published serially, the penny bloods were doubly mar-
ketable. Due to their topics and the class of their readers, the penny bloods
were also, according to their opponents, doubly worrisome.
This concern about the reading tastes of the poor is strikingly revealed
in an 1849 Punch cartoon, “Useful Sunday Literature for the Masses; or,
Murder Made Familiar” (Figure 5). The working-class family in their tene-
ment home is clearly not the target audience for Ainsworth’s or Bulwer-
Lytton’s three-volume Newgate novels, nor would they probably—like
Courvoisier, the nobleman’s valet—have had illicit access to such reading.
Yet, they eagerly peruse similar materials via an imaginary penny publica-
tion, The Murder Monger, the gruesome lead story of which enthralls the
family while their Bible lies thrown aside. The illustration implies that such
violent narratives cause consumers, particularly youthful ones, to act vio-
lently, as represented by the dismembered doll on the floor. Moreover, al-
though the story in the paper apparently involves violence between
working-class people (the “wretched murderer,” overdressed but with a tell-
tale “coarse vulgar” appearance, kills his own offspring), the illustration in-
dicates that children who are trained by The Murder Monger may well grow
up to perpetrate violence no longer on their toys and not only on their class
equals but also on middle-class persons. Thus, hanging over the fireplace,
are pictures of the family idols, Courvoisier and James Greenacre—the latter
a worker who was executed in 1837 for murdering, like Courvoisier, his class
Class, Violence, and Mid-Victorian Penny Fiction 45
F igur
iguree 5 “Useful Sunday Literature for the Masses; or, Murder Made Familiar.” From Punch,
vol. 17 (1840).
superior.8 Finally, the cartoon represents the consumption of such penny lit-
erature about violence in terms of the delivery and reception of stories for
young people: parent reading to engrossed children.
So far as I know, penny bloods have never been examined as juvenile
literature (seldom enough as literature).9 However, the fact that working-class
young people constituted a large part of the target audience for penny bloods
is clear from Edward Lloyd’s market-research techniques. According to one
of his hack writers, the Chartist Thomas Frost, Lloyd’s manager had the
46 Youth of Darkest England
also retell it and thus act as authorial figures who can rewrite, to suit them-
selves, the works of middle-class literary men such as William Harrison
Ainsworth and Lord Lytton. As a boy in a workhouse claims, “I’ve read ‘Jack
Sheppard’ through, in three volumes; and I used to tell stories out of that
sometimes” (LL 3:391).14 In such statements one can also hear Mayhew’s
interviewees expressing what Dick Hebdige defines as a central characteristic
of youth subcultures, “a fundamental tension between those in power and
those condemned to subordinate positions and second-class lives.”15 Forced
by their poverty and youthful vulnerability to congregate in cheap lodging
houses, the children Mayhew interviews revel in recreational practices that
rhyme, unsurprisingly, with their outcast social status.16 However, the primary
burden of texts by Mayhew and his like-minded contemporaries is the elabo-
ration of a sociological argument proving that popular culture causes crime
and violence. Thus in “Thieves and Swindlers,” his contribution to the fourth
volume of London Labour, John Binny employs the Mayhewesque tactic
whereby middle-class presuppositions are apparently confirmed by quoting
working-class interviewees. In this case, a young man “about sixteen years
of age” comments on how dramatizations of Ainsworth’s Jack Sheppard affect
working-class young people:
Like the Newgate novel, the penny bloods of Edward Lloyd and G. W.
M. Reynolds figure in Mayhew’s examination of working-class literacy and
its dangers. A newsvendor informs Mayhew, “I sell Lloyd’s and Reynolds’s
pennies—fairish, both of them” (LL 1:291), and an interviewee “who was in
the habit of reading to” costermongers declares that “Reynolds is the most
popular man among them” (LL 1:25). The fact that, in addition to Lloyd, the
most popular producer of penny bloods was Reynolds—a prominent
socialist—was hardly likely to seem salubrious to Mayhew or his readers.17
Indeed, the moral outrage visited on the penny bloods has much to do with
the fact that they were not only considered a source of isolated acts of crime
and violence but were associated with political radicalism and, thus, were
regarded as a threat to the middle classes as a whole. At their most nakedly
reactionary, middle-class writers such as Mayhew and his collaborators worry
that working-class literacy itself leads to radicalism and a destablization of
normative class relations. In “Prostitution in London,” his contribution to the
fourth volume of London Labour, Bracebridge Hemyng interviews a prostitute
who addresses to him the following speech: “Birth is the result of accident. It
is the merest chance in the world whether you’re born a countess or a
Class, Violence, and Mid-Victorian Penny Fiction 49
isolated; where that fear manifested itself, however, it was in large part fueled
by the notion that, while Chartists were seeking (in Knight’s words) to
“array . . . the poor against the rich,” the “dangerous classes” were excitedly
reading penny bloods and Lord William Russell was being shaved by a fan of
Jack Sheppard.
Comments associating Chartism with working-class violence are legion
in middle-class writings on the poor, and Mayhew is again a useful index of
how commonplace this association was in the 1840s and 1850s. Although
Chartist agitation was famously divided between a “moral force” contingent
committed to reform by means of political persuasion and a “physical force”
contingent advocating, if necessary, the destruction of property,20 writers such
as Mayhew represent the working classes as endorsing a Chartist movement
evacuated of such political complexities. Mayhew quotes a scavenger as say-
ing, “I cares nothing about politics neither; but I’m a chartist” (LL 2:225). It
would appear that, for the bulk of Mayhew’s interviewees, “Chartism” equals,
simply, “violence.” Asserting that costermongers “are nearly all Chartists,”
Mayhew claims that their “ignorance, and their being impulsive, makes them
a dangerous class. . . . Some of them, I learned, could not understand why
Chartist leaders exhorted them to peace and quietness, when they might as
well fight it out with the police at once” (LL 1:20). Characteristically conflating
the adult and juvenile working class, Mayhew describes child street-sellers
in almost identical terms: “Of politics such children can know nothing. If
they are anything, they are Chartists in feeling, and are in general honest
haters of the police and of most constituted authorities” (LL 1:475). Finally,
even when discussing those workers well-known for their informed and liter-
ate engagement with politics, such as weavers, Mayhew elides the politics of
Chartism so as to associate it with violence. In an 1849 Morning Chronicle
letter, Mayhew sets out to interview Spitalfields silk-weavers “who advocate
the principles of the People’s Charter” and are thus “workmen who were
known to entertain violent political opinions.”21 Such representations imply
that the ultimate goal of Chartist agitation is to render more effective the
depredations of a working-class population already prone to violence: hav-
ing been “assured that in case of a political riot every ‘coster’ would seize his
policeman” (LL 1:20), Mayhew is “quite satisfied . . . that there are thou-
sands in this great metropolis ready to rush forth, on the least evidence of a
rising of the people, to commit the most savage and revolting excesses” (LL
2:5). In the late 1840s and early 1850s, the phrases “political riot” and “ris-
ing of the people” would most immediately bring to mind Chartist agitation,
as Mayhew makes clear elsewhere in London Labour: “At the period of any
social commotion, they [vagrants] are sure to be drawn towards the scene of
excitement in a vast concourse,” such as during “the Chartist agitation, in the
June quarter of the year 1848” (LL 3:373).22
Class, Violence, and Mid-Victorian Penny Fiction 51
The Salisbury Square publishing house of Edward Lloyd first issued Varney,
the Vampyre in 109 weekly “penny parts” between 1840 and 1842, and Lloyd
subsequently published the novel in book form in 1847 and in an abridged
version in 1853. The appearance of the novel thus coincides with the decade
in which both working-class agitation and the critical condemnation of penny
Class, Violence, and Mid-Victorian Penny Fiction 53
bloods received the greatest attention in the press. The reading of Varney, the
Vampyre that follows will detail how the penny blood enables working-class
readers, including youthful readers, to enter debates about violence and class
typically identified with Chartist radicalism.31 Varney addresses its reader-
ship by representing sustained but moderate agitation as the means of obtain-
ing full status as citizens of the English nation. Varney repeatedly raises the
reader’s interest in violence in order to undermine fascination with it and to
direct the reader’s interest toward other possibilities. This novel suggests how
its working-class readers can be mobilized to envision different political nar-
ratives for themselves and, thus, to gain power—which, in this novel, is at-
tained specifically by not carrying out the bloodshed of which one is capable.
Of course, to argue that the penny blood caused specific effects in the
political world risks reproducing the interpretive fallacies of Hemyng,
Mayhew, Knight, and other proponents of the mimetic theory of represented
violence. Nevertheless, it is important to investigate how popular culture can
shape attitudes about violence. It is at least worth crediting middle-class critics’
observation that the bloods had a powerful relation to their social context,
that (in Knight’s words) “revolutions in popular literature” can inform the
revolutionary hopes and expectations of the working classes. Moreover, my
argument—that penny bloods such as Varney take advantage of historical
coincidences (cheaper means of literary production and increased working-
class literacy) in order to foster the political education of the working classes—
is meant to oppose the view, common at least since Jürgen Habermas glibly
defined the “public sphere” as the property of the “moral” bourgeois, that the
supposedly “low” quality of a text such as Varney disqualifies it (and, by
association, its “low” reader) from powerfully affecting political life. Thus
Habermas, writing on Lloyd’s Weekly Newspaper, asserts that the “mass press
was . . . designed predominantly to give the masses in general access to the
public sphere” but that
the early penny press . . . paid for the maximization of its sales with the
depoliticization of its content—by eliminating political news and political
editorials on such moral topics as intemperance and gambling . . . reading
is made easy at the same time that its field of spontaneity in general is
restricted by serving up the material as a ready-made convenience, pat-
terned and predigested.32
the humanist tradition (and its chief enterprise, canon formation) discour-
ages regular examination of violence and instead institutes a fascination with
its most dramatic manifestations—a fascination that, Bersani and Dutoit argue,
enables destructive imitation. Their thesis has considerable bearing on nine-
teenth-century realist novels, in which shocking acts of violence (Julien Sorel’s
shooting of Madame de Rênal, the sinister hints that Becky Sharp has poi-
soned Jos Sedley) erupt only at the most significant moments of plot develop-
ment. Bersani and Dutoit’s analysis suggests that realist works such as
Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le noir (1830) and Thackeray’s Vanity Fair (1847–
1848) present striking images of violence for prolonged spectatorship in the
belief that the reader cannot become callously inured to such isolated horrors
and cannot become fascinated by or moved to imitate them. Part of the literary
prestige of such works involves the fact that they facilitate a belief in our
unimpaired ability to interpret and master the violence we read about. By
contrast, Bersani and Dutoit argue that texts replete with depictions of vio-
lence expose such mastery as an illusion: such texts force us to process the
frantic intersection of narrative and body, they reveal the fragmentary process
of creation and consumption, and they “prevent the reading of violence from
becoming a fascinated identification with acts of violence.”33 Bersani and
Dutoit persuasively demonstrate how a variety of texts—late Assyrian
sculptures, with their ubiquitous battle and hunting scenes, Sadean pornog-
raphy, Alain Resnais’s film Night and Fog (1955)—offer “a potential correc-
tive” to a fascination with violence by forcing us “to see, even to enjoy,
examples of the violence in which human history inescapably implicates us.”34
Modern popular culture has provided many forms—from penny bloods to
dime novels to slasher films—that offer a similarly profitable economy of
violence: they propose no pacifist myth, acknowledge that we have an interest
in deadly conflict, and discourage fixation on bodily harm.35
In keeping with the refusal to fixate on violence, Varney, the Vampyre;
or, The Feast of Blood. A Romance of Exciting Interest is a title that promises
much it does not deliver. From the first page on, there is sufficient represen-
tation of violence—duels, armed robberies, mobs on the rampage, and such,
in addition to vampire attacks—to identify the text as a penny blood. Yet, in
order to maintain their interest for 109 installments, the author cannot allow
readers to become satiated by feasting on any single scene of violence. Even
more hyperbolic than Varney’s subtitle, an 1841 advertisement for the first
issue of the Sunday Chronicle proudly announced that the paper would offer
“Tales of the most Absorbing Interest, and which absolutely rivet the atten-
tion of the reader with a species of galvanic force. These Tales are replete
with MYSTERY, HORROR, LOVE & SEDUCTION!”36 This promotion
seems to invite the objections of critics like Hemyng and Mayhew—and to
confirm Carlyle’s notion that a “silly young person” of the working classes is
easy to “animal-magnetise.” Yet the economics of the genre determine that
Class, Violence, and Mid-Victorian Penny Fiction 55
the serials which this paper will feature, like Edward Lloyd’s publications,
must not “rivet the attention” of working-class readers. That is, penny bloods
accumulate interest only by denying what Bersani and Dutoit call an “es-
thetic calm” and by instead inviting us to enjoy a kind of “esthetic ‘vio-
lence’”—which they describe, significantly, as “the agitations of multiple
contacts producing multiple forms.”37 The Oxford English Dictionary notes
that “agitation” had two principal meanings in the nineteenth century: the
older meaning—“mental disturbance or perturbation” (the psychic commotion
to which Bersani and Dutoit refer) “showing itself usually by physical excite-
ment”—and a newer signification—“public excitement” maintained by keep-
ing “a political or other object constantly before public attention, by appeals,
discussion, etc.” As Victorian radicals debate how to sustain working-class
political agitation, Varney succeeds by continually raising and then redirect-
ing its audience’s interest in violence and thereby keeping readers in a state
of mental agitation. Thus, even if their anxiety that such a text might oppose
middle-class power was well-founded, Victorian critics missed the mark when
they claimed that the penny blood simply asked its reader to imitate physical
violence. Varney rejects the association of the working classes with mere
bodily mobility and lack of vision. Instead, Varney asks its readers to endorse
working-class intellectual mobility and controlled agitation—whether of read-
ers, political radicals, or both—as the means of envisioning an alternative,
and more powerful, working-class role within the English nation.
Much of the action in the first half of Varney is familiar to readers of
vampire narratives: the first chapter concludes with Varney “at his hideous
repast,”38 attacking the heroine, Flora Bannerworth. In succeeding install-
ments, Flora’s relatives and admirers—her brothers Henry and George and
her lover Charles, led by their older advisors Dr. Chillingworth and Admiral
Bell—struggle to untangle the mystery of vampirism and to protect the hero-
ine. However, it might come as a surprise that the first ninety-two chapters
are as much about mob violence as they are about vampire attacks. In fact,
the novel provides, for its working-class readers, an extended criticism of pre-
cisely the sort of “popular violence” (VV 194) that middle-class critics of the
penny blood associated with those readers. Again and again, the novel’s omni-
scient narrator recounts the actions of villagers intent on destroying the vam-
pire. Although the townspeople start “no political riot,” the narrator contends
that those who “have their passions inflamed”—whether as a result of super-
stition or as a result of the more political “consequence of differing in opin-
ion”—will neither gain knowledge nor resolve conflicts but will remain
fascinated by violence itself (VV 216). This examination of the mob diagnoses
an extreme case of agitation: the excessive mental disturbance of the villagers
(their inflamed passions) renders them mentally immobile and incapable of
effective social action. The villagers “no longer thought of anything, save the
searching after the vampyre, and the destruction of the property” (VV 229).
56 Youth of Darkest England
Moreover, the narrator proposes a scale by which readers can measure, at one
extreme, too much agitation (the fascination of the villagers) and, at the other
extreme, too little agitation (a “perfect calm” [VV 406] that the novel insists
is impossible and undesirable, both for the novel’s heroes and for readers, who
desire suspense). The novel asks readers to endorse the mean between these
extremes: “coolness” (VV 332), moderate agitation, and just enough action
to confer power on protagonists and give pleasure to readers of penny bloods.
Varney directs readers away from excessive agitation and fascination
with violence by demonizing the mob as itself vampiric and by exposing its
powerlessness, when fixated on violence, as a lack of both intellectual and
physical mobility that disqualifies members of the mob from English citizen-
ship. Viciously “hunted by those who thirsted for his blood” (VV 375), even
Varney describes the mob in vampiric terms—as “an evil spirit” (VV 310)
whose “taste” for destruction “has caused the appetite for more” (VV 373).
Vampirism here is not (as in Bram Stoker’s Dracula) the foreign aristocratic
force that assaults the English middle classes. Vampirism is instead the po-
litically undead condition of laborers who have adopted an ineffective means
of agitation. The depiction of the mob in Varney incorporates stereotypes—
promoted by writers such as Carlyle and Lombroso—about the monstrous
“dangerous classes.” Yet, the novel seeks to revise that representation by
obliging the working classes that consume penny bloods to ridicule the mob
and to maintain a critical distance from the violence it perpetrates. That is,
the novel posits the very act of reading as a form of intellectual mobility that
can in turn enable social and economic mobility. This desirable mobility, the
novel implies, is prohibited by the fictional villagers’ fascination with the
violence they have perpetrated: as a result, they “all seemed transfixed to the
spot” (VV 364).
Moreover, their fascination with violence disqualifies them from self-
government, the right that, according to radical reformers, Englishness should
confer on all members of the nation, including Varney’s working-class readers:
soldiers arrive to put down the rioters, and the narrator laments that “it was a
strange and startling thing to see that country town under military surveillance”
(VV 215). Mob violence thus is not, as the naval hero Admiral Bell says in
Varney, “a proper English mode of fighting” (VV 191). As one soldier quips,
“These people . . . are ignorant in the extreme. One would think we had got
into the country of vampires, instead of a civilised community” (VV 234). As
suggested by the soldier’s disdainful comparison of Eastern Europe (in the
1840s as now, associated in the popular imagination with “the country of
vampires”) to England (“a civilised community”), the novel often plunders
imperialist discourse for platitudes about national and racial difference in
order to mark mob violence as culturally other and as undesirable. At one
point, the narrator declares that a “species of savage ferocity now appeared
to have seized upon the crowd” (VV 203), and later the townspeople behave
Class, Violence, and Mid-Victorian Penny Fiction 57
“like so many wild Indians, dancing round their roasting victims, or some
demons at an infernal feast” (VV 231). Similarly, in “Prostitution in London,”
Bracebridge Hemyng notes: “I was told of a disturbance that took place in
one of the night-houses in Panton Street, not more than a year ago, which for
brutality and savage ferocity I should think could not be equalled by a scalp-
ing party of North American Red Indians” (LL 4:252–53). Varney borrows
from such middle-class descriptions of the poor by incorporating notions
about the degradation of the “savage” working classes in the heart of empire.
Yet, through its use of this metaphor, Varney asks its readers to distinguish
working-class agitation from mob violence, which is undesirable because it
invites middle-class cultural “colonization” of the poor. Reflecting on the
“melancholy fact” that such violence—and the resulting martial law—can
occur “even in a civilised country like this, with a generally well-educated
population” (VV 204), the narrator seeks to achieve a similar consensus of
opinion among civilized working-class readers—who are educated, if not
more formally, by penny bloods—and positions them as superior to such
“savagery.” Unlike London Labour, Varney insists that such superiority—
and thus qualification for citizenship in the English nation—is the result not
of middle-class regulation of the working-class body but, rather, of working-
class self-regulation by means of intellectual mobility.
In order to help its readers achieve this intellectual mobility, the narra-
tor must not allow them to become fascinated by the violence advertised in
Varney’s subtitle, The Feast of Blood. The techniques with which the narrator
undermines such fascination are especially evident in the novel’s most
shocking depiction of mob violence, the staking of a corpse at the local inn.
The narrator prefaces this moment of “perfect horror” (VV 221), which be-
gins the twenty-eighth installment, by forewarning the audience, at the end
of the twenty-seventh, that what will follow is “a scene of confusion, the
results of which we almost sicken at detailing” (VV 216). This elliptical ap-
petizer both promises that the horror novel will not disappoint generic ex-
pectations and implies that readers, who will of course be intrigued by this
anticipation of the succeeding episode, should also (like the narrator) find
themselves “sickened” by it and thus avoid the “confusion” shown by the
villagers. The treatment of this scene is a model of how the formal logic of
the penny blood, its commercial requirements, and its intended cultural impact
intersect. By prefacing the moment of violence with pages of hesitation, the
writer produces a maximum of suspense, a maximum of copy (a pressing
concern for an author paid at one penny or less per line), and a maximum of
instruction regarding the interpretation of the succeeding scene of violence.
The narrator thus manages both the generic requirement for violence and the
political desire to discourage fascination with it.
Having brought us to the room at the inn, the narrator nearly deprives us
of our penny’s worth of sensation:
58 Youth of Darkest England
coffins” (VV 106). The appeal of Varney, like that of most vampire narratives,
derives from the dangerous power of the supernatural central character; yet
this penny blood consistently undermines readerly fascination with Varney’s
career as violent bloodsucker in order to focus on how his economic power is
born of a daring that is well-regulated. Clearly, in his pursuit of wealth, Varney
is more ruthless than Henry. But in spite of his bombastic menaces (“even if
I wade through blood to my desire, I say it shall be done” [VV 151]), he is a
shrewd advocate of the power of restraint. His mansion having been burnt to
the ground by the villagers, Varney responds not with retaliation but with
restrained understatement: “In consequence of a little accident which occurred
last evening to my own residence, I am, ad interim . . . staying at a house
called Walmesley Lodge” (VV 250). Exemplary civility from the mouth of a
former highwayman, this elegant speech, punctuated with Latin, demonstrates
not only how Varney moves between different class identities but how that
mobility is facilitated by his refusal to execute the destruction of which he is
capable. Even Varney’s enemies respect this proponent of physical force re-
strained by cool discretion. Chillingworth acknowledges that this remark is
“about the coolest piece of business . . . that ever I heard of,” and Admiral
Bell responds with an admiring tribute: “It is cool, and I like it because it is
cool” (VV 251).
As the admiral suggests, Varney is the most likeable of Victorian vam-
pires. His cool agitation endows him with the power to envision and execute
plots that not only enrich him but bring about positive change in other char-
acters’ fortunes. When he awaits his appointment with the blackmailer
Mortimer, that “extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets,
now began, indeed, to torment Sir Francis Varney” (VV 143). The fidgety
vampire is a strange literary figure; yet Varney’s nervous energy, which at
once normalizes him and propels the adventure, is crucial to the novel’s con-
struction of well-regulated agitation as a powerful means of reshaping per-
sonal and social histories. His frequent demonstrations of pleasant sociability
barely obscure the threat that he poses and that keeps characters, and readers,
on edge: “Varney was only subdued for a time, and . . . with a proper amount
of provocation, he would become again a very serious fellow” (VV 411).
However, in spite of this promise of menace, Varney never becomes particu-
larly dangerous, and the novel remains much more ambivalent about its
vampire hero than about the “savage” mob: as the epigraph to the novel
pointedly asks, “Art thou a spirit of health or goblin damned?” Although
Varney’s name supposedly “has been a terror and a desolation” (VV 349), the
“sensibility that still lingers” in his “preternatural existence” (VV 157) com-
pels him again and again to commit an unselfish act that is “as unexpected as
it was decisive” (VV 159). Indeed, because of his “strangely mixed feelings”
(VV 277) and powerful discretion, he adheres to a fairminded economics of
Class, Violence, and Mid-Victorian Penny Fiction 61
After the first chapter has apparently indicated that Flora Bannerworth
is the victim of a vampire attack, and after a third of the immense novel has
chronicled the heroes’ campaign to rescue her from the supernatural threat,
Varney exposes the attack on Flora as a hoax intended only to frighten the
Bannerworths away from their ancestral home and the treasure hidden in it
(VV 392). As if recognizing that Varney thus resembles less a vampire novel
than a Radcliffean romance in which the supernatural is explained rationally,
the narrator corrects this generic deviation by energetically depicting, in the
second hundred chapters, Varney’s attacks on a lengthy series of young women
before, in an amazingly anti-climactic gesture, a world-weary Varney com-
mits suicide in Chapter 220. Varney’s title character thus integrates a problem-
solving sensibility (repaying the Bannerworths, and other good deeds) with
unnerving transgressions that instigate new problems. The text also defines
the transgression of social and narrative orders as productively pleasurable,
and manages our conflicting desires for the satisfying termination of plots
and for continual arousal. Peter Brooks has argued that in the nineteenth-
century novel “the monstrous” implies both the transgression of class struc-
tures and the deviance that characterizes narrative itself, which “arouses and
sustains desire, ensuring that the terminus it both delays and beckons toward
will offer what we might call a lucid repose.”40 However, Varney demands the
reader’s sustained resistance to any such “lucid repose” of narrative. By un-
dermining a fascination with violence, Varney refocuses attention on what is
admirable about its heroes, and what it endorses for its working-class readers:
the controlled agitation and the intellectual mobility that will enable them to
determine their status as subjects of the modern English nation.
Pondering the plot of Varney, the narrator pledges that “Time, and the now
rapidly accumulating incidents of our tale, will soon tear aside the veil of
mystery that now envelopes some of our dramatis personæ” (VV 150). That
is, readers should pursue the knowledge of narrative secrets in the same way
that the novel’s heroes pursue the attainment of social success—by patiently
accepting their inability to force resolutions or gain complete knowledge of
62 Youth of Darkest England
revealed plots. The novel offers explicit instructions on how to read a penny
blood and implicit instructions regarding the knowledge readers should take
from the work and apply in the political realm of nineteenth-century England.
Thus Henry admits that, “being denizens of this earth, and members of a
great social system, we must be subject occasionally to the accidents which
will disturb its efficient working” (VV 135). Although he elsewhere claims
that “our happiness is always in our own power” (VV 112), Henry’s acceptance
of “accidents” suggests that individuals cannot attain happiness by destroying
outright the “great social system” of which they are members. Violent revo-
lution might “tear aside the veil” just as well as “Time” and might reveal
systems other than that which “envelopes” the novel’s readers in mystification;
but such apocalyptic knowledge is too costly. The novel predicates human
happiness on the controlled acts of individuals who do not “quarrel with
Providence” (VV 135), who acknowledge that only “Time” and the incre-
mental effects of individual “incidents” can produce change. Although thus
circumscribing the action it promotes, the novel refuses complacent
satisfaction with either text or social context. The narrator frequently makes
such promises as the following one:
One or two circumstances cleared up, the minor ones would follow in the
same train, and they would be explained by the others; and if ever that
happy state of things were to come about, why, then there would be a
perfect calm in the town. (VV 406)
Her cook having repeatedly neglected to send up the dinner with the punc-
tuality which is desirable in a well-ordered household, she remonstrated
with some sharpness, and to her astonishment was informed that the young
person in question was so much occupied with the novel she was writing
that she had been unable to pay due attention to her duties in the kitchen.
It would be easy to multiply instances of the same state of things . . .46
Moreover, the text of Varney everywhere reveals the labor of the lowly
paid hack whose casual and irregular employment mirrors that typically ex-
perienced by the audience of the penny blood; indeed, writing for a penny (or
less) per line constitutes “piece-work,” the most invidious form of wage-
labor.47
This revelation of the writer’s and reader’s mutual status as laborers is
closely related to the management of violence that characterizes Varney and
the political education it seeks to provide, a fact that is particularly evident in
one of the many vampire attacks related in the last half of the novel, which
attack occurs in the bedroom of one Mary Smith:
She could not even shrink from the horrible being who approached her,
she was so perfectly horror-stricken with that truly horrible countenance
. . . She felt a horrible sinking feeling, as though she must sink through
the very flooring of the house . . . The shouts rang through the house . . . in
a manner that may be called distressing.
It is distressing in the midst of a large city to be awoke . . . by loud
and urgent cries of distress. (VV 566–67)
65
66 Youth of Darkest England
classes in direst need . . . though the whole atmosphere of the fiction must be
clean and healthy,” publishers must offer fictions “of downright amusement,
or they will not be read.” Thus, “the wildest adventure may be freely used.”4
The first section of this chapter examines the critiques of the penny
dreadfuls that prompted Brett’s careerist sea-change. Unlike criticisms of the
penny bloods, which obsessively claimed that they caused juvenile crime,
criticisms of the dreadfuls were more concerned with the failure, on the part
of this new penny literature, to educate working-class young people such
that they would, as adults, be able to take their place as full citizens of the
nation and empire. This shift is a gauge of middle-class attitudes about new
political events—namely, the passing of the Second Reform Act (1867), which
made urban working-class men an electoral majority in England and thus, in
the phrase used by many anxious middle-class writers, their “new masters.”
At the heart of this anxiety is not so much the fear (as in Mayhew’s London
Labour and the London Poor and in writings on the penny bloods) of an
England divided between middle-class citizens and criminalized working-
class outsiders but, rather, the fear of an England divided between two en-
franchised classes with different cultural values—as indicated by, among other
things, their tastes in literature. For instance, although some late-Victorian
critics still worried that working-class children who read cheap crime literature
would assault middle-class property values by robbing their employers,
writings on the penny dreadfuls more prominently suggest that such reading
could create working-class adults who might assault those property values
by exercising their electoral power in a manner that—as one such critic,
Edward G. Salmon, puts it—“supports every anti-capitalist or anti-landlord
utterance, however wild.”5
Critics of the penny dreadful recommend, as an antidote to this reading,
an improving penny fiction that would unite middle- and working-class readers
in their mutual identity as members of an imperial nation. The prominence of
adventure narratives and historical romances in the improving penny
magazines of the latter third of the nineteenth century constitutes an attempt
to render imperialist values, and respect for the grandeur of British history,
especially military history, hegemonic among English boys and girls (and,
by implication, the men and women they would become), regardless of their
class. Whereas a penny blood such as Varney, the Vampyre focuses resolutely
on class issues at home in England—although the title character gets around
a fair bit (he dies in Italy), the novel reveals little interest in the mid-century
British Empire—the late-Victorian improving penny fictions treat domestic
class conflict as a problem to be eradicated by dispersing middle-class val-
ues in the form of imperialist sentiment. The final two sections of this chapter
will examine how this strategy operates in what is now the best-known pro-
duction of the improving penny magazines—Robert Louis Stevenson’s
Improving Penny Fiction 67
Treasure Island, which was serialized (in eighteen parts running from October
1, 1881 to January 28, 1882) in Young Folks: A Boys’ and Girls’ Paper of
Instructive and Entertaining Literature.
Complaints about the penny dreadful raise doubts about the suitability of a
group of people primarily educated by them to act in the political life of the
nation—a point that critics of the penny dreadfuls make with increasing em-
phasis after the passing of the Third Reform Act (1884), which extended the
franchise to include nearly all working-class men.6 Admittedly, the mimetic
theory of represented violence—so prominent in discussions of the penny
blood’s supposed criminalizing tendencies—dies hard, and the critiques of
the penny dreadful include occasional outbursts about its ability to turn its
readers to a life of crime.7 Thus, in “Penny Fiction” (1890), Francis Hitchman
calls the penny dreadfuls “the literature of rascaldom—a literature which has
done much to people our prisons, our reformatories, and our Colonies with
scapegraces and ne’er-do-wells.”8 But writings on the penny dreadful just as
frequently pose intelligent objections to the mimetic theory of represented
violence. For instance, Thomas Wright’s “On a Possible Popular Culture”
(1881) argues:
We have cast out the unclean spirit of ignorance from the working-class
mind, and have left it empty, swept and neatly garnished with “the three
Rs.” Let us beware lest the unclean spirit returns with seven other spirits
more wicked than himself, and turn the class we have made our masters
into the agents for the overthrow of society.18
For such critics of penny dreadfuls, the ultimate goal of, in Wright’s
terms, an “elevation of the masses”—to be achieved by providing the working
classes with an alternative culture more akin to that of the middle classes—is
a unified society, but one in which social harmony depends on the working
classes remaining in their traditional place, regardless of their new voting
rights. According to Wright, giving the working classes a “higher, healthier,
simpler” culture than that found in penny dreadfuls or radical newspapers
“would make men more valuable to themselves and to society; better men,
better citizens, ay, and even better workmen.”19 The improving popular culture
that Wright desires should ensure that the new voters’ status as “citizens” in
no way changes the fact that, in the industrial nation, their essential role is to
be “workmen.”
Moreover, Wright and like-minded critics argue that this improving
popular culture should not only unite England and prevent “the overthrow of
society” by an enfranchised working-class population, which so worries
Hitchman; the improving popular culture should also supply the demands of
imperialists. Salmon argues that the
newspapers which appeal to the working classes would do real good if,
instead of picking holes in the characters of the high-born . . . they were
to devote some time to matters which exclusively concern the working
population of the country. For instance, it is rare to find a working-man’s
newspaper point out the advantages of the colonies to the people and the
best way to emigrate.20
For many critics, such appropriate adult reading (newspapers telling the
working classes “the best way to emigrate”) would be facilitated by replacing
the penny dreadfuls with children’s fictions emphasizing nationalist and im-
perialist values. Thus, Wright insists that the “evil of the . . . dreadfuls is not
that they criminalize” but that they “have for the time being superseded what
we will venture to call the natural reading for boys.”21 According to Wright,
the “natural reading for boys” is adventure fiction testifying to the greatness
of British national history and of the British Empire: “Walter Scott has sent
thousands to the histories, and Captain Marryat to narratives of voyages,
travels, and adventures.”22 Victorian critics are nearly unanimous in recom-
mending that the dreadfuls be replaced by a cheap literature focusing on
70 Youth of Darkest England
are not really in pursuit of riches at all, but are spurred on instead by the
vision of living through the experience of adventure, to which the pros-
pect of the accumulation of wealth is secondary, if not negligible. The
Improving Penny Fiction 73
In other words, the imperialist focus of Treasure Island and other stories
in the improving magazines renders them more legitimate than penny bloods
and penny dreadfuls, which insistently focus on working-class economic
mobility. Indeed, the career of Jim Hawkins, the youthful protagonist and
primary narrator of Treasure Island, encapsulates to a degree the acculturation
into imperialist values that the improving magazines attempted. According
to Silver, Jim is “a young gentleman . . . although poor born” (TI 182): Jim
represents the upwardly mobile lower-middle-class youth who identifies with
middle-class notions of respectable culture—that is, he stands in for the lowest-
class audience that, all the evidence suggests, the “improvement” offered by
improving magazines such as Young Folks reached with any regularity. More-
over, Jim expresses his enthusiasm for the treasure voyage as an interest in
precisely the sort of imperialist adventure that characterizes the improving
magazines; awaiting embarkation, he is “full of sea-dreams and the most
charming anticipations of strange islands and adventures. . . . Sometimes the
isle was thick with savages, with whom we fought; sometimes full of danger-
ous animals that hunted us” (TI 47). Of course, Skeleton Island offers none
of these typical trappings of boys’ adventure fictions—most obviously, the
encounter between European and “savage” native that is a generic norm of
such tales, from Robinson Crusoe (1719) on. The narrative of Treasure Island
thus epitomizes the goal of the improving magazines, whereby “poor born”
English youths who take pleasure in narratives of sea voyages, islands, savages,
wild beasts, and the rest of it will be prepared for avid participation in what
is, in fact, the adult enterprise of imperialism: emptying foreign lands of
their riches.
By contrast, Loxley argues that, for the pirates, the treasure hunt is “little
more than the routine exercise of business, an exercise executed through eco-
nomic necessity which will ensure a temporary financial security.”40 How-
ever, this claim does not adequately account for the political implications of
Stevenson’s representation of piracy as the attempt, on the part of a working-
class group opposed to middle-class regulations and laws, to use imperial
adventuring as a means of class mobility. First, the value of the treasure,
which Silver estimates to be “seven hundred thousand pound” (TI 194), would,
certainly, in the period when the narrative takes place (the early eighteenth
century), guarantee the small band of pirates rather more than mere “tempo-
rary financial security.” More importantly, in a crucial speech in the middle
of the novel, Silver offers his comrades a theory of piracy as a form of working-
class organization capable of subverting the middle-class control of imperi-
alist, like capitalist, enrichment:
74 Youth of Darkest England
They [pirates] lives rough, and they risk swinging, but they eat and drink
like fighting-cocks, and when a cruise is done, why, it’s hundreds of pounds
instead of hundreds of farthings in their pockets. Now, the most goes for
rum and a good fling, and to sea again in their shirts. But that’s not the
course I lay. I puts it all away … I’m fifty, mark you; once back from this
cruise, I set up gentleman in earnest. . . . And how did I begin? Before the
mast, like you! (TI 68)41
death. When I’m in Parlyment, and riding in my coach, I don’t want none of
these sea-lawyers in the cabin a-coming home, unlooked for … Wait is what
I say; but when the time comes, why let her rip!” (TI 71). However, in addition
to the fact that this proper time for slaughtering the middle-class adventurers
never actually comes in the novel, Silver continually seeks by argument to
restrain the other pirates from violence (“Wait is what I say”). As Silver tells
Jim at one point, “I’m all for argyment; I never seen good come out o’ threat-
ening” (TI 168). Jim often notes Silver’s “cool” restraint: on the verge of
being deposed as pirate captain, for instance, Silver “looked as cool as ever I
saw him. He was brave, and no mistake” (TI 199).
Silver’s cool restraint from the performance of violence is seamlessly
linked with the threat that he poses to class hierarchies, as articulated in his
speech about piracy enabling the man before the mast to “set up gentleman.”
Accordingly, Silver gives the following orders in response to fellow-pirate
Israel Hands’s impatience to do away with Captain Smollett, Trelawney,
Livesey, and Jim:
you’ll berth forward, and you’ll live hard, and you’ll speak soft, and you’ll
keep sober, till I give the word . . . I’ll tell you when. The last moment I
can manage; and that’s when. Here’s a first-rate seaman, Cap’n Smollett,
sails the blessed ship for us. . . . I’d have Cap’n Smollett navigate us half-
way back again before I struck. (TI 69–70)
I’ll make this boy’s business pay . . . I’ll be the Harrison Ainsworth of the
future . . .
—Robert Louis Stevenson on Treasure Island,
in an 1888 letter to W. E. Henley45
The novel confirms that the pirates whom Silver leads actually represent no
real threat to class hierarchies by uniformly depicting them in terms of the
stereotypes of working-class incapacity that are so common in London Labour
and similar texts. The pirates, in their roving existence, behave like the em-
bodied, visionless vagrants described by Mayhew and show no signs of the
intellectual, social, and economic mobility that characterizes Silver, who
envisions a state very different from that of the nomad—to “set up gentleman
in earnest.” Even Billy Bones—who is, like Silver, a saving man—lives a
“wandering, guilty . . . life” (TI 32). Moreover, the desperados led by Silver
confirm a stereotypical notion of both pirates and workers as drunks: the
middle-class characters often remark “the drunken folly of the pirates” (TI
188). In addition, on one occasion Jim observes that, in their “wasteful spirit,
they had cooked, I suppose, three times more than we could eat; and one of
them, with an empty laugh, threw what was left into the fire” (TI 186). Like
the average working-class subject described by Mayhew, the average pirate
has no foresight, is incapable of following Silver’s advice that “it’s saving
does it,” and desires merely a “lifetime of extravagance and pleasure” (TI
196). Thus, at the conclusion of the novel, Jim notes: “All of us had an ample
share of the treasure, and used it wisely or foolishly, according to our natures”
(TI 208). Predictably, respectable Captain Smollett “retired from the sea” (TI
208), while Ben Gunn, apparently unable to resist his essentially piratical
nature, “got a thousand pounds, which he spent or lost in three weeks” (TI
208). As if in punishment for this nearly unimaginable extravagance, Ben is
forced into domestic service, “exactly as he had feared upon the island” (TI
208). Finally, the pirates, like the street-people in London Labour, are repre-
sented as childish: while rowing, the pirates are “shouting at the oars like
children” (TI 115), they examine the treasure map with “childish laughter”
(TI 177), and they often behave “more like charity school-children than blood-
guilty mutineers and pirates” (TI 182).46
Moreover, the depiction of violent acts in the latter half of the novel
undermines the radical potential represented by Long John Silver and his
plot to subvert the normative class hierarchy aboard the Hispaniola. Silver is
an exception to the representation of piratical vices detailed above: he “had
good schooling in his young days” (TI 64), he is “genteel” (TI 113), and the
“clean and pleasant-tempered landlord” (TI 53) of the Spy-Glass Inn (“a
Improving Penny Fiction 77
The rocks of the Spy-glass re-echoed it a score of times; the whole troop
of marsh-birds rose again, darkening heaven, with a simultaneous whirr;
and long after that death yell was still ringing in my brain, silence had re-
established its empire, and only the rustle of the redescending birds and
the boom of the distant surges disturbed the languor of the afternoon. (TI
88)
this brave fellow turned his back directly on the cook [Long John Silver],
and set off walking for the beach. But he was not destined to go far. With
Improving Penny Fiction 79
a cry, John seized the branch of a tree, whipped the crutch out of his arm-
pit, and sent that uncouth missile hurtling through the air. It struck poor
Tom, point foremost, and with stunning violence, right between the shoul-
ders in the middle of his back. His hands flew up, he gave a sort of gasp,
and fell.
Whether he were injured much or little, none could ever tell. Like
enough, to judge from the sound, his back was broken on the spot. But he
had no time given him to recover. Silver, agile as a monkey, even without
leg or crutch, was on the top of him next moment, and had twice buried
his knife up to the hilt in that defenceless body. From my place of am-
bush, I could hear him pant aloud as he struck the blows. (TI 89)
game, and I thought I could hold my own at it, against an elderly seaman
with a wounded thigh” (TI 157). And Jim uses a piratical phrase to threaten
the pirate coxswain: “‘One more step, Mr Hands,’ said I, ‘and I’ll blow your
brains out! Dead men don’t bite, you know,’ I added, with a chuckle” (TI
158). However, the scene is constructed such that only Hands is guilty of
intended violence and such that he is killed not by Jim but by his own mali-
cious action:
The only acts in the scene—throwing the knife, loosing his grasp on the
sail, and plunging into the water—are performed by Hands; Jim merely “felt
a blow” and passively “was pinned.” The guns “went off,” their firing an
involuntary reaction caused by the pain and shock that Hands inflicts on Jim.
Stevenson’s prose even implies that Hands is as good as dead before the guns
go off, inasmuch as the sails to which he clings are “shrouds.” In a suggestive
parallel between this scene and Silver’s killing of Tom, Hands is also killed
twice over: “He rose once to the surface in a lather of foam and blood, and
then sank again for good. . . . he was dead enough . . . being both shot and
drowned, and was food for fish in the very place where he had designed my
slaughter” (TI 159). Yet, the text exculpates Jim of either shooting or drowning
Hands, and finally reminds us only of the latter’s malicious intent (he planned
to “slaughter” Jim). Whereas in the earlier scene we last observe Silver casu-
ally cleaning his knife, the scene aboard the Hispaniola is arranged so that
Jim does not even have a smoking gun in his hand.50
The novel prepares its readers for this distinction between piratical vio-
lence and justifiable violence against pirates long before these climactic deaths.
Although the title of Chapter 14 —”The First Blow”—suggests that it narrates
the initial eruption of violence in the text, there is an exceptional instance in
the preceding thirteen chapters, the trampling of the blind pirate Pew by Super-
visor Dance’s horse. Attempting to escape the arriving officials, Pew runs
“utterly bewildered, right under the nearest of the coming horses. . . . the four
hoofs trampled and spurned him and passed by. He fell on his side, then
gently collapsed upon his face, and moved no more” (TI 38). The killing of
Pew is not, strictly speaking, an act of violence but an accident (like the
Improving Penny Fiction 81
firing of Jim’s pistols). But once Supervisor Dance learns of Pew’s identity,
the officer is pleased to claim killing the pirate as his doing: “I’m glad I trod
on Master Pew’s corns” (TI 38). Similarly, Squire Trelawney congratulates
Dance on the killing: “as for riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, I
regard it as an act of virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach” (TI 41). Jim’s
language even attributes this notion—Pew is a mere pest—to the horses, which
“trampled and spurned him and passed by.” Finally, unlike the description of
Silver’s killing of Tom, in this scene all the grisly details of trampling by
horse are elided, and Pew’s final collapse is “gentle.”
Treasure Island organizes its representations of violence in a manner
quite different from that which prevails in Varney, the Vampyre. Although the
serial publication of both texts demands that they maintain the suspense that
keeps readers buying, the texts meet this demand in different fashions—the
reader of Varney is expected to wonder “what on earth will happen next?”
and the reader of Treasure Island “how will it all end?” These two means of
managing suspense in turn impact the representation of violence and its rela-
tion to both class conflict and the understanding of national identity. Varney
offers repeated depictions of violence in order to establish consensus, among
its working-class readers, that sustained but moderate agitation is the best
means of changing their status within the English nation. Stevenson’s novel
isolates violence in climactic scenes that are structured so as to determine the
reader’s identification with the values of the middle-class imperialists and
against those of the working-class rebels. The politics of the two novels are,
thus, legible in their aesthetics. As suggested in the previous chapter, works
organized around episodic narratives in which our interest in violence is con-
tinually raised and then diverted, such as Varney, typically exude a lack of
concern regarding their own fragmentation—an aesthetic “failure” that oper-
ates both to discourage a fixation on violence and to forge mutual working-
class consciousness on the part of writer and reader. By contrast, works
organized around a climactic presentation of violence, such as Treasure Is-
land, emphasize the desire for the sense of organic completion that is, in
high-cultural terms, the mark of artistic mastery. Unlike the hack working at
a penny per line for Edward Lloyd, Stevenson was—even when writing for
young people—an author extremely ambitious for critical as well as financial
success. It is worth noting that Treasure Island, although only reasonably
successful when serialized in Young Folks,51 was a bestseller when published
in book form in 1883 and has, of course, attained classic status within the
canon of Victorian fiction, in addition to the canon of children’s fiction.
The political importance of such aesthetic differences is revealed, al-
though in part unwittingly, by Helen Bosanquet’s essay “Cheap Literature,”
in which she offers a suggestive comparison between penny dreadfuls and
morally improving, imperialist adventure fictions:
82 Youth of Darkest England
85
86 Youth of Darkest England
Ready to embark on their “real African adventure,” L. Horace Holly and Leo
Vincey, the heroes of Haggard’s She, easily persuade their youthful manser-
vant Job to accompany them: “It’s time you began to see the world.”3 Although
not overly adventurous, Job phlegmatically accepts that the servant of em-
ployers given to such trekking must bear some of the burden of his nation’s
imperialist obsessions: “I don’t hold much with foreign parts, but if both you
gentlemen are going you will want somebody to look after you” (She 47). In
Africa, however, Job requires all the looking after; he is (unlike his Biblical
namesake) unable to bear suffering, and the manservant is in the end the only
white character to die as a result of the adventure. Unable to withstand the
sight of Ayesha’s concluding transformation into a withered, simian creature,
Job undergoes a less spectacular but quite disturbing decline. As Holly, the
narrator, remarks, Job’s “nerves, already shattered by all that he had seen and
Remaking Lawless Lads and Licentious Girls 87
undergone, had utterly broken down beneath this last dire sight, and he had
died of terror . . . It seemed quite natural that the poor old fellow should be
dead” (She 296). Job’s death from nervous collapse “seemed quite natural”
because Holly has already noted “his nerves . . . like those of most uneducated
people, were far from strong” (She 240). The novel thus establishes Job’s
weakness—his inability to withstand the shocks that (at least in Haggard’s
grotesque depiction of adventure) inevitably threaten imperial subjects—as
an attribute not only of this character but of the class from which he comes.
Explaining to Ayesha the Reform Act of 1884, which extended the franchise
to nearly all working-class men, Holly follows the critics of penny dreadfuls
in their worries about the effects of the 1867 Reform Act when he laments
“that real power in our country rested in the hands of the people, and that we
were in fact ruled by the votes of the lower and least educated classes of the
community” (She 255). The novel’s depiction of its only working-class char-
acter none too subtly implies that, if the uneducated “lower” classes that now
represent “real power” in Britain “naturally” suffer from such deadly nervous
failures, then the work of expanding and maintaining the British Empire is an
unsuitable job for a working-class person.4
Job’s role as bumbling provider of comic relief does not, however, render
his death merely a minor horror in the novel’s collection of frissons. Rather,
his demise gestures at a prominent sociological concern that the late-Victorian
empire would demand the participation of working-class young people who
were unfit for such service due to physical, mental, and moral weakness.
Raised in a “cottage” (She 215), a “most respectable round-faced young man,
who had been a helper in a hunting-stable” (She 19) and “a most matter-of-
fact specimen of a matter-of-fact class” (She 30), Job is seemingly well suited
to domestic service and apparently receives no complaints from his Cam-
bridge employer. In Africa, however, Job simultaneously encounters the
strangeness of a colonial environment and an uncanny version of an urban
one: as a number of scholars have suggested, Ayesha and the political realm
she rules as empress are threatening doubles for Queen Victoria and the British
Empire,5 and the underworld city of Kôr, with its incomprehensible laby-
rinths and masses of bodies, is a gothic version of London as it is imagined in
works such as Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor. That
is, Job’s decline and demise suggest that the countrified, working-class
domestic (in the sense both of servant and stay-at-home Englishman) only
seems an unproblematic creature, whereas in fact the process of transforming
such an individual into an imperial subject—which requires a more worldly
experience of urban and foreign spaces—is doomed to failure.
Haggard’s “non-fiction” works more explicitly represent this unnerving
tendency of urbanity to render the poor unfit for service to the empire. In
Regeneration, his 1910 survey of Salvation Army social work, Haggard claims,
like many of his contemporaries, “so soon as its children desert the land
88 Youth of Darkest England
which bore them for the towns, these horrors [of degeneration] follow as
surely as the night follows the day.”6 Haggard’s account of Salvation Army
social work often seems as utopian in its depiction of the regeneration of the
working classes as She is pessimistic in its depiction of their degeneration.
Thus, in his voyeuristic consumption of young men who “slept quite naked”
at the Great Peter Street Shelter in Westminster, Haggard seemingly delights
in the equality of all Englishmen:
Many of them struck me as very fine fellows physically, and the reflection
crossed my mind, seeing them in puris naturalibus, that there was little
indeed to distinguish them from a crowd of males of the upper classes
engaged, let us say, in bathing. It is the clothes that make the difference to
the eye.7
he will see on all sides pale faces, stunted figures, debilitated forms, nar-
row chests, and all the outward signs of low vital power. Surely this ought
not to be . . . Cities must exist, and will continue to increase. We should
therefore turn our attention seriously to the question of how to bring health
within the reach of our poorer city populations.10
For my own part, I see little glory in an Empire which can rule the waves
and is unable to flush its sewers. The difficulty has been so far that the
people who have looked abroad have paid no attention to domestic mat-
ters, and those who are centred on domestic matters regard the Empire
merely as an encumbrance.16
these powerful new representations. Booth, founder and first general of the
Salvation Army, sounds an up-to-date alarm that consistent poverty causes
young people among the urban poor to degenerate such that they will be-
come not useful citizens but a useless mass incapable of contributing to the
progress of the British Empire. Using language similar to Smith’s, Booth
proposes a social-reform scheme that will convert the “waste labour” of En-
gland—what he calls “a perfect quagmire of Human Sludge”—into a labor
force capable of furthering British imperial ambitions.17 At the same time,
Booth’s text constructs an essentialist division between the working classes,
who are in need of regeneration, and the middle classes, who are qualified to
oversee this process and thus to engage in the disciplinary regulation of the
working-class “residuum.”
Booth’s campaign to regenerate the urban poor relies, in the first instance,
upon an assumption that power inheres primarily in whiteness and English-
ness. Although the sensational title In Darkest England clearly capitalizes on
the publishing event of the summer of 1890, Henry Morton Stanley’s In Dark-
est Africa, Booth (like Mayhew before him) quickly moves away from com-
parisons between working-class English and colonized nonwhites; insisting
that an “analogy is as good as a suggestion” but “becomes wearisome when
it is pressed too far” (IDE 12), Booth resists clichés about the “urban savage”
and imagines an incorporative English public unified by race, nationalism,
and imperial ambitions.18 He argues that it is not “the inevitable and inexorable
destiny of thousands of Englishmen to be brutalised into worse than beasts
by the condition of their environment” (IDE 16; my emphasis) and wishes to
foster “a sense of brotherhood and a consciousness of community of interest
and of nationality on the part of the English-speaking people throughout the
world” (IDE 143). Similarly, in 1886 Booth’s friend Arnold White had pointed
out the benefits to the empire of emigration from a unified Britain by arguing
that the
Transvaal and Zulu wars, and the Bechuanaland expedition, would have
been unnecessary had Natal, the Transvaal, and the northern part of the
Cape Colony been economically reinforced by a peaceable army corps of
God-fearing, hard-working men and women from England and Scotland,
sent out by the State.19
In an era of eager schemers, writers like Booth and White stand out for
the local and global sweep of their projects—both to clean out London and to
buttress a sagging empire—by relocating the poor in overseas colonies. Thus,
92 Youth of Darkest England
By faulting his readers’ lack of concern for the poor, Booth hopes to swell the
ranks of beneficent public persons like himself, to solicit volunteers who will
aid in the surveillance of the working classes, and yet to retain the sanctity of
middle-class private life. Regarding the chart-topping success of Stanley’s In
Darkest Africa, Booth wonders:
Implying that the streets speak only when their tales are interpreted by
an attentive urban investigator, Booth charges his middle-class contemporar-
ies with the sin of disengagement; he blames them, in effect, for ignoring
their responsibilities as public persons. Few will realize, as Booth does, that
East London “is the great Slough of Despond of our time,” because “what a
slough it is no man can gauge who has not waded therein, as some of us have
done, up to the very neck . . . with open eyes and with bleeding heart” (IDE
13). In order to teach his readers to translate sympathy for the London poor
into effective surveillance of this “residuum,” to transform “bleeding heart”
into “open eyes,” he encourages all sorts of private gentlemen and gentle-
women to come forward with any resources that will propel his scheme—
such as a million sterling (IDE 251), or information regarding how best to
build workers’ cottages (IDE 227). Yet he asks these gentlefolk to go public
only with those aspects of their lives (wealth, knowledge of engineering) that
are already part of their public characters. Booth urges his middle-class readers
into public affairs, but nevertheless leaves middle-class private life privileged
as an invisible norm, requiring no scrutiny. In Darkest England thus represents
power in terms of a simultaneous possession of vision and invisibility, a rep-
resentation of the sort that Donna J. Haraway fortuitously describes as a “god-
trick.” Booth slyly associates his class with what Haraway calls a “conquering
gaze from nowhere . . . that mythically inscribes all the marked bodies, that
makes the unmarked category claim the power to see and not be seen, to
represent while escaping representation.”22 As briefly suggested in Chapter
1, Booth imagines his own visionary role (and that of similarly endowed
middle-class reformers) as possessing far more surveying power than the
limited observational abilities that Henry Mayhew (for instance) claims for
himself. As Haggard remarks in defense of Booth against his critics, “What
people of slower mind and narrower views may mistake for pride, in his case,
I am sure, is but the impatient and unconscious assertiveness of superior
power, based upon vision and accumulated knowledge.”23 Haggard echoes
94 Youth of Darkest England
When but a mere child the degradation and helpless misery of the poor
Stockingers of my native town, wandering gaunt and hunger-stricken
through the streets droning out their melancholy ditties, crowding the Union
or toiling like galley slaves on relief works for a bare subsistence, kindled
in my heart yearnings to help the poor which have continued to this day
and which have had a powerful influence on my whole life. (IDE preface)
wandering the streets, they do not possess the mobility of the boy who surveys
their condition: rather, the stockingers are “like galley slaves,” chained to the
slums of Nottingham. In contrast, even though he is “a mere child,” Booth is
apparently able to survey (effortlessly, unperceived, and in perfect safety) a
variety of city spaces (streets, Union, relief works). Finally, the placement of
this childhood narrative at the beginning of the adult social reformer’s text
indicates that this contact with poverty does not taint Booth but becomes
instead the foundation of the General’s life work. Erasing his own childhood
limitations (economic, bodily, intellectual), Booth’s preface points us towards
the epic survey of “darkest England” and the solution of its problems—the
public man’s “forty years of active service in the salvation of men” (IDE
preface). Seeming to promise a description of the scene’s psychological effects
on the boy, autobiography here does not render the private person, William
Booth, available for spectatorial scrutiny, but instead proves that from child-
hood he is destined to visionary social reforms and national social status.
The preface naturalizes the representation of middle-class subjects as able to
be both private persons who engage in disembodied surveillance and public
persons active for the nation’s good.
Although Booth also hopes to recruit the poor for service in his Army,
he imagines this group’s entry into public life in such a way that surveying
power is withheld from them, that their domestic lives are always public
issues, and that their privacy is an impossibility. Unlike the narrative of his
own childhood, with all its strategic omissions, Booth’s exposure of the de-
generacy of working-class youth—the “lawlessness of our lads, the increased
license of our girls” (IDE 66)—is remorselessly frank. Like most middle-
class Victorian writers, male and female, Booth finds prostitution quite fasci-
nating,25 and he summarizes its juvenile origins in a single melodramatic
case history:
And with boys it is almost as bad. There are thousands who were begotten
when both parents were besotted with drink, whose mothers saturated
themselves with alcohol every day of their pregnancy, who may be said to
have sucked in a taste for strong drink with their mothers’ milk, and who
were surrounded from childhood with opportunities and incitements to
drink. (IDE 47)
Remaking Lawless Lads and Licentious Girls 97
If the unregenerate prostitute “accepts her doom . . . and treads the long and
torturing path-way of ‘the streets’ to the grave” (IDE 53), Booth offers a
98 Youth of Darkest England
contrasting, upbeat narrative of what happens when young women join the
Salvation Army Slum Brigade. The Brigade is “composed of women” some
of whom are “ladies born and bred” but most of whom—Booth asserts, using
typically juvenile language to describe the Slum Brigade members regardless
of their age—are “children of the poor” (IDE 158) who themselves engage in
the “rescue of many fallen girls” (IDE 169). The adult “lasses” of the Slum
Brigade have an experience of “the streets” very different from that of pros-
titutes: “our . . . lasses go unharmed and loved at all hours, spending every
other night always upon the streets” (IDE 55). In Darkest England here renders
ambiguous the concept of “public woman”29 in order to imply that working-
class women can inhabit the streets either as prostitutes subject to violence
or as Salvationists protected from harm by the uniform they share with the
General. Judith R. Walkowitz’s study of the participation of late-Victorian
women in such public realms as the Salvation Army has begun a useful revision
of claims, such as Janet Wolff’s,30 about the essential link between action in
the public sphere and maleness. Walkowitz argues that the Hallelujah lass
represents “a new style of working-class woman” who “impinged on the civic
spaces of her class superiors” and posed challenges to “conventions of gender,”
both of which acts were in turn “contained and channeled . . . into obedience
to a highly authoritarian institution.”31 However, by identifying the Salvation
Army—with its “authoritarian” demand for “obedience”—as the circumscrib-
ing institution, Walkowitz obscures how authoritative conceptions of essen-
tial working-class character much more efficiently limit such transgressions.
That is, the ability of working-class Salvationist women to revise “conven-
tions of gender” is contained precisely by the mapping of “civic spaces” that
their “class superiors” perform—in other words, such revisions are contained
by exclusive class divisions institutionalized partly through organizations such
as Booth’s but certainly more diffusely throughout English culture.
The Salvation Army should, indeed, be of great interest to feminist schol-
ars, not only because of the public authority and publishing success of
Catherine Booth, but because of the Army’s controversial attempt to institu-
tionalize equality between women and men. Indeed, even H. Rider Haggard—
surely, no reader’s idea of a pro-feminist writer—effused that “a study of the
female Officers of the Salvation Army is calculated to convert the observer
not only to a belief in the right of women to the suffrage, but also to that of
their fitness to rule among, or even over men.”32 One can certainly read the
comment that follows—”Only I never heard that any of these ladies ever
sought such privileges”33—as a relieved after-thought on the part of the author
of such wildly misogynist texts as She and King Solomon’s Mines (1886), but
it is also worth noting that Haggard here understands the competent “female
Officers” of the Army to be middle-class “ladies.” As Pamela J. Walker argues,
Salvationist women—including working-class ones—“were, in some respects,
‘new women’—activist, urban women who created new professional oppor-
Remaking Lawless Lads and Licentious Girls 99
tunities for other women and sought to broaden their cultural and political
landscape,” and Walker does much to challenge the common notion “that the
‘new woman’ was middle class and that working-class women shared neither
her aspirations nor her achievements.”34 However, the history of the Salvation
Army should remind us that feminist gains never necessarily imply working-
class ones. For example, Ann R. Higginbotham has revealingly detailed the
divisions between Salvationist women, in particular how the Women’s Social
Services—founded in 1884 and administered, with relative independence from
other branches of the Army, primarily by middle-class women—“may well
have appealed to Salvationist women who would have hesitated to lead a
brass band or harangue a crowd in the slums of Whitechapel.”35 The history
of the Women’s Social Services demonstrates the difficulty of uniting middle-
and working-class women within the Salvation Army and suggests that its
incorporative ideals do not offer working-class women as much mobility as
Walker, and especially Walkowitz, imply. If, by giving speeches to their class
equals in the East End, working-class Salvationist women demonstrated their
desire, like “new women,” to take on public and professional activities—
which were most commonly available to wealthy women, such as Octavia
Hill and Beatrice Webb, who engaged in social work in the slums—this late-
Victorian development perhaps signals a significant change in the cultural
position of working-class women. It is not, however, a radical shift in the
balance of power between the classes that would allow one to imagine, for
example, working-class women investigating and reforming the home lives
of their “betters.”
Rather, the “new style of working-class woman” that Walkowitz de-
scribes is placed between (on the one hand) the “unrespectable” poor that a
working-class Salvationist observes and (on the other hand) the middle classes
that supervise her. Walker persuasively argues that working-class Salvation-
ist women were especially effective as critics of supposedly excessive drinking
and gambling by men of their own class,36 and Catherine Booth makes clear
the benefits of this arrangement to middle-class reformers. According to Booth,
the degenerate poor can only be led to regeneration “by people of their own
class, who would go after them in their own resorts, who would speak to
them in a language they understood, and reach them by means suited to their
own tastes.”37 Not even bothering to disguise the aggressive policing implied
in “go after them,” Catherine Booth’s description of the enlistment of working-
class women in making working-class men’s private lives a public issue does
not imply a transgression of class boundaries per se but, rather, is a resonant
example of the strategy of divide and conquer that has long buttressed middle-
class power.
Moreover, even as the working-class Hallelujah lass advertises her dif-
ference, as a “public woman,” from the prostitutes she rescues, her difference
from middle-class women is just as heavily marked. For instance, although
100 Youth of Darkest England
William Booth claims that the Hallelujah lasses “go unharmed and loved at
all hours, spending every other night always upon the streets” (IDE 55), his
use of the word “loved” and the phrase “spending every other night always
upon the streets” insinuates that even these regenerated lasses still bear the
taint of the “licentious girls” they were and the traces of “darkest England,”
from which they come. Similarly, the Salvation Army uniform seems to be
an equalizing costume38 that makes it impossible to distinguish between “ladies
born and bred” who are slumming as Salvationists and those who are essen-
tially “children of the poor” (IDE 158); yet the permanent inner marks of the
latter will, apparently, always penetrate any outer covering. Thus, Josephine
Butler praises Catherine Booth for her training of working-class “girl sol-
diers”: “As a rule, the manners of the Salvation Lasses are beautiful, in spite
of occasional dropped h’s, provincial accent, and other such defects. As
women, we cannot but rejoice that even a portion of our women of the hum-
bler ranks . . . is subjected to such a training as this.”39 Butler treats the dropped
aspirates that she frequently ponders40 as an ineradicable sign of working-
class identity—the more dangerous qualities of which she unambiguously
describes two pages earlier in her document on Catherine Booth, where Butler
depicts the working classes as “a mass of creatures hardly human, debased
through generations of misery, and ignorance, and vice, full of hatred—hatred
of society and of everything which exists; wild beasts ready for vengeance.”41
In a less virulently classist, but, nevertheless, similar vein, Haggard describes,
in a Liverpool home for children, a small girl who resembles one of Mayhew’s
nomadic interviewees in that her “mania was to run away from home, where
it does not appear that she was ill-treated, and to sleep in the streets, on one
occasion for as long as five nights.” Haggard relates that the girl “had been
ten months in the Home and was doing well. Indeed, the Matron told me that
they had taken her out and given her opportunities of running away, but that
she had never attempted to avail herself of them.” Yet Haggard cannot resist
the opportunity to describe even this successful case as involving a working-
class young person who is permanently marked by the signs of essential dif-
ference from the members of a modern nation:
This child had a very curious face, and even in her sleep, as I saw her,
there was about it something wild and defiant. When the Matron turned
her over she did not yawn or cry, but uttered a kind of snarl. I suppose that
here is an instance of atavism, that the child threw back for thousands or
tens of thousands of years, to when her progenitors were savages, and that
their primitive instincts have reasserted themselves in her, although she
was born in the twentieth century.42
Both the Salvationist scheme and the critiques of it share a notion of an ines-
capably degraded working-class culture. This notion, pervasive in Salvationist
writing as in Victorian and Edwardian culture, must attenuate any attempt to
view the Salvation Army either as an organization seeking to foster class
equality or as an authentic working-class movement—views that are com-
mon not only among some of Booth’s contemporary admirers but among
recent historians. For instance, in addition to Haggard’s Regeneration, Beatrice
Webb’s My Apprenticeship (1926) defines the spirit of the late-Victorian and
Edwardian years as involving “a new consciousness of sin among men of
intellect and men of property,” a “growing uneasiness . . . that the industrial
organisation, which had yielded rent, interest and profits on a stupendous
scale, had failed to provide a decent livelihood and tolerable conditions for a
majority of the inhabitants of Great Britain.”47 Webb relates that this “class-
consciousness of sin was usually accompanied by . . . a deliberate dedication
of means and strength to the reorganisation of society on a more equalitarian
basis,” and among these forms of “devoted personal service” she identifies
“a theological category,” including “General Booth.”48 The apparent desire
to reorganize society “on a more equalitarian basis”—which makes the Sal-
vation Army and its most famous literary product so much a part of Booth’s,
Haggard’s, and Webb’s liberal time—is in tension with a desire to retain an
essentialized notion of class difference. Thus, Vachel Lindsay’s rendition of
the Salvationist conversion narrative, quoted as the epigraph to this section,
is of course ironic; the statements by the Booths and their admirers, such as
Josephine Butler, in no way suggest that the working classes will lose the
signs of inferiority (“the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl”) and become “Sages
and sibyls” who can act as “Rulers of empires.” According to In Darkest
England, visionary sagacity, sibylline knowledge, and the capacity to govern
either England or the British Empire remains the prerogative of Booth and
like-minded members of the middle classes. That is, without minimizing the
rhetorical impact of the egalitarianism implicit in many aspects of the Salvation
Army’s functioning, it is equally important to note how Salvationist discourse
limits such apparent affirmations of the “classlessness” of the organization
by reaffirming its alignment with discourses that circulate widely in Victorian
culture—such as the depiction of the middle classes in terms of visionary
power and domestic privacy and the working poor in terms of physical em-
bodiment and public visibility.
Remaking Lawless Lads and Licentious Girls 103
Figur
iguree 6 “Salvation Army Social Campaign” lithograph. From William Booth, In Darkest England
and the Way Out (1890). Courtesy of the Salvation Army.
insignia that identify both General and rawest recruit as subject to a Salva-
tionist order that transcends any individual soldier. Moreover, despite his oft-
criticized authoritarianism,49 Booth challenges the hierarchies of other armies
and claims that his “makes every soldier in some degree an officer, charged
with the responsibility of so many of his townsfolk, and expected to carry on
the war against the streets, street, or part of a street allotted to his
care.”50 Indeed, Army officers sent among the Zulus and Indians were ordered
to learn their languages and customs so that, as K. S. Inglis says, “foreign
sinners could be met as intimately as sinners at home.”51 Although In Dark-
est England never admits as much, the missionary goals of Booth’s coloniza-
tion scheme would seem to require that regenerated working-class people
who are to be sent overseas as Salvationists would require and receive this
considerable education. Yet, Booth asserts that they would not need to vote in
the elections of whatever country to which they were sent, as such people
should not “bother their heads about politics.”52 In the context of the Reform
Act of 1884, Booth’s fantasy of a realm where newly enfranchised working-
class men would no longer need or desire to retain this right can only be
described as regressive liberalism.
Booth’s presentation of his social-reform scheme everywhere seeks
masterfully to resolve the contradictions between these two claims, both of
which possess great power in liberal rhetoric about the working classes: insti-
tuting hegemonic imperialism, by converting the urban poor into participants
in the British imperial enterprise, is the least violent means of removing the
danger supposedly posed by such outsiders; reinforcing a belief that these
converts retain essential working-class flaws in turn entrenches the divisions
on which middle-class power depends. One must treat with suspicion the
effort, on the part of a number of historians, to describe the Salvation Army
as, in Victor Bailey’s words, “an expression of independent working-class
cultural development, and not as an agency of middle-class domination.”53
Although he offers intriguing evidence for the similarity of Salvationist and
some socialist operations, to claim that the former caused a “change in the
social habits of the urban masses”—towards “self-discipline, self-respect and
self-help”54—is to grant Booth’s regeneration scheme the credit he so richly
desires. It may be true that the last decades of the nineteenth century and the
early years of the twentieth involved a self-transformation of English working-
class culture—a gravitation away from the carnivalesque celebration of
outsiderness (which one often hears in statements by Mayhew’s interviewees)
and toward an investment in notions of respectability akin to those held by
the lower middle classes.55 However, there is also evidence that only a small
minority of working-class people joined the Salvation Army and that it thus
could have had relatively little to do with any such broad transformation in
working-class culture.
Remaking Lawless Lads and Licentious Girls 105
turns his eyes from those conducting the [Salvationist] service to those
for whom it is conducted, he sees for the most part blank indifference.
Some may “come to scoff and stay to pray,” but scoffers are in truth more
hopeful than those—and they are the great bulk of every audience of which
I have ever made one—who look in to see what is going on; enjoying the
hymns perhaps, but taking the whole service as a diversion.57
Army solid not only for Social Reform but also for Imperial Unity. I have
written to Rhodes about it and we stand on the eve of great things.”61 One can
be led to presume that the great day Stead predicts came to pass by the fact
that, twenty years later, H. Rider Haggard describes the scope of Salvationist
imperialism in terms almost as fantastical as William Booth’s: “the Salvation
Army is unique, if only on account of the colossal scale of its operations. Its
fertilizing stream flows on steadily from land to land, till it bids fair to irrigate
the whole earth.”62 However, to mistake the wishes of such social imperialists
as a fait accompli requires that one (at best) ignore the resistance of working-
class people such as Roberts’s mother or (at worst) assume that the working
classes were a politically unselfconscious, easily manipulated group and,
thereby, confirm the assumptions of middle-class writers such as William
Booth. Booth’s attempt to use the Salvation Army as an instrument with which
to institute hegemonic imperialism does seek, as Pamela J. Walker puts it, to
remind “all converts, no matter how humble, that they might take part in the
glory of the imperial quest,” to “affirm their position as British Christians,”
and to emphasize “the superior, metropolitan location of British Salvation-
ists.”63 It is important to differentiate between this desire and its reception by
working-class people whose “view of imperialism—when they held one at
all and where records of it survive—was by no means monolithic,” as Stephen
Donovan persuasively argues:
Those who had newly begun organising would certainly not have shared
the view that imperialism was the answer to their demands for houses,
education, employment, trade union rights, political representation . . .
Some of their leaders were outspoken opponents of “capitalist” imperialism
and readily linked the oppression of colonial peoples to the exploitation
of the working class in Britain.64
107
108 Youth of Darkest England
England was not merely beneath the heel of the invader. It was be-
neath the heels of nine invaders.
There was barely standing-room.
—P. G. Wodehouse6
the last quarter of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth.
Invasions of England figure prominently in various turn-of-the-century
genres—in gothic fictions and detective thrillers (Bram Stoker’s Dracula
[1897] and Sax Rohmer’s The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu [1913]), in the “sci-
entific romance” (H. G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds [1898] and The War in
the Air [1908]), and in the emergent genre of spy fiction (epitomized by Erskine
Childers’s The Riddle of the Sands: A Record of Secret Service [1903]).7 The
ideological apparatus of both invasion scare narrative and Boy Scout hand-
book is in large measure designed to repair the embarrassments of the Second
Boer War (1899–1902). In spite of Britain’s defeat of the Boer settlers of
South Africa, the heavy costs of the war—lost lives, limbs, and nationalist
morale—suggested to many that Britain’s imperial destiny was by no means
manifest and that, without suitable opposition to competitors in the imperial
arms race, Britain risked not only the loss of colonial possessions but also
invasion by other European nations.8 The invasion narrative is only the most
extravagant index of British anxieties, in the early twentieth century, about
the increasing power of other European empires, particularly that of Ger-
many. Generally considered the instigator of the genre, Lieutenant-Colonel
Sir George Tomkyns Chesney’s The Battle of Dorking: Reminiscences of a
Volunteer (1871) imagines a German invasion of England as the inevitable
sequel to recent events—in particular, the January 1871 seizure of Versailles
by the King of Prussia and the succeeding armistice between France and
Germany, which effectively signalled the decline of French military control
of the Continent and the rise of Germany as an imperial power. At the turn of
the century, worries about the decline of British military efficiency com-
pounded, for many writers and readers, the German menace fantasized in
Chesney’s bestseller. Although the exemplary Edwardian invasion narrative,
Childers’s The Riddle of the Sands, notes in its preface that the book is written
with no “intention of provoking feelings of hostility to Germany” but solely
with the aim of “exterminating the scaremonger, who trades on public igno-
rance,”9 the novel concludes with the unambiguous question: “Is it not be-
coming patent that the time has come for training all Englishmen
systematically either for the sea or for the rifle?”10 Like Childers’s novel,
Scouting for Boys begins by offering a seemingly level-headed observation
about national defense: “we ought to be prepared in Britain against being
attacked by enemies” because, although such an event “may not be probable,
it is quite . . . possible” (SB 10). By the end of the handbook, Baden-Powell
adopts a far more sinister tone and asserts that it “is quite likely that Britain
will some day be attacked . . . by a large number of enemies” (SB 274):
we have many powerful enemies round about us in Europe who want very
much to get hold of the trade in our great manufacturing towns, and of our
vast farm-lands in our Oversea Dominions . . . Their only way—and they
know it—is to stab suddenly at the heart of the Empire, that is, to attack
110 Youth of Darkest England
Britain. If they succeeded, the whole of the Empire must fall at once,
because the different parts of it cannot yet defend themselves without
help from home. (SB 273–74)
The warnings of the few were drowned in the voice of the multitude. Power
was then passing away from the class which had been used to rule . . . into
the hands of the lower classes, uneducated, untrained to the use of political
rights, and swayed by demagogues.11
the poorer populations in our large towns are exposed to conditions which,
if continued, must inevitably contribute to a low national standard of physi-
cal health and strength, seeing that if such be the case it would constitute
a grave national peril.14
If a strong enemy wants our rich commerce and Colonies, and sees us in
Britain divided against each other, he would pounce in and capture
them. . . . you must begin, as boys, not to think other classes of boys to be
your enemies. Remember, whether rich or poor, from castle or from slum,
you are all Britons in the first place, and you’ve got to keep Britain up
against outside enemies. . . . If you despise other boys because they belong
to a poorer class than yourself you are a snob; if you hate other boys
because they happen to be born richer and belong to higher class schools
than yourself you are a fool. (SB 272)
That’s how we shall save the race.”18 Similarly, but without Wells’s irony,
Baden-Powell insists that Scouts of all classes can be qualified for patriotic
service to the empire—but only by remaking themselves in the image of the
middle classes, by becoming exemplars of “able-bodied, clean-minded” mas-
culinity. Likewise, all shirkers are equally abominable “rubbish,” due to their
“unemployment.” As Baden-Powell informs Scouts in a campfire lecture on
“animals,” bees are “quite a model community, for they respect their queen
and kill their unemployed” (SB 169).19
Baden-Powell’s plan for the rejuvenation of empire takes him scouting for
boys from all classes—but particularly the working classes, a numerical
majority; he imagines that the Boy Scout organization will be able to prevent
working-class boys from becoming juvenile delinquents and will be able to
transform these “rough lads” into good citizens qualified to defend Britain
against invasion. Scouting for Boys and the Edwardian educational theory
that informs it typically view the child, whether middle- or working-class, in
Wordsworthian terms—as the raw material of an adult individual, a being
whose character will be formed either by environment or education. For turn-
of-the-century reformers, the distressing condition of the working classes,
supposedly indicated by both their physical deterioration and their propen-
sity to crime, threatens imperial and domestic security; according to widely
recognized experts on youth such as the Earl of Meath and Baden-Powell,
physical deterioration and criminal behavior are not defects inherent in work-
ing-class people, but are the effects of the slum environment and the lack of
an education that would counter its influence.21 For instance, “Juvenile crime
is not naturally born in the boy,” Baden-Powell proclaims in Scoutmastership,
“but is largely due either to the spirit of adventure that is in him, to his own
stupidity, or to his lack of discipline, according to the nature of the indi-
vidual.”22 Baden-Powell here blurs the terms of environmentalist sociology
(“not naturally born in the boy”) and those of essentialist notions of class
difference (“the spirit . . . that is in him,” “the nature of the individual”).
Throughout the Edwardian period, there was in fact considerable slippage
114 Youth of Darkest England
between the terms “degeneration” and “deterioration,” even among more care-
ful theorists than Baden-Powell. Yet, as Richard Soloway notes, the term
“deterioration” was in general “carefully chosen to avoid any presumption of
inherent degeneration”23—particularly by writers (such as Baden-Powell)
concerned to incorporate the working classes into imperial activities. Baden-
Powell’s ambitious scheme for domestic reform and imperial defense consis-
tently emphasizes the principles if not the terminology of environmentalist
sociology: everywhere focusing on the malleability of youth, his upbeat project
aims to retain the spirit of the adventurous, educate the stupid, and provide dis-
cipline for all by giving British boys of every class a middle-class character.24
In his contribution to The Heart of the Empire (1901), Charles F. G.
Masterman announces the existence of “a new race, hitherto unreckoned and
of incalculable action”: “the ‘City type’ of the coming years; the ‘street-bred’
people of the twentieth century; the ‘new generation knocking at our doors.’”25
According to Masterman, “the future progress of the Anglo-Saxon Race, and
for the next half-century at least the policy of the British Empire in the world”
would depend on the “development and action” of this urban population.26 In
order to shape this new force so that it would support rather than undermine
the empire, Edwardian reformers focus in particular on the development of
this “new generation”—what Masterman calls “our city children.”27 In an
essay on “The Children of the Town” (1901) commissioned for The Heart of
the Empire, Reginald A. Bray argues that a city such as London,
Bray here confirms the assumption—on the part of many Victorian social
observers—that what Henry Mayhew calls “the confusion and uproar”29 of
the city streets exert a harmful fascination for working-class Londoners. Ac-
cording to Mayhew, the “education of these children is such only as the streets
afford,” and this education instills a “hatred of the least restraint or controul.”30
Yet Bray, like Mayhew, also has an acute sense of the pleasures of being in a
crowd:
No one can wander along the crowded roads … without being seized by a
curious thrill of excitement. . . . A multitude of living beings has a strange
intoxicating effect . . . Child and adult are alike in this, and, once they
have been subjected to this crowd-passion, crave for a repetition of the
emotion.31
in all alike who inhabit a large city,”32 whether those inhabitants are middle-
or working-class. However, Bray’s metaphors “intoxicating” and “crave” slyly
suggest that the working classes so commonly identified with alcoholism are
less able to manage this pleasure—and that responsible enjoyment of the
urban space requires middle-class education and self-regulation.
For Bray, enjoying “in excess” the massive “human element” that char-
acterizes the city streets, “gives to the town child that restless temperament
which appears in its most accentuated form as Hooliganism.”33 Bray’s etiology
of juvenile delinquency depends on an important distinction between the
concepts “rough lad” and “hooligan.” The working-class “rough lad” is a
malleable raw material that can be transformed into one of two forms. If
proper education shapes what Seth Koven refers to as the rough lad’s “admi-
rable audacity”34 into desirable character traits, the rough lad becomes a useful
citizen—what Wells’s character Richard Remington calls “a most agreeable
development of the slouching, cunning, cigarette-smoking, town-bred young-
ster,” a new creature who is likeable because, presumably, the slouching and
smoking have been eradicated while the cunning has been retained and directed
to productive ends, as in the case of Kipling’s boy-spy Kim. However, if left
solely to the influence of the over-stimulating streets, the rough lad becomes
a “hooligan”—a juvenile delinquent given to either lazy shirking (at best) or
criminal violence (at worst). As Mrs. Humphrey Ward notes in 1901, the
“‘spirited element’ of boy-nature must have its food and its outlet. Train it,
and it will serve the State. Let it run to waste and riot, and you will get your
‘Hooliganism,’ as you deserve.”35 Similarly, in a 1900 letter to the London
Times—titled, significantly, “Cadets or Hooligans”—the Earl of Meath asserts,
“the suppression of Hooliganism amongst the rough lads of our towns is one
of the most pressing social questions of the day.”36 Meath’s own answer, in
addition to his spirited support of organizations such as the Scouts, is his
founding in 1899 of the Lads’ Drill Association. According to Meath’s intro-
duction to its 1904 annual report, the Association aimed at “reforming the
loafing elements to be found amongst all classes” through military drill, which
“would implant in the youthful mind a respect for the manly virtues which
tend towards the manufacture of good and useful citizens.”37 As Bray notes,
the chief component in this manufacturing process—whereby rough lads are
turned into cadets rather than hooligans—is the installation of “character”:
For example, take two small boys, twins if you like. Teach them the same
lessons in school, but give them entirely different surroundings, compan-
ions, and homes outside the school. Put one under a kindly, encouraging
mother, among clean and straight playfellows, where he is trusted on his
honour to carry out rules of life and so on. On the other hand, take the
second boy and let him loaf in the slums, with a filthy home, among foul-
mouthed, thieving, discontented companions. Is he likely to grow up with
the same amount of character as his twin?43
The Boy Scouts and the Working Classes 117
to consent to colonial domination, whereas the latter asks the working classes
to adopt middle-class cultural values. Baden-Powell is perfectly aware of
this racial differential. Scouting for Boys initially displays no interest in trans-
mitting “civilized” values to “savages”; rather, early editions of the handbook
address British boys, and the adults who go scouting for them, regarding the
value of transmitting middle-class “character” to working-class youths.47 In-
deed, Baden-Powell imagines that a well-regulated “savagery” can invigorate
a decadent England. He thus embraces the notion of “recapitulation” com-
mon in Edwardian educational theory and initially put forth in G. Stanley
Hall’s Adolescence (1904). Hall posits that, during the period of adolescence,
Westerners “recapitulate” and move through the three “stages . . . of racial
history”—savagery, barbarism, civilization.48 According to Hall—and, follow-
ing him, Baden-Powell and like-minded writers on youth—adults should
encourage, rather than repress, this recapitulation of “savagery” and “barbar-
ism” in the Western adolescent: “These nativistic and more or less feral in-
stincts can and should be fed and formed,” so that after indulging such
“recapitulatory impulses, the child can enter upon his full heritage, live out
each stage of his life to the fullest, and realize in himself all its manifold
tendencies.”49 Thus controlled, “savage” and “barbaric” practices (like the
plucky energy of “hooligans”) can benefit a “civilized” nation. For instance,
Scouting for Boys notes that it “is quite a lesson to watch a Zulu scout making
use of a hilltop or rising ground as a look-out . . . hoping that he will be
mistaken for a stump or a stone” (SB 151). In his Sketches in Mafeking and
East Africa (1907), Baden-Powell offers a self-portrait of sorts (Figure 7) in
which the middle-aged but boyish Baden-Powell “recapitulates” the Zulu
scout’s “savage” activities: “On one occasion I stalked an Impala buck for
nearly two hours, one hour of which was spent trying to flatten myself out
while he stood and stared at the few blades of grass behind which I was
trying to hide. I got him.”50 The following year, the structure of this sketch is
reduplicated on the cover51 of Scouting for Boys (Figure 8), where Baden-
Powell (imitating the Zulu hunter) transforms into a Boy Scout, the African
veldt into the English coast, and the Impala buck into an enemy warship
depositing a vanguard of troops on the shores of Britain.
Similarly, meetings of Wolf Cubs, the division (founded 1914) of the
Scouts for boys ages eight to eleven,52 begin with practice in howling tech-
niques, as depicted in a 1916 photograph (Figure 9) of the 16th North Poplar
(Bow Church) Wolf Cub Pack. These Wolf Cubs, unlike the slum loafer in
Baden-Powell’s story of the twins, have all the benefits Scouting can pro-
vide. A circle of “clean and straight playfellows” watched over by “kindly,
encouraging” den mothers, “savage” behavior here is an early stage in the
process of transforming East London boys into a well-ordered, uniform group.
In turn, they dominate the surrounding city space that, significantly emptied
The Boy Scouts and the Working Classes 119
F igur
iguree 7 “Flattening Oneself.” From Robert Baden-Powell, Sketches in Mafeking and East
Africa (1907).
of menacing hooligans, appears merely as an atmospheric background to
their fun. Crucially, although this “recapitulation” of the “savage” is suppos-
edly a means of “elevating” the child to “civilization,” the working-class
Scout can take advantage of this process only by renouncing his identifica-
tion with working-class culture—even in its most “civilized” forms, such as
political radicalism.
Thus, in Scouting for Boys Baden-Powell encourages Scouts to have
contempt for the “lots of men who go about howling about their rights who
have never done anything to earn any rights” (SB 222; my emphasis). On
another occasion, Scouting for Boys criticizes working-class radicals via an
allusion to Kipling’s The Jungle Book (1894), which Baden-Powell also rec-
ommends (SB 171) that Scouts read. As the handbook notes, every scouting
120 Youth of Darkest England
F igur
iguree 8 Cover of the first edition of Scouting for Boys (1908).
The Boy Scouts and the Working Classes 121
F igur
iguree 9 Howling practice. Photograph of 16th North Poplar (Bow Church) Wolf Cub Pack,
1916. Reproduced by permission of The Scout Association (UK) licence no. 0304. British
Scout Association, London.
“patrol is named after some animal, and each scout in it has to be able to
make the cry of that animal in order to communicate with his pals, especially
at night” (SB 13). Baden-Powell then instructs Scouts on choosing their ani-
mal mascot: “you may be ‘the Wolves,’ ‘the Curlews,’ ‘the Eagles,’ or ‘the
Rats’ if you like. But don’t be a ‘Monkey Patrol,’ that is a patrol that plays
games but has no discipline and wins no badges” (SB 13). The handbook
here alludes to “Kaa’s Hunting,” one of the best known of Kipling’s Mowgli
stories. Throughout Kipling’s tale, the narrator mocks the monkey-people
Bandar-log, who “were always just going to have a leader, and laws and
customs of their own, but they never did . . . so they compromised things by
making up a saying: ‘What the Bandar-log think now the jungle will think
later,’ and that comforted them a great deal.”53 The saying that Kipling puts
into the mouths of the monkey-people parodies a motto common, in the 1890s,
among working-class Manchester radicals: “What Manchester thinks to-day,
England will think tomorrow.” Moreover, Baden-Powell’s jab at undisciplined
working-class people might also suggest the slang term “monkey parade,”
used to describe street-corner socializing between young working-class men
122 Youth of Darkest England
and women.54 Baden-Powell thus distinguishes between (on the one hand) a
recapitulation of “savagery” that is regulated by middle-class values and (on
the other hand) the animalistic regression suffered as a result of identification
with working-class urban culture. Throughout the handbook, the former is
paraded as the means of solving the problems that the latter has caused and
as a means of preventing the decline of empire due to the supposed disease at
its heart.
Near the beginning of Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim (1900), the title character is
stationed on a “training ship for officers of the mercantile marine.”56 From
the foretop of this ship, Jim
looked down, with the contempt of a man destined to shine in the midst of
dangers, at the peaceful multitude of roofs . . . while scattered on the out-
skirts of the surrounding plain the factory chimneys rose perpendicular
against a grimy sky, each slender like a pencil, and belching out smoke
like a volcano.57
Jim’s contemptuous distance from the industrial city not only enables
him to misapprehend the “grimy” urban space as a bucolic “plain” but also to
construct a romantic image of his own imperial destiny that, Conrad asserts
with sinister foreshadowing (“He saw himself saving people from sinking
ships . . .”58), will not match the reality of his behavior when the Patna
founders. Jim’s woefully mistaken assumption that “nothing less than the
unconceivable itself could get over his perfect state of preparation”59 echoes
contemporary worries about the lack of preparation, on the part of working-
class soldiers, for military engagements with the Boers—and anticipates the
motto of the Boy Scout organization, “Be Prepared.” Published in the midst
of the Second Boer War, Conrad’s novel insists that the modern imperial
adventurer must face a world that is fraught with dangers, requiring great
preparation and training:
it is only now and then that there appears on the face of facts a sinister
violence of intention—that indefinable something which forces it upon
the mind and the heart of a man, that this complication of accidents . . . are
coming at him with a purpose of malice.60
how to become a well-prepared urban observer must identify not with working-
class culture but with middle-class “character”: “When once observation and
deduction have been made habitual in the boy, a great step in the develop-
ment of ‘character’ has been gained” (SB 118).
Baden-Powell imagines that the working-class boy who has become a
Scout, and, thus, has had middle-class character instilled in him, will usually
have as the object of his urban observations another working-class person.
Thus, the handbook expresses the desire, so prominent in William Booth’s In
Darkest England and the Way Out, to convert the working-class subject not
only into one who upholds middle-class values but also into one who actively
works to police his or her own class. For example, at one point Baden-Powell
explains the fine points of “How the Wearing of a Hat Shows Character”
(Figure 10): “If it is slightly on one side, the wearer is good-natured; if it is
worn very much on one side, he is a swaggerer; if on the back of his head, he
is bad at paying his debts; if worn straight on the top, he is probably honest
but very dull” (SB 121). Here wealth (the luxurious top hat of the gentleman
at the bottom) is linked with a middle-class ideal (honesty) and a minor defect
(dullness), whereas poverty (the thin cheeks and attenuated arms of the sloppy
F igur
iguree 110
0 “How the Wearing of a Hat Shows Character.” From Robert Baden-Powell, Scouting
for Boys, 7th ed. (1915).
The Boy Scouts and the Working Classes 125
character at the top) is the result of the sort of character flaw commonly
associated with the working classes (failure to pay debts). Even more strik-
ingly, one page later Baden-Powell gives the Scout a quiz that is supposedly
designed to test his ability to “Practise Observation” but that in fact asks him
to endorse notions about the legibility of middle-class virtue and working-
class vice: ironically asking “Perhaps you can tell the characters of these
gentlemen?” (SB 122), Baden-Powell offers a drawing (Figure 11) in which
what is clearly a moral as well as physical ideal of Anglo-Saxon masculinity
is flanked (on left) by the signs of defective working-class character as shown
in the lesson on hats (drooping eyelids, weak chin) and (on right) by the
simian slumdweller of middle-class nightmare.
The handbook thus presumes that the Boy Scout, regardless of the class
from which he comes, will identify with the views of the middle classes and
against the working classes represented by such stereotypes. Sander L. Gilman
argues that stereotypes serve as a defense against various forms of disinte-
gration that always threaten the cohesiveness of any social group: “The per-
ception of the Other as a threat to the individual’s autonomy is thus a reflection
of the loss of autonomy felt within the group.”64 Stereotypes enable members
of the group to project the “potential . . . corruption of the self . . . onto others,”
so that the self and the group are distinguished from, and bound together in
defense against, an exterior world that is “seen as both corrupt and corrupting,
polluted and polluting.”65 The anxieties that, in Gilman’s formulation, lead to
stereotyping are particularly powerful in imperialist contexts such as the physi-
cal-deterioration scare at the close of the Second Boer War: for a writer such
as Baden-Powell, the security of the British Empire seems to face multiple
threats, both from without (German invaders) and from within (class conflict).
Whereas agonistic relations with competing imperial nations testify to
Britain’s imperial success (and, indeed, justify the existence of Baden-Powell’s
F igur
iguree 111
1 “Practise Observation.” From Robert Baden-Powell, Scouting for Boys, 7th ed.
(1915).
126 Youth of Darkest England
The militarists and nobility in control, the capitalists who provide the funds,
all alike agree with the aims of the Scout Movement. These are to train
working class children to be “loyal” to their employers and traitors to
their class, to be ready to serve as cannon fodder in the approaching war
which modern imperialism is leading to . . . 71
the Scouts has too quickly credited the organization with such a propagan-
distic social control of the working classes. Although Michael Rosenthal is
correct when he states that Scouting was “designed to monitor the conduct”
of working-class boys and to “shape it into forms acceptable to . . . middle-
and upper-class perspectives,”72 it does not follow, as John M. MacKenzie
claims, that in fact “the working class as a whole received a considerable
infusion of middle-class values” through such youth organizations.73 Sweeping
judgments about the social control that organizations such as Scouting exerted
depend on a notion that the working classes are prone to propagandistic man-
ipulation, and such judgments in turn obscure the fact that ordinary working-
class people could reach the same conclusions about Scouting as those of an
organized entity such as the Teachers’ Labour League.
This fact is suggested, for instance, by Alan Sillitoe’s Saturday Night
and Sunday Morning (1958), in which the working-class hero Arthur Seaton,
while expressing his disgust for military service, vilifies a neighbor who “sent
his sons to join the Scouts and always voted Liberal, a traitor to the solid bloc
of anarchistic Labour in the street.”74 Moreover, there is reason to believe
that such conscious opposition to the middle-class ideologies of Scouting
influenced not only working-class adults’ views of appropriate leisure activi-
ties for their children but also working-class children’s choices of leisure
activities. Thus, Robert Roberts’s study of working-class culture in Edwardian
Salford offers a telling anecdote about youth organizations such as the Scouts:
With a uniform that cost 15s, the Scout movement was far beyond
the means of most lower-working-class lads; not one in our district, to my
knowledge, ever became a member. Once, however, with an older friend,
Sydney, and unbeknown to my parents, I did try an obscure troop across
the town where uniform was not de rigueur. Here we soon noted that the
leader, a manly type, seemed over fond of looking one straight in the eye
and, hand on shoulder, giving what he called “health chats.” “We don’t go
to no camps!” said Syd briefly . . .
Many boys in our district sported for a time the pillbox of the Church
Lads’ Brigade. This movement, at the time paramilitary in intent, had its
greatest strength in the Manchester region. Its attraction for boys lay in a
very cheap, sketchy uniform and the pleasure of marching through Sunday
morning streets (cursed by late sleepers) to the sound of bugle and drum.
But our local ranks were continually thinned by the rector’s insistence on
members’ weekly attendance at classes for Bible reading and drill.75
reading and [paramilitary] drill” in the Brigade and “health chats” in the
Scouts indicate that young Robert and Sydney, like other Salford and Manches-
ter boys (“our local ranks were continually thinned”) are perfectly capable of
understanding, and disliking, the ideological orientation of the training of-
fered by these groups. Finally, the pleasure they do briefly take in them is,
rather than the adoption of middle-class “character,” exactly the opposite of
what organizers like Baden-Powell intend: the use of bugle and drum to break
the peace.
The “health chats” that appear to be the primary feature of Roberts’s experience
of Scouting are discursively central to Scouting for Boys, and to its attempt to
get inside the working-class lad. In order to train the Boy Scout to be an
urban observer well-defended against the modern city—a realm, according
to Baden-Powell, even the microscopic denizens of which threaten the boy at
every turn—the handbook encourages ceaseless bodily self-regulation in the
Scout. Baden-Powell instructs boys regarding how to sit (upright) and walk
(fast); how often to brush one’s teeth (twice a day) and to cut one’s finger-
nails (every week); how often to smoke and to masturbate (never); even how
to breathe (through the nose) and how often to have bowel movements (of-
ten). In this way, even as the handbook argues that self-regulation is central
to the working-class Scout’s acquisition of middle-class “character,” Scout-
ing for Boys reinforces the notion that the working-class city space is an
inherently dirty realm and that the working-class city boy—in spite of the
handbook’s suggestion that he can be an effective urban observer—remains
a thoroughly embodied entity.
As much a hygiene manual as anything else, the handbook offers a home-
spun pathology to explain contagion to its juvenile readers: “Disease is car-
ried about in the air and in water by tiny invisible insects called ‘germs’ or
‘microbes,’ and you are very apt to breathe them in through the mouth . . . and
then they breed disease inside you” (SB 200).76 Baden-Powell’s little microbes
enjoy “living in dark, damp, and dirty places . . . they come from bad drains,
old dustbins, and rotting flesh, etc.; in fact, generally where there is a bad
smell” (SB 201). Thus, he advises the Scout to “keep away from places that
smell badly” (SB 201)—advice which is, of course, impossible to follow if
the Scout is to be an effective urban observer of working-class city spaces
supposedly characterized by stinks, and thus to avoid the miserable fate of
unprepared Lord Jim, loftily doomed in his foretop. Since the Boy Scout
must penetrate dark, damp, dirty, smelly city spaces, the only way in which
to keep his “blood . . . in really good order” (SB 201) is to engage in continual
The Boy Scouts and the Working Classes 129
you need not be afraid of diseases if you breathe through your nose and
keep your blood in good order. It is always well on coming out of a crowded
theatre, church, or hall, to cough and blow your nose, in order to get rid of
microbes which you might have breathed in from other people in the crowd.
(SB 201)
You frequently see notices in omnibuses and public places requesting you
not to spit. The reason for this is that many people spit who have diseased
lungs, and from their spittle the microbes of their diseases get in the air,
and are breathed by healthy people into their lungs, and they become also
diseased. Often you may have a disease in you for some years without
knowing it, and if you spit you are liable to communicate that disease to
sound people; so you should not do it for their sake. (SB 201)
The Boy Scouts and the Working Classes 131
The opening of this passage suggests that the “people . . . who have dis-
eased lungs,” and who are the addressees of the notices “requesting you not
to spit,” are not the working-class Scouts who are the addressees of Baden-
Powell’s passage. However, the repetition of “you,” and the ominous
observation that “you may have a disease in you,” which you can “commun-
icate . . . to sound people,” here identifies the Scout’s respiratory process not
so much as that which can protect him from external germs but as the source
of those germs, whether he breathes through the nose or mouth. If the thorough
regulation of the most minute of the Scout’s bodily operations—breathing—
seems to imply the need to protect him from the infestations of the city, Baden-
Powell’s metaphors in fact imply that this social danger derives from the
internally “unsound” working-class Scout himself, however much he may
try to adopt the external signs of middle-class character.
Moreover, Baden-Powell treats the self-regulation in which the working-
class Scout engages as a mechanistic process, rather than as the character-
forming act that has long been vaunted as the defining quality of middle-class
subjectivity. Reduced to a mere system of intake and output, breathing and
shitting, the depiction of self-regulation that Baden-Powell offers not only
represents the working-class Scout as a thoroughly embodied entity but meta-
phorically transforms him into a mechanized one. For instance, in
Scoutmastership Baden-Powell offers a revealing comment on physical edu-
cation:
Oxygen for Ox’s Strength—I saw some very smart physical drills by
a Scout Troop quite recently in their club headquarters.
It was very fresh and good, but, my wig, the air was not! It was, to
say the least, “niffy.” There was no ventilation. The boys were working
like engines, but actually undoing their work all the time by sucking in
poison instead of strengthening their blood.78
With the phrase “working like engines,” this passage makes explicit the
mechanization of the working-class body that is implicit in the physiological
advice discussed above. As Mark Seltzer argues, the Boy Scout “character
factory . . . standardizes the making of men, coordinating the body and the
machine within a single system of regulation and production”;79 however,
Seltzer is not particularly attentive to the class component of this mechaniza-
tion of the Scout’s body. Defined fairly simplistically, a machine is an apparatus
that consumes something so as to produce something else (usually a desirable
commodity) often while producing an (often undesirable) additional some-
thing. For instance, a locomotive commuter train of Baden-Powell’s day con-
sumes coal so as to transport businessmen from suburb to city (middle-class
132 Youth of Darkest England
The grim irony that lies behind the metaphorical notion of “war games” is
nowhere more apparent than at the beginning of the Battle of the Somme in
the First World War. On the morning of July 1, 1916, a captain of the 8th East
Surrey Regiment, W. P. Nevill, distributed four footballs among his men and
offered a prize to the first of his platoons to dribble a ball behind German
lines. Private L. S. Price of the 8th Royal Sussex recorded the scene:
As the gun-fire died away I saw an infantryman climb onto the parapet
into No Man’s Land, beckoning others to follow. As he did so he kicked
off a football. A good kick. The ball rose and travelled well towards the
German line. That seemed to be the signal to advance.1
Captain Nevill was killed on that day, along with at least 19,000 other
British soldiers. However, two of his footballs were recovered and are pre-
served in the National Army Museum and in the Queen’s Regiment Museum
at Canterbury. It is common to treat such relics—and the sporting ideology
that they memorialize—as signifying the ethos of the public school and that
quaint Edwardian society that, we are told, was destroyed by the First World
War. To pick a quotidian but influential example, The Norton Anthology of
English Literature introduces the poets of the First World War by informing
us that “World War I broke out on a largely innocent world, a world that still
associated warfare with glorious cavalry charges and the noble pursuit of
heroic ideals”; in contrast, according to this introduction, the “savage ironies”
with which poets such as Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen depicted the
war “portrayed a world undreamed of in the golden years from 1910 to 1914.”2
Rather than treat the cultural processes that landed Captain Nevill and his
footballs at the Western Front as the antiquated ideology of an upper-class
minority, this chapter instead investigates how such fabrications of sporting
masculinity involve thoroughly modern discourses on national identity and
class difference—discourses that, in the late-Victorian and Edwardian periods,
are institutionalized through educational policy and juvenile literature. Far
from being merely a remnant of public-school ideals, the association of sport
133
134 Youth of Darkest England
and war is, at the turn of the century, part of the broad project to institute
hegemonic imperialism, a project that negotiates national and class identities
according to what is, as we have seen, a particularly powerful representational
paradigm: on the one hand, writings on sport and war imagine the benefits of
a Britain free of class conflict and united by imperialist ambitions; on the
other hand, writers who seek to spread sporting ideology among working-
class young people maintain prevailing notions of class difference by distin-
guishing between middle and working classes in terms of vision and the body.
Thus, although it is valuable to abandon the platitude that the First World
War was the culmination of an Edwardian period resembling one long garden
party, the war is the culmination of the late-Victorian and Edwardian project
to incorporate the working classes into the British imperial enterprise. The
First World War was an imperial war, a result of the European competition
for colonial spaces in the late nineteenth century and in the early twentieth.3
Whereas Queen Victoria’s so-called “little wars” of imperial expansion de-
pended primarily on professional soldiers, the escalation of industrialized
warfare in 1914–1918 demanded the enlistment—and eventually the con-
scription—of large industrial populations; in order to win this new imperial
war, it was necessary to mobilize a large fighting force constituted primarily
by young men of the working classes.4 The discussion that follows will focus
on writings for children concerning sport and war, and on First World War
recruiting materials that recycle the images and ideologies of those writings,
in order to examine how they participate in this war-era version of the project
to institute hegemonic imperialism. Depicting athleticism as a form of imperial
service available to all classes and depicting leadership as a disembodied
vision that guides a supposedly classless group of soldier bodies, texts on
sport and war assert the desirability of (indeed, in 1914–1918, the urgent
need for) a unified nation. At the same time, such works seek to retain dominant
notions of class difference in a new form and deploy the strategic contradiction
that is at the heart of all projects to institute hegemonic imperialism. Writings
on sport and war perform this ideological work by representing class differ-
ence in terms of machine culture, a representation that is cut to the measure
of industrialized warfare but that is also the legacy of, for instance, Scout
literature. That is, the popular culture of the First World War prominently
figures the visionary abilities of middle-class military and political leaders in
terms of technology and the embodiment of working-class soldiers in terms
of machinery subordinate to that technology. The concluding section of this
chapter, in turn, examines critiques of the social-imperialist discourse on sport
and war through a reading of journalistic reports regarding the views on class
held by soldiers in the trenches and through a reading of what is perhaps the
best-known representation of the fallout from the war on the home front,
Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway (1925).
Patriot Games 135
In the decades preceding the First World War, military experts as well as
specialists on youth were obsessed with football.5 As previously discussed,
the embarrassments of the Second Boer War (1899–1902) were often attributed
to the physical deterioration of young men from the working classes, and this
deterioration was itself often viewed as a symptom of class conflict. Many
writers argued that the cure for both physical deterioration and class conflict
was the inculcation of sporting ideals in working-class young people. For
instance, in Scoutmastership: A Handbook for Scoutmasters on the Theory of
Scout Training (1919), Robert Baden-Powell laments:
Many of our working-class lads have never known what it was to play any
regular game with strict rules. . . . Nor do boys of that kind usually have
discipline, sense of fair play, or keenness for winning simply for the honour
of the thing without thought of prizes or rewards.6
Health, endurance, courage, judgment, and above all a sense of fair play,
are gained upon the football field. A footballer must learn, and does learn,
to play fairly in the thick and heat of a struggle. Such qualities are those
which make a nation brave and great. The game is manly and fit for
Englishmen; it puts courage into their hearts to meet any enemy in the
face.10
136 Youth of Darkest England
By the end of the century, many writers considered that such virtues as
Shearman enumerates could be provided to working-class as well as public-
school boys by the same means: capitalizing on young people’s interest in
play, for instance on the football field, in order to inspire in them a sense of
“fair play,” and all that it implies in a militarist nation that depends on the
well-disciplined esprit de corps of its male citizenry. Thus, in an 1896 com-
ment on the Boys’ Brigade (founded in 1883 by William Alexander Smith to
instill military discipline in working-class lads), Lieutenant-Colonel Seton
Churchill (himself the founder in 1892 of the Universities Camps for Public
Schoolboys organization) suggests that an interest in sports and soldiering
are inherent in all boys who are “developing naturally,” whether they are
middle-class and trained in the public schools or working-class and trained
in such organizations as the Boys’ Brigade:
especially in the playground, should develop the instinct for fair play and for
loyalty to one another which is the germ of a wider sense of honour in later
life.”13 The diffusion of the games ethic seeks not only to rehabilitate the
supposedly deteriorating urban poor but also to unify English people such
that they identify along the lines of nation rather than those of class. This
remaking of education and recreation also seeks to obscure class divisions
previously signified, in part, by the games ethic itself: long associated with
the public-school playing field, football and cricket become, early in the twen-
tieth century, associated simply with Englishness.
At their most utopian, middle-class writers recommended the diffusion
of sporting ideology due to its supposed ability to ameliorate class conflict
itself. In a more pragmatic vein, those writers granted widespread support to
the diffusion of athleticism—through the elementary-school curriculum and
such organizations as the Boy Scouts and the YMCA14—due to the notion
that imparting manly health and sporting values to poor city boys could only
improve the military efficiency of the British Empire. Such frank reflections
on the comparability of sport and war are legion in the years leading up to
Captain Nevill’s deadly literalization of this metaphor.15 For instance, one
Captain Guggisberg, in a 1903 book for children titled Modern Warfare; or,
How our Soldiers Fight, asserts the bond between war and football:
knew the exact position of every one of the units between Cairo and him-
self, and from every station he received messages constantly and despatched
his orders as frequently. There was no hitch whatever. The arrangements
were all so perfect that the vast machine, with its numerous parts, moved
with the precision of clockwork. (WKS 210)
Although in the novel’s last chapter Gregory inherits the title of the
Marquis of Longdale (and, incidentally, becomes the class superior of
Kitchener, first Earl of Khartoum and of Broome), the text reinforces Gregory’s
subordination to the title character with a striking infantilization of the now-
aristocratic protagonist: the novel’s final sentence declares, “Gregory says
he must learn his lessons perfectly before he ventures to take his place in
society” (WKS 384). Moreover, within the military narrative that is the heart
of the novel, the class position of all soldiers relative to Kitchener is finally
unambiguous: in Kitchener’s Sudan campaign they all “worked with as much
regularity as in a great factory at home” (WKS 81).26 Seeking to obscure but
ultimately reaffirming the class-based distinction between soldiers and
officers, body and vision, corps and headquarters, the celebrations of sport-
ing militarism that dominate Edwardian texts such as Henty’s achieve their
most potent form in the recruitment materials that, following 4 August 1914,
sought to lead a generation to war.
One face more than any other looks inexorably out from the early years of
the First World War. On recruiting posters, magazine covers, and similar
popular-culture texts, the visage most often used to arouse patriotism is that
of Horatio Herbert Kitchener, the lionized commander in the Sudan campaign
and Secretary of State for War from 1914 until his death in 1916. The pictorial
logic of Kitchener’s mass-produced image borrows heavily from the repre-
sentation of the commander in popular literary works such as Henty’s, which
render him a disembodied visual power capable of surveying masses of soldier
and civilian bodies. For instance, his visage adorns a recruitment poster (Figure
12) issued late in 1915, just before the Military Service Act of 1916 introduced
conscription. “Men, Materials & Money are the immediate necessities,” we
142 Youth of Darkest England
F igur
iguree 112
2 “Lord Kitchener Says . . . ENLIST TO-DAY.” Recruiting poster, Great Britain, 1915.
(Negative Number Q33108) Courtesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
are told; yet the obvious message of the poster (“ENLIST TO-DAY”) focuses
only on the need for “Men,” implying that they are equivalent to “Materials”
and “Money,” objects to be distributed according to plans formed by the su-
perior intelligence of the War Office, here represented by Lord Kitchener.
The poster quotes a portion of his July 9, 1915 speech—the barely veiled
threat that, if “the call of duty” should find “no response” in the addressee of
the poster, that call would be “reinforced—let us rather say superseded—by
the call of compulsion.” This sinister announcement contrasts with the pho-
tograph, which oozes the iconography of British military heroism. In addi-
tion to emphasizing the general’s eyes, visual depictions of Kitchener usually
take advantage of his striking moustache so that a shadow obscures his mouth.
Thus, the poster at once attributes the threatening speech to the War Secre-
tary and divorces it from the tight-lipped commander, leaving the silent gaze
of the concerned patriot to do its work on the populace. The depiction of
Kitchener as a disembodied, visionary force is even more apparent in the
best-known British recruiting poster, “[Kitchener] ‘Wants You’” (Figure 13),
based on Alfred Leete’s cover illustration for the September 5, 1914 London
Opinion. Here too the steely eyes transfix the wayward civilian, just as the
moustache hides the mouth—such that the demand for “You” comes less
from Kitchener than from a disembodied “call of duty.”
Patriot Games 143
F igur
iguree 113
3 “[Kitchener] ‘Wants You.’” Recruiting poster, Great Britain, 1914. (Negative Number
Q48378A) Courtesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
144 Youth of Darkest England
F igur
iguree 114
4 “Which? Man You Are Wanted!” Recruiting poster, Australia, 1914. (Negative Number
Q79868) Courtesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
Patriot Games 145
Similarly, in the 1915 poster “Step into Your Place” (Figure 15), a diver-
sity of individuals—laborers with pitchforks and pickaxes, businessmen and
barristers with briefcases and wigs, and, of course, the requisite sportsman,
with a golf club—are transformed into a troop of soldiers whose uniforms
and gear signify no class distinctions. The poster is structured so that the line
of men leads the eye to the word “place”—which here signifies neither the
class-specific position in which “you” should stay nor the trenches of the
146 Youth of Darkest England
F igur
iguree 115
5 “Step into Your Place.” Recruiting poster, Great Britain, 1915. (Negative Number
Q33089) Courtesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
Western Front but the classless identity “soldier,” itself absorbed into a future
that the individual recruits cannot fathom. Such representations have, of
course, little to do with the facts of First World War recruitment and military
service: for instance, in contrast to the class diversity fantasized in such posters
and in texts by such writers as Baden-Powell, recruitment schemes such as
the “pals’ battalions”—which encouraged voluntary enlistment by promising
that men would be able to serve with local mates rather than strangers—
constituted a de facto class segregation of Kitchener’s new armies, particu-
larly when coupled with the territorial basis of regiments in the British
Army.30 Furthermore, the fact that such appeals were directed in large measure
at young men of the working classes is clear from the 1915 poster “Join the
Brave Throng That Goes Marching Along” (Figure 16). Associated with “the
F igur
iguree 116
6 “Join the Brave Throng That Goes Marching Along.” Recruiting poster, Great
Britain, 1915. (Negative Number Q33106) Courtesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
Patriot Games 147
mob,” like the crowds of football fans in Shee’s and Baden-Powell’s com-
ments on spectator sports, the word “throng” here undergoes a sanitization
by being paired not only with the word “brave” but with the image of smiling
young volunteers. Moreover, the organization of the poster’s design treats
the soldiers as embodied, but they resemble happy football players rather
than cannon fodder: the recruiting slogan itself not only joins the men together,
but is printed as if on the chests of team jerseys. Virtually reversing the visual
dynamic of “[Kitchener] ‘Wants You’”—in which the blurring of Kitchener’s
white uniform and the poster background rendered the general bodiless—
here the soldiers’ bodies are at once the khaki mass that weights the bottom
of the poster and an indivisible unit.
The depiction of Kitchener’s military leadership in terms of visionary
disembodiment, and of the ordinary soldier as utterly embodied, relies on a
representation of Kitchener that had already been manufactured not only by
juvenile works such as Henty’s novel but also by journalism reporting on his
imperial campaigns in Egypt and the Sudan. Kitchener’s public image is
largely the construction of the journalist G. W. Steevens, whose war corre-
spondence from the Middle East swelled the sales of the half-penny newspaper
the Daily Mail, which Lord Northcliffe launched in May 1896.31 Steevens’s
most popular journalistic writings were in turn reprinted in bestselling volumes
and became influential late-Victorian promulgators of imperialist iconography:
for instance, his book With Kitchener to Khartum (1898) went through nineteen
reprintings in the first year of its publication.32 In this work Steevens provides
the portrait of Kitchener as a visionary commander that was so commonly
recycled in recruiting posters: “He has no age but the prime of life, no body
but one to carry his mind, no face but one to keep his brain behind. The brain
and the will are the essence and the whole of the man.” 33 In addition,
Kitchener’s “precision is so inhumanly unerring, he is more like a machine
than a man,”34 and his “officers and men are wheels in the machine: he feeds
them enough to make them efficient, and works them as mercilessly as he
works himself.”35 This last observation—that armies are egalitarian as well
as hierarchical and that, after all, Lord Kitchener and the greenest recruit are
both soldiers united in the cause of the British Empire—is obscured by
Steevens’s more assertive representation, throughout his text, of Kitchener
as a thinking entity, one whose body is irrelevant (it exists merely as a con-
tainer in which “to carry his mind”) and whose “inhumanly unerring” strategies
equate him with the (in 1898) novelty of technological warfare. Crucially,
although Steevens uses the phrase “more like a machine than a man,” the
words “more . . . than a man” not only dematerialize Kitchener but emphasize
the “brain and the will” that constitute the commander’s “essence.” Writings
such as Steevens’s rely upon an important, if unstated, distinction between
the concept “technology” (from the Greek techne, “art” or “skill”), which
148 Youth of Darkest England
camel’s back—all welded into one, the awful war machine went forward into
action.”43 Steevens here imagines the “awful” (in the sense of “awe-inspiring”)
“war machine” as an entity that overcomes a variety of domestic divisions,
most prominently class divisions: urban industry and rural farming (“Bir-
mingham and the West Highlands”), Oxford degree and state education
(“Balliol and the Board School”), aristocrats and hooligans (“lord and
larrikin”) are all, like the “camel’s back,” so many mechanized bodies (“muscle
and machinery”) that serve the will of Kitchener’s “brain.”
Indeed, in Henty’s With Kitchener in the Soudan the title character him-
self offers an apparent critique of the mechanization of the working classes
and echoes the emphasis on character building, so prominent in paramilitary
organizations such as the Boy Scouts:
In spite of this apparently liberal rhetoric on the part of one of the “en-
gineers of death,” to borrow London’s phrase, Henty’s novel makes clear, as
does Guggisberg’s comparison of football and war in Modern Warfare, that
the apparently individualist abilities of any soldier ultimately can derive only
from the commander who represents another class: “The Sirdar’s force of
will seemed to communicate itself to every officer under him, and it is safe to
say that never before was an expedition so perfectly organized and so
marvellously carried out. At Atbara the Sirdar saw to everything himself”
(WKS 210–211). Indeed, the difference between the soldier’s tactical point
of view and the general’s strategic vision is made clear by the recruiting
posters themselves. Looking “inwards,” the men “find . . . response” to “the
call of duty”; they then look out for opportunities to perform “unquestioning
duty-doing.” Looking “outwards,” Kitchener sees “you,” whom your country
needs; looking inwards, he sees we know not what—because he has that
“face . . . to keep his brain behind.”
It has long been assumed that the propaganda of the early years of the
war—including, perhaps most memorably, the recruitment posters featuring
Kitchener—were astoundingly effective in their aim. According to the well-
worn explanation of the unprecedented voluntary enlistment of 1914–1915,
such propaganda materials tapped a rich vein of imperialist sentiment in young
men of the working-class majority, a sentiment that had already been cultivated
by the forces—such as the curricular reforms designed to spread athleticist
ideology among all classes—that sought to render imperialism hegemonic in
England. Although the statistics regarding working-class volunteerism before
Patriot Games 151
Indeed, the urgings of “friends who had joined up,” which influence
Goldthorpe’s decision to enlist, were chief among the local “patriotisms”
and community loyalties that the War Office sought to exploit. Bourne notes
that, in addition to the Pals’ Battalions, there “were dockers’ battalions, clerks’
battalions, public schools’ battalions … There was even a stockbrokers’ bat-
talion.”50 Just as dockers and stockbrokers are likely to have different notions
of their relation to empire (and, of course, differential access to imperialist
authors such as Kipling), they are likely to have different notions of exactly
what loyalties constitute patriotism. They are also, of course, likely to have
different experiences of warfare, given the class segregation implied by such
battalions, as well as the fact that officers and other ranks were typically (if
not uniformly) middle- and working-class, respectively. Certainly the First
Patriot Games 153
tiny— “She should have been a general of dragoons herself” (MD 105), her
activities as a reformer of the London poor are described in explicitly military
terms.56 Her pet social scheme—a Boothian project involving the emigration
of the poor to Canada—is “the ramrod of her soul,” the “sublime conception”
of “a strong martial woman” whose letter on the subject to the editor of the
London Times is “a morning’s battle” (MD 108–109). Lady Bruton envisions
the marshalling of the teeming masses of the imperial metropolis: “Murmuring
London flowed up to her, and her hand, lying on the sofa back, curled upon
some imaginary baton such as her grandfathers might have held, holding
which she seemed, drowsy and heavy, to be commanding battalions marching
to Canada” (MD 112). Just as Lady Bruton is a parody of the social schemers
of the previous decades, Holmes and Bradshaw represent those surveillant
figures so prominent in Victorian writings on the city, the middle-class ob-
servers of the urban poor—as Woolf none-too-subtly indicates by giving the
physicians the names (respectively) of the best-known literary detective and
of Bradshaw’s Guide to the English railway system, which Sherlock Holmes
and Dr. Watson frequently use in their policing of the criminal classes of
London and its environs (“Just look up the trains in Bradshaw,” Holmes says
to Watson in “The Copper Beeches” [1892]57). The eugenicist Sir William
Bradshaw—who “penalised despair, made it impossible for the unfit to propa-
gate their views until they, too, shared his sense of proportion” (MD 99)—
would seem the more sinister of the two physicians; significantly, however, it
is the apparently more kindly Dr. Holmes who most effectively employs the
discourses on sport and on the embodiment of the poor. Thus Dr. Holmes
advises Rezia, Septimus’s young wife, to make her husband notice “real
things”—a category constituted by the athleticism with which imperialist
literature sought to inspire nationalism in working-class youths: “play
cricket—that was the very game, Dr. Holmes said, a nice out-of-door game,
the very game for her husband” (MD 25). The novel in turn exposes, by
means of grim puns on the words “troop” and “stumps,” the cause-and-effect
relation between the pre-war attempt to extend the “games ethic” to working-
class young people and the mutilated soldier bodies in the trenches: “‘Look,’
she [Rezia] implored him [Septimus], pointing at a little troop of boys carry-
ing cricket stumps” (MD 25).
Moreover, in her critique of middle-class discourses on sport and war,
and the related discourses on vision and the working-class body, Woolf aligns
those discourses with conservative representational practices. Holmes’s “real
things” and Bradshaw’s “proportion” constitute the materialist norms of re-
alism—which norms, according to Woolf, a radical modernist aesthetic must
oppose.58 Woolf’s 1925 essay “Modern Fiction” famously pits modernism
against a Bradshawesque and Holmesian realism “concerned not with the
spirit but with the body.”59 Woolf insists that the modernist writer must “have
the courage to say that what interests him is no longer ‘this’ but ‘that’”: “For
Patriot Games 155
the moderns ‘that,’ the point of interest, lies very likely in the dark places of
psychology.”60 The terms that Woolf here uses to distinguish the material
details accumulated in realist fiction (“this”) from the psychological emphasis
of modernism (“that”) echo Philip Gibbs’s description, in his 1920 exposé
Now It Can Be Told, of the black humor among soldiers in the trenches. Such
humor involves
the laughter of mortals at the trick which had been played on them by an
ironical fate. They had been taught to believe that the whole object of life
was to reach out to beauty and love, and that mankind, in its progress to
perfection, had killed the beast instinct, cruelty, blood-lust, the primitive,
savage law of survival by tooth and claw and club and ax. All poetry, all
art, all religion had preached this gospel and this promise.
Now that ideal had broken like a china vase dashed to hard ground.
The contrast between That and This was devastating. It was, in an enor-
mous world-shaking way, like a highly dignified man in a silk hat, morn-
ing coat, creased trousers, spats, and patent boots suddenly slipping on a
piece of orange-peel and sitting, all of a heap, with silk hat flying, in a
filthy gutter. The war-time humor of the soul roared with mirth at the
sight of all that dignity and elegance despoiled.61
On the flat, in the crowd, half blind with dust, we look back with envy to
those happier warriors, whose battle is won and whose achievements wear
so serene an air of accomplishment that we can scarcely refrain from
whispering that the fight was not so fierce for them as for us. . . . We only
know that certain gratitudes and hostilties inspire us.62
until they became automata at the word of command, lost their souls, as it
seemed, in that grinding-machine of military training, and cursed their
fate. Only comradeship helped them—not always jolly, if they happened
to be a class above their fellows, a moral peg above foul-mouthed slum-
dwellers and men of filthy habits, but splendid if they were in their own
crowd of decent, laughter-loving, companionable lads.63
the trenches, yes, but as the West End hears of the East End—a nasty
place where common people lived. Occasionally they visited the trenches
as society folk go slumming, and came back proud of having seen a shell
burst, having braved the lice and the dirt.
“The trenches are the slums,” said our guest. “We are the Great Un-
washed. We are the Mud-larks.”65
“The politicians are the guilty ones,” said one cavalry officer. “I am all for
revolution after this bloody massacre. I would hang all politicians,
diplomats, and so-called statesmen with strict impartiality.”
“I’m for the people,” said another. “The poor, bloody people, who
are kept in ignorance and then driven into the shambles when their rulers
desire to grab some new part of the earth’s surface or to get their armies
going because they are bored with peace.”66
Indeed, Gibbs’s text reverses the class-based divide between vision and
embodiment in a series of theatrical metaphors67 that establish the soldiery—
which is rendered the equivalent of a unified working-class group—as pos-
sessing a visionary ability that makes them superior to the middle-class
“engineers” of war. Thus, Gibbs himself describes politicians and generals
as puppets: “men who thought they were directing the destiny of the world
were merely caught in those woven threads like puppets tied to strings and
made to dance. It was the old Dance of Death.”68 Finally, Gibbs represents
the soldiers who identify with the working classes as the audience for this
show, a position that he describes not in terms of the passive reception of a
spectacle but in terms of revolutionary action: “It will go hard with the
158 Youth of Darkest England
leaves were alive; trees were alive. And the leaves being connected by
millions of fibres with his own body, there on the seat, fanned it up and
down; when the branches stretched he, too, made that statement. The spar-
rows fluttering, rising, and falling in jagged fountains were part of the
pattern; the white and blue, barred with black branches. . . . A child
cried. . . .
“Septimus!” said Rezia. He started violently. People must notice.
(MD 22–23)
F igur
iguree 117
7 Australian soldiers in Chateau Wood, Third Battle of Ypres, 1917. (Negative Number
E(1914) 1220) Photograph courtesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
160 Youth of Darkest England
reinforces the fact that bellicose nationalism has effects on young people far
different from those fantasized in social-imperialist writings on working-
class youth: whereas narratives such as Henty’s end with young men achiev-
ing glory and manhood, Septimus’s monologue concludes with the pathetic
outburst of an infant (“A child cried”). In this way, Septimus’s disjunctive
impressions not only appear quite sane but encapsulate the political burden
of Woolf’s novel, the modernist critique of imperialist war.
Finally, that modernist critique has everything to do with pre-war writings
on working-class youth. The first sign that Septimus is insane—his notion
that he is a sort of marionette connected to leaves “by millions of fibres”—is
a sinister means of linking his madness with the embodiment of the soldierly
athlete in imperialist juvenile literature. Moreover, Septimus’s stream of con-
sciousness here ironically echoes texts by pre-war experts on working-class
youth—such as Spencer J. Gibb’s 1906 book The Problem of Boy-Work, a
Taylorist proposal for the organization of supposed after-school loafers into
useful part-time errand boys:
Boys are what we set moving. Boys are the material in which we deal.
Boys are our tools: every wire has a boy at the end of it. Every message
starts a boy. Every parcel hurried, every bit of latest news, every pressure
for the quickened movement of news, is a call for boys. Out they pour—in
armies, in mobs, to ply in our service.71
Figur
iguree 118
8 Aerial photograph of the trench system, taken on 15 July 1915 before the Battle of Loos.
(Negative Number Q60546) Photograph courtesy of the Imperial War Museum, London.
Notes
INTRODUCTION
1. I focus on England rather than Britain for two reasons. First, the latter entity is
comprised of four competing national identities and even as seemingly focused
a topic as British working-class youth and imperialism is more than one book
can properly address. Second, imperialist writers generally understand England
to be the symbolic “heart” of the British Empire. As Ian Duncan puts it, “En-
gland signifies both a discrete national identity and, in its synecdochal overlay
with modern Britain, a mobile, expansive principle of imperial dominion.” See
Duncan, “Wild England: George Borrow’s Nomadology,” Victorian Studies 41
(1998): 386. Furthermore, I focus on the urban working classes, for fairly obvi-
ous reasons: Victorian and Edwardian reformers are obsessed with them rather
than with the rural poor, who generally appear in reformist writings merely as a
positive counterpoint or as an object of nostalgia. Finally, although on a few
occasions I will discuss representations of cities other than London, the reader
will note that I focus primarily on the capital city, due to its centrality to nine-
teenth-century writings on urban matters in England. As Gill Davies accurately
remarks of the East End of London, the urban locale that dominates reformist
writings on “darkest England,” it “became a sign for ‘the condition of England,’
always charged with greater meaning than the street names and locales pos-
sessed in themselves. To uncover the mystery of London would be to understand
‘England,’ that other powerful signifier of nation, empire and the British way of
life.” See Davies, “Foreign Bodies: Images of the London Working Class at the
End of the 19th Century,” Literature and History 14 (1988): 64.
2. Throughout this book I use “middle classes” and “working classes” instead of
the singular form of these terms in order to signify that these are not homog-
enous social groups but, rather, two distinct social categories that contain within
them a wide range of economic, social, and ideological positions. For a well-
known description of the class stratification within working-class culture, see
Robert Roberts, The Classic Slum: Salford Life in the First Quarter of the Cen-
tury (London: Penguin Books, 1990), 13–31. My use of these plurals indicates
that I would consider it an error to equate the circumstances of, for instance, a
lower-middle-class Victorian clerk with those of Cecil Rhodes, just as it would
be an error to equate the circumstances of one of Henry Mayhew’s impoverished
dung-collectors with those of a highly skilled artisan, or what was often called
the “labor aristocracy.” That said, I would also insist that “middle-class” and
“working-class” signify two distinct social categories in the period I study: the
clerk and Rhodes are likely both to identify as middle-class and against a working-
class population that they would see as constituted by both the dung-collector
163
164 Notes
and the artisan. As Pamela Horn remarks, “Anxiety to maintain social distance”
from the working classes “was especially acute among the humbler ranks of the
middle class, for, as the Royal Commission on Secondary Education put it, ‘the
resolve to avoid contact with social inferiors is usually most inflexible where the
social distinction is narrowest.’” See Horn, The Victorian Town Child (New York:
New York University Press, 1997), 24. I often use the term “the poor” inter-
changeably with “the working classes” to reflect an historical and social reality:
as any reader of Victorian or Edwardian working-class autobiographies (or even
selections from Henry Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor) will
note, most of even the continuously employed working classes were quite poor,
and even the best-off workers could easily become so.
I would thus accord with Bernard Waites’s statement that before “1914 the
social problem was still dominated by the problem of poverty, and though poverty
was itself recognised as a detailed social hierarchy, ‘the poor’ and ‘the working
classes’ were interrelated terms.” See Waites, A Class Society at War: England,
1914–1918 (Leamington Spa: Berg; New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1987), 74.
3. Disraeli, Sybil: or The Two Nations (London: Oxford University Press, 1970),
67.
4. Disraeli, Selected Speeches of the Late Right Honourable the Earl of Beaconsfield,
ed. T. E. Kebbel (London: Longmans, Green, 1882), 2:527–28. The best discus-
sion of Disraeli’s treatment of class and imperialism in his novels and political
speeches is Daniel Bivona, Desire and Contradiction: Imperial Visions and Do-
mestic Debates in Victorian Literature (Manchester: Manchester University Press;
New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1990), esp. 2–14.
5. Middle-class hostility to the 1867 Reform Act is discussed at some length in
Chapter 3 of this book; in Chapter 4 I deal briefly with the similar hostility to the
1884 Reform Act, which further extended the working-class franchise.
6. Quoted in V. I. Lenin, Imperialism: The Highest Stage of Capitalism: A Popular
Outline (New York: International Publishers, 1939), 79. Excepting its occasional
lapses into psychobiography, the best study of Rhodes’s imperialist views is
Robert I. Rotberg and Miles F. Shore, The Founder: Cecil Rhodes and the Pur-
suit of Power (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), esp. 84–107.
7. Thus, V. I. Lenin quotes this statement of Rhodes’s to demonstrate that he “ap-
plied the imperialist policy in the most cynical manner.” See Lenin, Imperialism,
78.
8. Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Na-
tionalism (London: Verso, 1983), 16.
9. Horn, The Victorian Town Child, 3. Hugh Cunningham observes that the ratio of
children to adults achieved a peak of 1,120 children for every thousand adults in
1826. See Cunningham, The Children of the Poor: Representations of Child-
hood since the Seventeenth Century (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991), 20. See
also E. A. Wrigley and R. S. Schofield, The Population History of England,
1541–1871: A Reconstruction (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981), 443–
50.
10. Cunningham, The Children of the Poor, 217.
11. Gilbert, The Evolution of National Insurance in Britain: The Origins of the Wel-
fare State (London: Michael Joseph, 1966), 120.
Notes 165
CHAPTER 1
1. Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor (New York: Dover Publications,
1968), 1:xv. Subsequent references to volumes and page numbers of London
Labour, abbreviated LL, will appear parenthetically in my text. Much of the
material that constitutes London Labour and the London Poor originally ap-
peared, between 19 October 1849 and 12 December 1850, in eighty-two “let-
ters” to the Morning Chronicle. Mayhew published the first book-length version
of London Labour, a three-volume work composed of selections from and ex-
pansions on the Morning Chronicle reportage, in 1851; a revised and (still fur-
ther) expanded three-volume edition, the version on which I primarily focus,
was published by Griffin, Bohn and Company in 1861, with a fourth volume
added in 1862. For a brief discussion of the publication history and successive
revisions of the text, see Eileen Yeo and E. P. Thompson’s Appendix I in Henry
Mayhew, The Unknown Mayhew, ed. Eileen Yeo and E. P. Thompson (New York:
Schocken Books, 1971), 476–80.
2. Although I am more interested here in the shifting figurative language with which
Mayhew represents the working classes as disqualified from citizenship in the
English nation, it is worth noting that in the census reports of the period they
were literally not counted as citizens—“the government population returns not
even numbering them among the inhabitants of the kingdom,” as Mayhew him-
self notes (LL 1:xv).
3. Mayhew, Unknown Mayhew, 312.
4. Herbert, Culture and Anomie: Ethnographic Imagination in the Nineteenth Cen-
tury (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 325.
Notes 169
10. Mackay, Forty Years’ Recollections of Life, Literature, and Public Affairs (Lon-
don: Chapman and Hall, 1877), 2:152.
11. Similarly, Regenia Gagnier argues that, in “Mayhew’s interviews with metro-
politan labor, subjectivity that is confined to isolation within the body obliterates
the greatest part of human subjectivity: intersubjectivity.” See Gagnier,
Subjectivities: A History of Self-Representation in Britain, 1832–1920 (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1991), 60–61. Also, Anne Humpherys notes that
Mayhew’s interviews “projected a picture of men and women as cut off from
one another in life as they were in the form of the reports Mayhew made of his
interviews,” and thus he “details a story of essentially isolated individuals.” See
Humpherys, Travels into the Poor Man’s Country: The Work of Henry Mayhew
(Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1977), 63.
12. Herbert, Culture and Anomie, 231–32. Similarly, Richard Maxwell argues that
in London Labour “street-life also suggests ‘a perfect liberty’ which Mayhew
comes to find attractive,” such that his text “admits discontinuity to be an accept-
able mode of existence.” See Maxwell, “Henry Mayhew and the Life of the
Streets,” Journal of British Studies 17.2 (1978): 99. Such comments regarding
Mayhew’s “identification” with his interviewees are common in the scholarship
on London Labour; I find more compelling Audre Jaffe’s claim that Mayhew
“detached himself from his subjects precisely through the act of writing about
them: the sympathy and identification which enable his work in fact keep away
the possibility that he will actually occupy the beggar’s place.” As Jaffe notes,
Mayhew “began to write out of financial need,” and thus continuing the reportage
staves off his own poverty; moreover, as I am arguing, the ideological enterprise
of London Labour involves promoting continuous labor and the eradication of
predatory vagabondage among the working classes. See Jaffe, “Detecting the
Beggar: Arthur Conan Doyle, Henry Mayhew, and ‘The Man with the Twisted
Lip,’” Representations 31 (1990): 108–109.
13. Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth
Century (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1990), 24.
14. Crary, Techniques of the Observer, 6.
15. See Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan
(New York: Random House, Vintage Books, 1979), 195–228; and Benjamin,
Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism, trans. Harry
Zohn (London: New Left Books, 1973), 35–66.
16. Herbert, Culture and Anomie, 206.
17. Herbert, Culture and Anomie, 205.
18. Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Rendall (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1984), xix.
19. For a brief discussion of Cochrane’s development of the Street Orderly Brigade,
see James Winter, London’s Teeming Streets: 1830–1914 (London: Routledge,
1993), 122–26.
20. The street-orderly system exemplifies a form of working-class participation in
their own discipline, the search for which is a dominant theme in London Labour.
As Catherine Gallagher puts it, “For Mayhew the opposite of productive labor
that fixes itself is quite explicitly unproductive labor that moves about.” See
Notes 171
Gallagher, “The Body Versus the Social Body in the Works of Thomas Malthus
and Henry Mayhew,” 99.
21. According to Mayhew, the dangers of offering the poor even a modicum of “im-
provement” without proper middle-class supervision are suggested by a super-
intendent of police, whom he approvingly quotes on the subject of the ragged
schools in a Morning Chronicle letter: “No doubt there is a great risk run at these
Ragged Schools; bad boys, in a cluster, will always corrupt good boys. Worse
still with girls. . . . with a proper supervision, and a prudential training, Ragged
Schools do good; without it, they are dangerous.” Mayhew’s informant describes
the nature of this danger in terms that resonate throughout London Labour: noting
that the streets are “less crammed with vicious boys and girls,” the superinten-
dent uneasily observes “that they go to the Ragged Schools, many of them, and
are then out of sight.” See Mayhew, Voices of the Poor, 12. On Mayhew’s critique
of the ragged schools, see E. P. Thompson, “The Political Education of Henry
Mayhew,” Victorian Studies 11 (1967): 52–53; Humpherys, Travels into the Poor
Man’s Country, 56–59; and Humpherys, Henry Mayhew, 106–108.
22. Both the illustration and Mayhew’s discussion of the street-orderly system confirm
Lynette Finch’s description of the goal that drives middle-class reformist prac-
tices directed at the poor: “Everyone was mapped and ordered, the organisation
of individuals was made to equate with the organisation of space.” See Finch,
The Classing Gaze: Sexuality, Class and Surveillance (St. Leonards, NSW: Allen
and Unwin, 1993), 146.
23. See Mayhew, Unknown Mayhew, 72.
24. In the case of emigration (as in many others), Mayhew’s writings had an influence
on contemporary debates that exceeds what he actually says on the subject:
Mayhew’s early investigation of prostitution among seamstresses in the Morning
Chronicle spurred Lord Ashley (later Lord Shaftesbury), Sidney Herbert, and
like-minded philanthropists to propose a scheme to aid such women in emigration
to Australia. For more on this issue, see Thompson, “The Political Education of
Henry Mayhew,” 48–51; and Humpherys, Travels into the Poor Man’s Country,
55–56.
25. Mark Seltzer rightly observes that attempts to organize the poor (such as the
street-orderly system) have as their “nominal function . . . to train, to educate,
to correct, to reform; but clearly, their effect is to impose a general disciplinary
and supervisory authority over areas of urban life that have heretofore evaded
scrutiny and control.” However, as Christopher Herbert suggests, Seltzer is inac-
curate in describing Mayhew’s work, which so self-consciously details the limi-
tations placed on the middle-class observer of the metropolis, as representing
what Seltzer calls “a dream of absolute surveillance and supervision.” Yet, Herbert
seems to miss the point of his own reasonable comment that, according to
Mayhew, “the Victorian authorities oppress the poor most cruelly . . . by a
systematic insufficiency of ‘surveillance’”—a complaint that, in London Labour
as elsewhere, is a call for greater regulatory supervision of the poor. Certainly
Herbert’s claim that “refusing to see . . . becomes the Victorian ‘mode of power
par excellence’” is hard to credit: one need not accept Foucault’s work whole-
heartedly in order to perceive that the forms of social organization introduced in
172 Notes
Victorian society (and still very much with us) have not typically endorsed will-
ful blindness as the best means of organizing large populations. See Seltzer,
Henry James and the Art of Power (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984), 38,
34; and Herbert, Culture and Anomie, 327. Regenia Gagnier is correct to ques-
tion whether “Mayhew’s interviews . . . appear in the role of a Foucauldian
power-knowledge,” which phrase I take to mean “a means of surveillance” of
panoptic effectiveness; yet, if the “Enlightenment practices of classification . . .
did not culminate in Mayhew’s case in a predictable power-knowledge,” it hardly
follows that in London Labour they culminate (as Gagnier claims) “in the final
obliteration of class boundaries.” See Gagnier, Subjectivities, 64, 84.
26. Mayhew, Unknown Mayhew, 98. Indeed, rather than represent himself as an invis-
ible observer of the poor, Mayhew frequently locates himself in individual scenes
by including the often comical comments that working-class interviewees address
to him. A street-seller of cutlery swears to Mayhew, “that’s as true as you have
got the pen in your very hand” (LL 1:340), and, after explaining a bit of patterer
slang to Mayhew, another informant tells him, “make a footnote of that, sir” (LL
1:224). The same interviewee comments on the similarity of crying the news in
the streets and writing for newspapers: “This must be left out, and that put in;
’cause it suits the walk of the paper. Why, you must know, sir. . . . Don’t tell
me. You can’t have been on the Morning Chronicle for nothing” (LL 1:225).
27. The percentage of regularly employed working-class men and women who were
domestic servants has long been a subject of debate. It is sufficient for my purposes
that Mayhew believed them to be the largest number of workers in London:
Arranging the occupations of the people in the metropolis in the order of
the number of individuals belonging to them, we shall find that . . . First
come the Domestic Servants of London, numbering as many as 168,000
individuals, and constituting about one-twelfth of the whole population
of the metropolis.
See Mayhew, Unknown Mayhew, 181.
CHAPTER 2
1. For a summary of the Courvoisier case, see The Complete Newgate Calendar
(London: Navarre Society, 1926), 5:296–304. On Courvoisier’s confession, and
his implication of Ainsworth’s novel in the murder, see Keith Hollingsworth,
The Newgate Novel 1830–1847: Bulwer, Ainsworth, Dickens, and Thackeray
(Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1963), 145–48. The debate about the
relation between fictional and real violence was vigorously renewed in 1869
when Jean-Baptiste Troppmann, arrested for murdering a French family of seven,
attributed his crime to a fascination with Eugène Sue’s Le Juif errant (1844–
1845). On the Troppmann case, see Michael Anglo, Penny Dreadfuls and Other
Victorian Horrors (London: Jupiter Books, 1977), 28.
2. As Joseph Grixti notes, more recent opponents of popular representations of
violence consistently ignore the fact that this is a century-old debate and instead
imagine that they are identifying a new social problem—a misrecognition that is
Notes 173
42. Although granting the vote to costermongers clearly seemed unimaginably radical
to the members of parliament who twice refused to consider Chartist petitions
carrying millions of signatures, the Chartist demand for universal male suffrage
(as has often been pointed out) accorded with dominant Victorian notions of
gender, as represented in part by the middle-class parliamentarians who passed
the three nineteenth-century Reform Acts successively extending male suffrage,
but who did not grant the vote to all adult women until 1928.
43. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (New York: Random House,
Vintage Books, 1963), 732.
44. As Gareth Stedman Jones argues in his analysis of Chartist discourse,
the dominant language of radicals had been a form of constitutionalist
rhetoric, which . . . elaborated a mythical history of saxon or medieval
England to reclaim rights which historically belonged to the English people.
See Stedman Jones, Languages of Class: Studies in English Working Class His-
tory 1832–1982 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 125. A con-
gruent point is made by Hugh Cunningham, “The Language of Patriotism,
1750–1914,” History Workshop: A Journal of Socialist Historians 12 (1981):
17–18.
45. Joyce, Visions of the People, 217.
46. [Hitchman], “Penny Fiction,” Quarterly Review 171 (1890): 160. The subject of
the essay is the late-Victorian penny dreadful and not the mid-Victorian penny
blood; however, the mode of production (including lowly paid hack work) being
nearly identical in the two forms, it is reasonable to presume that a similar class
of authors were attracted to, or forced by poverty into, the penny blood industry.
47. As Helen Bosanquet notes in an essay on the penny dreadful: “I fear that, like all
who work for quantity rather than for quality, they are among those whose toil
brings them neither fame nor the more solid goods of life.” See Bosanquet, “Cheap
Literature,” Contemporary Review 79 (1901): 672.
48. David Vincent offers a similar analysis of the penny blood Evelina, the Pauper’s
Child; or, Poverty, Crime, and Sorrow, a Romance of Deep Pathos (1851), which
like Varney has often been attributed to Thomas Prest. Vincent argues convinc-
ingly that Evelina “is pervaded by a sense of its own limitations” and represents
“a deliberate admission of the inadequacy of written language in the process of
communication.” However, rather than, like Vincent, condemn a refusal of
vraisemblance as mere “writing by numbers for those for whom the printed word
was still an artificial mode of communication,” and applaud with relief the fact
that “the classics of fiction and poetry were becoming more available,” I would
suggest that such a refutation of aesthetic and realistic norms is a self-reflexive
representation of the artificiality of print communication that is much to be desired.
See Vincent, Literacy and Popular Culture, 218–219, 221. Regarding the dis-
placement of the penny blood by cheap editions of “the classics,” I find more
rewarding Paul Thomas Murphy’s discussion of how, responding to the rise in
working-class literacy, “working-class critics worked hard to destroy the idea of
a universal or class-transcendent canon and to promote an alternate canon that
180 Notes
overlapped the established one but served a completely different audience with
its own unique values.” See Murphy, Toward a Working-Class Canon: Literary
Criticism in British Working-Class Periodicals, 1816–1858 (Columbus: Ohio
State University Press, 1994), 19.
49. Edward Jacobs argues that “both the early bloods of Lloyd and Reynolds and the
street culture surrounding London gaffs conventionally equated literacy with
industrial work-disciplines, and subjected this ‘industrial literacy’ to traditional
forms of ‘festive misrule.’” Jacobs presents a compelling reading of Varney as
such a form of unruly alternative literacy that did not so much imitate “street
culture’s tropes in order to increase . . . circulation” as, rather, it “mocked in-
dustrial literacy because London’s paper-working and gaff economy had already
established this mockery” as a discursive trope that “London’s poorest yet most
numerous and hardest-to-please readers . . . demanded, and with which writ-
ers who wished to penetrate the popular market typified by crime broadsides
effectively had to interact.” See Jacobs, “Bloods in the Street: London Street
Culture, ‘Industrial Literacy,’ and the Emergence of Mass Culture in Victorian
England,” Nineteenth-Century Contexts: An Interdisciplinary Journal 18 (1995):
323, 338.
CHAPTER 3
1. There is considerable slippage between the terms “penny blood” and “penny
dreadful” among both Victorian commentators and recent scholars. I follow John
Springhall in applying the former term to the mid-century works produced by
Edward Lloyd and his rivals and the latter term—a coinage of the 1870s—to the
later-century publications of Edwin J. Brett and his competitors. However, I dis-
agree with Springhall’s assertion that the “earlier serials . . . associated with
Lloyd” were exclusively “for adults,” whereas “their later counterparts,” the penny
dreadfuls, were “addressed chiefly to a more youthful clientele.” Nineteenth-
century accounts offer evidence for the latter claim and, as the previous chapter
indicated, evidence against the former one. See Springhall, “‘A Life Story for
the People’?: Edwin J. Brett and the London ‘Low-Life’ Penny Dreadfuls of the
1860s,” Victorian Studies 33 (1990): 227. It is more accurate to claim, as Helen
R. Smith does, that by “the end of the 1860s penny part fiction was aimed more
obviously at boys, and sometimes girls” (my emphasis), whereas the penny bloods
of the 1840s were aimed largely at children but did not indicate (for instance,
through a title such as Boys of England) that they were not reading for adults.
See Elizabeth James and Helen R. Smith, Penny Dreadfuls and Boys’ Adven-
tures: The Barry Ono Collection of Victorian Popular Literature in the British
Library (London: British Library, 1998), xii.
2. Springhall, “‘A Life Story,’” 231. The genealogical relations between the penny
bloods of Lloyd, the penny dreadfuls of Brett, and the improving penny maga-
zines is a complex branch of Victorian publishing history that has received a fair
amount of scholarly attention. In addition to Springhall’s “‘A Life Story,’” see
Louis James, “Tom Brown’s Imperialist Sons,” Victorian Studies 17 (1973): 89–
Notes 181
12. Salmon, “What the Working Classes Read,” 117. As Patrick Brantlinger
insightfully argues, in the mid-Victorian “industrial novels” the working classes
are depicted as possessing “considerable literacy and knowledge, only it is the
wrong sort of knowledge. Just how the workers have gained their miseducations
and how to provide them with correct knowledge are major preoccupations of
middle-class discourse between the two Reform Bills of 1832 and 1867.” See
Brantlinger, Reading Lesson, 95.
13. Salmon, Juvenile Literature as It Is (London: Henry J. Drane, 1888), 185.
14. Wright, “On a Possible Popular Culture,” 25, 36.
15. Wright, “On a Possible Popular Culture,” 36.
16. Wright, “On a Possible Popular Culture,” 35, 37–38.
17. Salmon, “What the Working Classes Read,” 115.
18. [Hitchman], “Penny Fiction,” 170. Patrick Brantlinger’s analysis of George Eliot’s
Felix Holt—which was published in 1866, during the debates leading up to the
passage of the Second Reform Act—confirms how thoroughly the concerns shared
by Wright, Salmon, and Hitchman were dispersed in middle-class culture: “As
far as Felix is concerned . . . there is no sense and a lot of danger in extending the
franchise to voters who are the opposite of wise—who are ‘ignorant’ and there-
fore either ‘wicked’ or susceptible to the ‘wickedness’ of others.” See Brantlinger,
Reading Lesson, 108.
19. Wright, “On a Possible Popular Culture,” 43–44.
20. Salmon, “What the Working Classes Read,” 115.
21. Wright, “On a Possible Popular Culture,” 35–36.
22. Wright, “On a Possible Popular Culture,” 29.
23. [Johns], “The Literature of the Streets,” 61.
24. Bosanquet, “Cheap Literature,” Contemporary Review 79 (1901): 679.
25. [Johns], “The Literature of the Streets,” 62.
26. On the founding of the Boy’s Own Paper, see Patrick A. Dunae, “Boy’s Own
Paper: Origins and Editorial Policies,” Private Library, n.s. 9 (1976): 123–58.
The Religious Tract Society published a parallel magazine for girls, the Girl’s
Own Paper, which ran from 1880 to 1965. The best studies of the Girl’s Own
Paper are those of Kirsten Drotner, English Children and Their Magazines, 1751–
1945 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), 115–180; and Kimberley
Reynolds, Girls Only?: Gender and Popular Children’s Fiction in Britain, 1880–
1910 (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1990), 138–50. Given that the desire
to replace the penny dreadful with improving penny magazines is motivated
largely by changes in electoral politics, which in the late-Victorian period affected
only males, Victorian critics tend to emphasize working-class boys’ recreational
reading. However, girls’ reading habits were by no means immune to such middle-
class scrutiny. Thus Edward G. Salmon attacks the “penny novelette,” the feminine
equivalent of the penny dreadful:
the high-flown conceits and pretensions of the poorer girls of the period,
their dislike of manual work and love of freedom, spring largely from
notions imbibed in the course of a perusal of their penny fictions. . . . the
bad influence of these works on themselves is handed down to their chil-
dren and scattered broadcast throughout the family.
Notes 183
Salmon in turn laments that the “high-class girls’ magazine,” such as The Girl’s
Own Paper, “falls in very limited numbers into the hands of the poor,” although
if such improving literature “could be brought to bear on the women and girls of
the democracy, it might have an effect for good such as none can foresee.” See
Salmon, Juvenile Literature as It Is, 198, 194, 197. Moreover, as Kathryn Castle
convincingly argues, improving magazines for girls, like those for boys, seek to
disperse imperialist ideals among the female population: although “most studies
have considered the imperial message a province of male socialisation, it is clear
that within the constraints of the role deemed appropriate for imperial girls, there
was ample scope for service to Empire” and that “girls picked up their brothers’
magazines and enjoyed them.” See Castle, Britannia’s Children: Reading Colo-
nialism Through Children’s Books and Magazines (Manchester: Manchester
University Press; New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), 8.
27. As David Reed puts it, such magazines “helped turn the youthful desire for ad-
venture away from heroes who operated outside the law or on its margins, as in
the ‘bloods,’ and channelled it towards the outposts of empire.” See Reed, The
Popular Magazine in Britain and the United States 1880–1960 (Toronto: Uni-
versity of Toronto Press, 1997), 85. Reed’s use of the verb “helped” (instead of,
say, “sought”) assumes too much—namely, that the improving magazines ac-
complished the imperialist reformation of working-class young people that they
identified as their mission. Similarly, although Joseph Bristow aptly summarizes
the “aesthetics of a new kind of militaristic masculinity” in the improving maga-
zines—“Violence had to be taken away from the recently named hooligan and
restyled for the respectable boy”—he makes the same dubious assumption as
Reed when he claims that, because of the “imperial spirit” of such magazines,
“boys of all classes gravitated towards serials published in the B.O.P. [Boy’s
Own Paper].” See Bristow, Empire Boys, 47. Unfortunately, this statement ech-
oes the presuppositions of the magazine editors themselves, by implying that
“imperial spirit” is innate in boys of all classes, not that the Boy’s Own Paper
had to work overtime in the attempt to manufacture it.
28. McCleary, “Stevenson in Young Folks,” Fortnightly Review, n.s. 165 (1949): 126.
29. Springhall, “‘A Life Story,’” 224.
30. Kathryn Castle notes that a central goal of the improving juvenile magazines
was the institution of what I call hegemonic imperialism. As Castle argues, rep-
resentations of colonial adventure “in the juvenile press lent their service to press-
ing needs of Empire and nation” by “mediating the tensions of class division
among whites with a ‘consensus’ fashioned from the imagery of racial domi-
nance”: “If all classes and interests could be seen rallying behind the imperial
ethos, internal discontents could be submerged and Britain’s social order left
unchallenged.” However, like many scholars, Castle treats this desire on the part
of publishers, editors, and writers as an effect of the magazines on their working-
class readers, and she does not offer evidence for her assertion that the “papers
crossed class . . . boundaries, that working-class youth read the ‘improving’
annuals when possible.” See Castle, Britannia’s Children, 115, 8.
31. Springhall, “‘Pernicious Reading,’” 340.
32. Wright, “On a Possible Popular Culture,” 42.
184 Notes
ated the workplace and arranged it anew” according to “the collectivist tendencies
produced by life and labor at sea”—in particular, the democratic election of
pirate captains and egalitarian distribution of plunder. Thus, Rediker convincingly
argues, the “social constellation of piracy . . . provides valuable clarification of
more general social and cultural patterns among seamen in particular and the
laboring poor in general.” See Rediker, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue
Sea: Merchant Seamen, Pirates, and the Anglo-American Maritime World, 1700–
1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 83, 106–107, 286.
43. Wood also remarks on this comment of Jim’s, perceptively observing that, at
such points, the narrative “brings us out of preindustrial, eighteenth-century ro-
mance and into the thick of the late-nineteenth-century realistic novel”—and, I
would add, into the thick of the class conflict that dominates that later period, if
not necessarily its realist fictions. In general, I find rewarding Wood’s examina-
tion of the relation between Treasure Island and contemporary debates regarding
the institution of the gold standard. Noting that “the silver standard was associated
with populist politics, whereas the gold standard was advocated by conservative
establishment types,” Wood argues that Stevenson capitalizes on these associa-
tions in order to represent the working-class pirates, especially the unsubtly named
Long John Silver, in terms of “the debasing silver-standard values of expediency
and contingence.” Thus, according to Wood, while Stevenson teases “his readers
with the possibility of escape from capitalist modes, Treasure Island closes it
off.” See Wood, “Gold Standards and Silver Subversions,” 76, 62, 69, 80.
44. However, given the threat posed by Silver’s intended subversion of the class
hierarchy that is the norm on the Hispaniola and in Victorian (as well as
eighteenth-century) England more generally, it is difficult to accept Sandison’s
(nevertheless witty) claim that for “a middle-aged pirate to put out a prospectus
offering superannuated security in good society as an inducement to sail under
his skull-and-cross-bones flag adds a Gilbertian touch which everyone (including
Silver) enjoys and no one believes.” See Sandison, Robert Louis Stevenson and
the Appearance of Modernism: A Future Feeling (Houndmills, Basingstoke:
Macmillan, 1996), 76–77. At the very least, the middle-class adventurers believe
that this prospectus warrants wiping out or marooning most of the pirates.
45. See Paul Maixner, ed., Robert Louis Stevenson: The Critical Heritage (London:
Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981), 125–26.
46. The pirates’ childishness has also been discussed by David H. Jackson, “Trea-
sure Island as a Late Victorian Adults’ Novel,” Victorian Newsletter 72 (1987):
29.
47. Bersani and Dutoit, The Forms of Violence: Narrative in Assyrian Art and Modern
Culture (New York: Schocken Books, 1985), 52, 47.
48. See Gina Lombroso-Ferrero, Criminal Man, According to the Classification of
Cesare Lombroso, Patterson Smith Reprint Series in Criminology, Law Enforce-
ment, and Social Problems 134 (Montclair, NJ: Patterson Smith, 1972), xxv.
49. I have not dealt with the differences between the text serialized in Young Folks
and the revised version of the novel published by Cassell in November 1883. I
have based my analysis on quotations from the latter (the source-text of all modern
editions) because the 1883 novel is much more readily available to my readers
186 Notes
and, more importantly, because the differences between the two versions primarily
involve stylistic changes and shifts in characterization that do not impinge upon
my argument. The exception is a crucial change in the description of Silver’s use
of his crutch to kill Tom, which in Young Folks reads: “John whipped the crutch
out of his armpit, and, bereft of his support rolled face forward on the ground;
but, at the same instant, that uncouth missile, hurtling through the air, struck”
poor Tom (TI 252). This earlier version not only emphasizes Silver’s difficulty,
due to his disability, in committing the murder, but also makes the crutch itself
the agent (not instrument) of destruction; missing is the crucial verb added in the
later version (“John . . . sent that uncouth missile hurtling through the air”). In
Young Folks, the death of Tom is similar to that of Israel Hands, where Jim does
not actually fire the pistols that kill the coxswain. Stevenson is careful in revision
to remove any similarity between Silver the murderer and Hawkins the hero and,
as David D. Mann and William H. Hardesty, III, note in their brief discussion of
this revision, to make “Silver both more ruthless and more self-controlled.” See
Mann and Hardesty, “Stevenson’s Revisions of Treasure Island: ‘Writing Down
the Whole Particulars,’” Text: Transactions of the Society for Textual Scholarship
3 (1987): 385. For detailed discussions of the changes Stevenson made for book
publication, see, in addition to Mann and Hardesty, David Angus, “Youth on the
Prow: The First Publication of Treasure Island,” Studies in Scottish Literature
25 (1990): 83–99. All of the substantive variations between the Young Folks serial-
ization and the book version of the novel are recorded (243–70) in the textual
notes to Wendy R. Katz’s edition of Treasure Island.
50. Margery Hourihan offers a brief reading of the differences between Silver’s killing
of Tom and a scene similar to Jim’s dispatching of Hands, one in which Squire
Trelawney snipes at the pirates aboard the Hispaniola: “Silver’s killing of the
honest hand, Tom, is given in extreme close-up,” whereas the “death of the pirate
whom Trelawney shoots . . . is observed from a desensitizing distance.” In addi-
tion, Hourihan notes, “the responses of Jim and Livesey to the respective murders
are used to define the one as a deed of horror and the other as a straightforward
and dutiful action, though each is committed for the same reason—to reduce the
numbers in the opposing camp.” See Margery Hourihan, Deconstructing the Hero:
Literary Theory and Children’s Literature (London: Routledge, 1997), 147–48.
51. Treasure Island’s serialized form was at least successful enough that two of
Stevenson’s subsequent historical novels for juvenile readers, Kidnapped (1886)
and The Black Arrow (1888), were also serialized in Young Folks. For a perceptive
study of the way in which late-Victorian critics sympathetic to Stevenson quickly
divorced Treasure Island from its origin within the pages of a juvenile penny
magazine so as to herald it as a triumphant participant in the fin de siècle ro-
mance revival, see Jason A. Pierce, “The Belle Lettrist and the People’s Pub-
lisher; or, The Context of Treasure Island’s First-Form Publication,” Victorian
Periodicals Review 31 (1998): 356–68.
52. Bosanquet, “Cheap Literature,” 678–79.
53. Hourihan, Deconstructing the Hero, 150.
54. My reading of the enjambment of (on the one hand) the use of the seemingly
modern boyish protagonist and (on the other) the act of setting the novel in the
Notes 187
historical past, reaches a very different conclusion from that of David H. Jackson,
who sees this union as a “clever melding of two different nostalgias”—for “the
reader’s . . . own childhood” in the first instance and for “a simplified account of
eighteenth-century hierarchical society” in the second. The first sort of nostalgia
might be an effect of Treasure Island, although I do not deal with it. But
Stevenson’s depiction of “eighteenth-century hierarchical society” certainly ac-
knowledges a fierce class conflict that should hardly inspire nostalgia, even
(perhaps especially) for a middle-class Victorian reader. See Jackson, “Treasure
Island as a Late-Victorian Adults’ Novel,” 28.
55. According to Marcus Rediker, piracy “was largely eliminated by 1726,” a process
that “entailed ruthless suppression of popular challenges to merchants’ property.”
See Rediker, Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, 74–75.
56. Haggard, King Solomon’s Mines, ed. Dennis Butts (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1989), 5, 7, 10.
57. Gail Ching-Liang Low notes that, in the press coverage of the Anglo-Zulu wars
(which she convincingly locates as the context of King Solomon’s Mines), Brit-
ish imperialism is understood as a world-historical contest between races:
here more than anywhere else one finds the black man crucial to the he-
roic narrative of the white man writ large. In the battle of races, heroism
on the side of the Zulu warriors only mirrors more heroism. To be de-
feated by such men was to be their equals, to defeat such an enemy was to
be more than their equals.
See Low, White Skins/Black Masks: Representation and Colonialism (London:
Routledge, 1996), 55. The absence of any natives in Treasure Island further em-
phasizes the class-based nature of the threats to imperial adventuring that the
novel imagines but places in the historical past. Haggard’s She: A History of
Adventure (1887), however, is much more concerned with class than is his ear-
lier novel, as the opening of the next chapter details.
58. Loxley, Problematic Shores, 138. Claudia Nelson’s comment regarding G. A.
Henty’s imperialist fictions is also apposite to this discussion of Treasure Island:
“Like most Victorian historical novelists, Henty writes about the past in order to
comment on the present; whether set one year or a thousand before the publication
date, his subject is always in some sense current events.” See Nelson, Boys Will
Be Girls: The Feminine Ethic and British Children’s Fiction, 1857–1912 (New
Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1991), 106.
CHAPTER 4
1. According to Stephen Donovan, Booth’s In Darkest England and the Way Out
sold as many as 100,000 copies in the first two months after its publication in
November 1890, and by the end of 1891 it had been translated into Dutch, French,
German, Japanese, and Swedish. See Donovan, “In Darkest England and the
Way Out: Imagining Empire, Imagining Britain,” Moderna Språk 93 (1999): 12–23.
2. Semmel, Imperialism and Social Reform: English Social-Imperial Thought 1895–
1914 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1960), 24.
188 Notes
3. Haggard, She: A History of Adventure, ed. Daniel Karlin (Oxford: Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1991), 3, 47. Subsequent page references to She, identified as such,
will appear parenthetically in my text.
4. My reading of the depiction of class in She is indebted to Laura Chrisman’s
discussion of Haggard, and her challenge that it “should be possible for critical
analysis of imperial/colonial discourse to begin to address questions of capitalism
and political economy,” including the domestic class relations central to those
questions. See Chrisman, “The Imperial Unconscious?: Representations of Im-
perial Discourse,” Critical Quarterly 32.3 (1990): 40–41.
5. Nina Auerbach describes this doubling succinctly when she remarks that Ayesha’s
plot “takes shape in an imperial blueprint for the invasion of England,” in the
process of which Ayesha appears as “a galvanized and transfigured Queen Victoria,
aligning Haggard’s magic country alarmingly with his reader’s expanding national
reality.” See Auerbach, Woman and the Demon: The Life of a Victorian Myth
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1982), 37. The importance of Queen
Victoria to Haggard’s representation of Ayesha has also been noted by Adrienne
Auslander Munich, “Queen Victoria, Empire, and Excess,” Tulsa Studies in
Women’s Literature 6 (1987): 272; and Deirdre David, Rule Britannia: Women,
Empire, and Victorian Writing (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995), 197.
6. Haggard, Regeneration: Being an Account of the Social Work of the Salvation
Army in Great Britain (London: Longmans, Green, 1910), 139.
7. Haggard, Regeneration, 34.
8. Stedman Jones, Outcast London: A Study in the Relationship Between Classes
in Victorian Society (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 328.
9. For a useful account of this transformation, see Stedman Jones, Outcast Lon-
don, 127–51, 262–314. Booth’s scheme also depends on the contemporary favor
for ameliorist discourse, which complements the desire to establish hegemonic
imperialism, as Philip Abrams suggests when he argues that ameliorist discourse
both posits “reforms that would so ameliorate social conditions that individuals
would be enabled, or forced, to improve themselves” and also presumes “a fun-
damental consensus and community of interest among individuals and classes.”
See Abrams, The Origins of British Sociology: 1834–1914 (Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1968), 38, 9.
10. Reginald Brabazon [Twelfth Earl of Meath], Social Arrows, 2nd ed. (London:
Longmans, Green, 1887), 13–14.
11. Brabazon, Social Arrows, 13.
12. Brabazon, Social Arrows, 27.
13. Smith, “The Industrial Training of Destitute Children,” Contemporary Review
48 (1885): 117.
14. Smith, “The Industrial Training of Destitute Children,” 111.
15. Smith, “The Industrial Training of Destitute Children,” 118.
16. Quoted in Randolph S. Churchill, Winston S. Churchill: Young Statesman 1901–
1914, vol. 2 of Winston S. Churchill (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1967), 30–31.
17. Booth, In Darkest England and the Way Out (London: Salvation Army, n.d.
[1890]), 133, 73. Subsequent page references to In Darkest England and the
Way Out, abbreviated IDE, will appear parenthetically in my text.
Notes 189
18. It is quite common for scholars simply to claim that In Darkest England asserts
a parallel between the East End working classes and colonized Africans: for
instance, Pamela J. Walker insists that “Booth likened the cannibals and pygmies
of Darkest Africa to these denizens of Darkest England” and thus “racialized the
very poor by linking them to the inhabitants of Britain’s imperial conquests.”
See Walker, Pulling the Devil’s Kingdom Down: The Salvation Army in Victo-
rian Britain (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 236, 240. Deborah
Epstein Nord offers a more useful discussion of the prominence of “urban savage”
as a literary trope, though she underestimates the extent to which Booth’s work
uses the same rhetorical maneuver as Mayhew’s London Labour (presenting the
parallel as a shock tactic and then quickly abandoning it). See Nord, “The Social
Explorer as Anthropologist: Victorian Travellers among the Urban Poor,” in
Visions of the Modern City: Essays in History, Literature, and Art, ed. William
Sharpe and Leonard Wallock (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987),
122–34.
19. White, “The Common Sense of Colonization and Emigration,” Contemporary
Review 49 (1886): 379.
20. White, The Problems of a Great City (London: Remington, 1886), 226.
21. Of course, the history of “state-aided” emigration directed primarily at removing
the poor and criminals from England antedates late-century schemes such as
Booth’s. In the best study of emigration as a trope in imperialist literature, Patrick
Brantlinger notes that, at least since mid-century, the discourse on emigration
employs a “conversion motif” that reinforces both “a vision of the dangerous,
contagious effects of overpopulation” and a notion that removal to distant lands
can sanitize undesirable populations. See Brantlinger, Rule of Darkness: British
Literature and Imperialism, 1830–1914 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988),
116–117.
22. Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature (New York:
Routledge, 1991), 188.
23. Haggard, Regeneration, 213.
24. Booth’s recollection is quoted in George S. Railton, General Booth (London:
Salvation Army; Hodder and Stoughton, 1912), 6. The many biographies of Booth
consistently narrate his early life as a Dickensian tale of middle-class drive for
respectability frustrated by Booth’s father—who (ironically) speculated in the
construction of cheap houses for Nottingham workers, ruined the family, and
died when William was thirteen. Among biographies of Booth, which uniformly
tend toward hagiography, the liveliest account of his youth is that in St. John
Ervine, God’s Soldier: General William Booth (New York: Macmillan, 1935),
1:3–11, 1:28–37. The best histories of Booth’s attraction to revivalism, his found-
ing of the Salvation Army, and its movement toward social reform are Norman
H. Murdoch, Origins of the Salvation Army (Knoxville: University of Tennessee
Press, 1994), 146–67; and Walker, Pulling the Devil’s Kingdom Down, 8–63.
25. Judith R. Walkowitz compellingly demonstrates that Victorian assaults on pros-
titution exemplify the reformist desire to render working-class privacy an impos-
sibility: the Contagious Diseases Acts of 1864, 1866, and 1869 were aimed, she
argues, at “forcing prostitutes to acknowledge their status as ‘public’ women
190 Notes
and destroying their private associations with the general community of the la-
boring poor,” at making it “impossible for a subject woman to keep her private
and public worlds apart.” Walkowitz also details how feminists agitating for the
repeal of these acts, as “mature, affluent women . . . enjoyed an unusual freedom
to engage in public activities,” even as “more often than not their actual relation-
ship with working-class women was hierarchical, controlling, and punitive.” See
Walkowitz, Prostitution and Victorian Society: Women, Class, and the State (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 5, 202, 118, 131.
Walkowitz’s analysis is a valuable corrective to studies such as that of Edward
J. Bristow, who credits social-purity vigilantes Josephine Butler and Ellice
Hopkins with discrediting the sexual “double standard,” advancing feminism by
making “prostitution a paradigm for the condition of women,” and lowering “the
incidence of incest” in the working classes. See Bristow, Vice and Vigilance:
Purity Movements in Britain since 1700 (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan; Totowa,
NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1977), 62, 130.
26. So as to reinforce such circular logic, turn-of-the-century degeneration theory
heavily embroiders on Bénédict Augustin Morel’s well-known definition of de-
generation as “deviations from the normal type of man.” See Morel, Traité des
dégénérescences physiques, intellectuelles et morales de l’espèce humaine et
des causes qui produisent ces variétés maladives (Paris: J. B. Baillière, 1857), 5.
According to the theories that Booth borrows from and helps to popularize, degen-
eration is not the result of hereditary weakness—which would render the work-
ing classes essentially disqualified from improvement and thus from incorporation
into the life of a modern imperial nation—but is instead the result of environ-
mental influences, namely urban poverty. However, as William Greenslade notes,
the “Lamarckian idea that the characteristics of an organism could be acquired
from the environment and then passed on had considerable appeal.” See
Greenslade, Degeneration, Culture and the Novel, 1880–1940 (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1994), 17. Similarly, Daniel Pick argues that texts which
“are often seen as the definitive environmentalist refutation” of the primary strains
of degenerationism, such as that running throughout Lombrosian criminology,
“in fact opt only for a different brand of hereditarian theory.” See Pick, Faces of
Degeneration: A European Disorder, c. 1848-c. 1918 (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1989), 5. Booth, like other writers, finds this option so appeal-
ing because it enables the double-vision requisite to social-imperialist discourse,
which seeks to incorporate the working classes into the imperial enterprise yet
retain the subordination of this group to their “betters.”
27. Numerous scholars have noted such common parallels between the prostitute
and the working classes. For instance, Mary Poovey remarks:
as bodies that (sometimes) carried syphilis from man to man, prostitutes
provided a literal site where the dirt and disease associated with the poor
could be assumed to breed. Manage prostitution, some reformers seemed
to believe, and you would simultaneously contain pauperism, control popu-
lation growth, and reverse the moral debility that vitiated national pros-
perity.
Notes 191
See Poovey, Making a Social Body: British Cultural Formation, 1830–1864 (Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 88. Similarly, Carolyn Steedman ar-
gues that for many reformers there were “grounds for seeing the potentially
diseased state with which the young prostitute threatened the social body as only
a heightened and baroque example of the threat posed by all working children,
whose need to labour cut across newly established ideas about childhood as a
state both innocent and separate from the adult world.” See Steedman, Child-
hood, Culture and Class in Britain: Margaret McMillan, 1860–1931 (London:
Virago Press, 1990), 67.
28. For an insightful discussion of the differing representations of boys and girls in
Salvation Army social work schemes, see Louise A. Jackson, “‘Singing Birds as
well as Soap Suds’: The Salvation Army’s Work with Sexually Abused Girls in
Edwardian England,” Gender and History 12 (2000): 107–126.
29. For a rewarding discussion of the ambiguity surrounding the concept “public
woman” in treatments of the Hallelujah lass, see Walker, Pulling the Devil’s
Kingdom Down, 133–37, 196–98.
30. Wolff has influentially argued that the “rise and development of sociology in the
nineteenth century was closely related to the growth and increasing separation
of ‘public’ and ‘private’ spheres of activity in western industrial societies” and
that the power associated with the public realm—the urban explorer’s “freedom
to move about in the city”—causes the invisibility of women and a “consequently
partial conception of ‘modernity.’” Wolff’s analysis is relevant to a discussion of
how Booth’s text participates in such a separation of “the public world of work,
politics, and city life” and “the ‘private’ sphere of the home.” Yet, Wolff’s claim
that this separation of spheres divides power exclusively along the lines of gen-
der—male public and female private—erases from the history of “sociology as a
new discipline” the very class issues that are so central to it. Whereas Wolff
argues that the sociological literature of modernity is “primarily concerned with
the ‘public’ spheres of work, politics, and the market place,” the dominant enter-
prise of nineteenth- and twentieth-century sociology is in fact the investigation,
classification, and reformation of every aspect of the private lives of the poor.
The conception of modernity thus fostered is indeed partial: working-class privacy
is an impediment to sociological knowledge, which must make such private affairs
public so as to subject them to scrutiny by men and women of the middle classes,
who are public figures but who nevertheless retain their status as private indi-
viduals. The asymmetries of power between middle-class men and middle-class
women have been the subject of much rewarding feminist investigation but should
not obscure the fact that, as a group with mutual class interests, male and female
middle-class social reformers unite in the project of maintaining spectatorial
and discursive control over the working classes. See Wolff, Feminine Sentences:
Essays on Women and Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990),
43–44, 39, 43, 34, 44.
31. Walkowitz, City of Dreadful Delight: Narratives of Sexual Danger in Late-Vic-
torian London (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 73–74. Similarly,
in her analysis of Beatrice Webb’s undercover investigations into sweatshop con-
ditions, Deborah Epstein Nord argues, “Webb’s disguise, which freed her as a
192 Notes
CHAPTER 5
1. Baden-Powell, Scouting for Boys: A Handbook for Instruction in Good Citizen-
ship, 7th ed. (London: C. Arthur Pearson, 1915), 7. Subsequent page references
to Scouting for Boys, abbreviated SB, will appear parenthetically in my text.
2. Kipling, Kim, ed. Alan Sandison (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 1.
3. Kipling, Kim, 100.
4. Kipling, Kim, 242–43. Patrick Williams argues that Kim’s racial and national
identities “are blurred in order to be more strictly redefined,” and thus Kipling’s
novel works to make Kim “black enough to fool everyone, but white enough to
be recuperable as a Sahib”; as Williams convincingly claims, “the problem is
resolved by making Kim culturally Indian and naturally British, and in such a
contest the power of Nature is bound to win.” See Williams, “Kim and
Orientalism,” in Kipling Considered, ed. Phillip Mallett (Houndmills,
Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1989), 50–51. Although I would tentatively agree with
Joseph Bristow’s observation that “Kim can only undertake the work so highly
praised by Baden-Powell because Kim is anything but respectably middle-class,”
this work (espionage) and the process of recuperation that Williams describes
both depend on casting out, from the very start of the novel, Kim’s identity as a
working-class English boy. See Bristow, Empire Boys: Adventures in a Man’s
World (London: HarperCollins, 1991), 206.
5. Kipling, Kim, 103.
6. Wodehouse, “The Swoop! or How Clarence Saved England: A Tale of the Great
Invasion,” in “The Swoop!” and Other Stories, ed. David A. Jansen (New York:
Seabury Press, Continuum Books, 1979), 10.
7. Regarding the proliferation of invasion narratives at the turn of the century, see I.
F. Clarke, Voices Prophesying War: Future Wars, 1763–3749, 2nd ed. (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1992), 64–162; and Daniel Pick, War Machine: The
Rationalisation of Slaughter in the Modern Age (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1993), 115–135. Thomas Richards insightfully argues that “the invasion
novel organized a corporate subject in whom was internalized an epistemological
paranoia that can be seen as part of a larger and systematic phenomenology of
rearmament.” See Richards, The Imperial Archive: Knowledge and the Fantasy
of Empire (London: Verso, 1993), 115.
8. Regarding the foundation of the Boy Scouts as a response to perceptions, fol-
lowing the Second Boer War, that Britain’s imperial and military might was in
decline, see Michael Rosenthal, The Character Factory: Baden-Powell and the
Origins of the Boy Scout Movement (New York: Random House, Pantheon Books,
1984), 52–87, 211–229; John M. MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire: The
Manipulation of British Public Opinion, 1880–1960 (Manchester: Manchester
University Press; New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1984), 246–49; and Robert H.
MacDonald, Sons of the Empire: The Frontier and the Boy Scout Movement,
1890–1918 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1993), 145–75.
9. Childers, The Riddle of the Sands: A Record of Secret Service (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1995), 2.
10. Childers, The Riddle of the Sands, 268.
196 Notes
eugenics had considerable currency among a wide range of scientific and lay
writers—including feminists and Fabian socialists as well as social imperialists—
concerned with the effects of a large industrial population on the British Empire.
Regarding the appeal of eugenicist theories of heredity, even among staunchly
environmentalist thinkers, see Daniel J. Kevles, In the Name of Eugenics: Ge-
netics and the Uses of Human Heredity (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1985), esp.
23–24, 32-33, 64–66.
20. Wells, The New Machiavelli (New York: Duffield, 1910), 313–314.
21. Seth Koven argues that the growing popularity of “environmentalist arguments”
led reformers to view working-class “rough lads,” rather than more thoroughly
deteriorated adult men, as the material out of which they could forge ideal citi-
zens. See Koven, “From Rough Lads to Hooligans: Boy Life, National Culture
and Social Reform,” in Nationalisms and Sexualities, ed. Andrew Parker, Mary
Russo, Doris Sommer, and Patricia Yaeger (New York: Routledge, 1992), 368.
22. Baden-Powell, Scoutmastership, 45.
23. Soloway, “Counting the Degenerates: The Statistics of Race Deterioration in
Edwardian England,” Journal of Contemporary History 17 (1982): 148.
24. The fears about military efficiency out of which such character-training organi-
zations as the Scouts emerged determine, of course, that the works of Baden-
Powell and his contemporaries largely focus on the reformation of boys. Although
a more extensive consideration of the gender politics of Scouting is beyond the
scope of this chapter, one should not conclude, as writers such as Anne McClintock
have done, that “women and men did not experience imperialism in the same
way” and that very few women “reaped its vast profits”—due to the supposed
fact that “the intractable violence of male decree bound them [women] in gendered
patterns of disadvantage and frustration.” See McClintock, Imperial Leather:
Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest (New York: Routledge, 1995),
6. Suffice to say that the Girl Guides organization is founded—in 1909 by Rob-
ert Baden-Powell and his sister, Agnes Baden-Powell—along similarly imperi-
alist lines, as is suggested by the title of Agnes Baden-Powell’s foundational
text, A Handbook for Girl Guides, or, How Girls Can Help Build the Empire
(London: Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1912). See also Rose Kerr, The Story of the
Girl Guides (London: Girl Guides Association, 1932) and Robert Baden-Powell,
Girl Guiding, a Handbook for Brownies, Guides, Rangers, and Guiders (Lon-
don: C. Arthur Pearson, 1934). Likewise, Jeanette Low founded the American
Girl Scouts in 1913 with nationalist and imperialist goals in mind; see her How
Girls Can Help Their Country (n.p.: n.p., 1917). On the imperialist origin of the
Girl Guides, see Carol Dyhouse, Girls Growing Up in Late Victorian and
Edwardian England (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1981), 104–114; Allen
Warren, “‘Mothers for the Empire’?: The Girl Guides Association in Britain,
1909–1939,” in Making Imperial Mentalities: Socialisation and British Imperi-
alism, ed. J. A. Mangan (Manchester: Manchester University Press; New York:
St. Martin’s Press, 1990), 96-109; and Tim Jeal, The Boy-Man: The Life of Lord
Baden-Powell (New York: William Morrow, 1990), 469–87. On imperialist ide-
ology in Girl Guide fictions, see also J. S. Bratton, “British Imperialism and the
198 Notes
miniaturises and, obviously enough, simplifies, and so the world is made comic
and safe.” See MacDonald, The Language of Empire: Myths and Metaphors of
Popular Imperialism, 1880–1918 (Manchester: Manchester University Press; New
York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994), 9. Baden-Powell’s texts indicate that the opposite
is the case: the ideological goal of the Scout organization involves making adult
concerns about class and empire a part of everyday life for children. As Baden-
Powell himself notes by quoting his American admirer Dean Russell, who was
Professor of Education at Columbia University, the “program of the Boy Scouts
is the man’s job cut down to the boy’s size.” See Baden-Powell, Scoutmastership,
14.
63. Baden-Powell titled his autobiography Adventures and Accidents (2nd ed. [Lon-
don: Methuen, 1936]).
64. Gilman, Difference and Pathology: Stereotypes of Sexuality, Race, and Madness
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985), 25.
65. Gilman, Difference and Pathology, 23.
66. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 77.
67. According to a 1929 census conducted by the Boy Scouts, the organization had
690,586 members in the United Kingdom, British colonies, and British dominions,
and 1,180,730 members in other countries. See E. E. Reynolds, The Scout Move-
ment (London: Oxford University Press, 1950), 137.
68. See Springhall, “The Boy Scouts, Class and Militarism in Relation to British
Youth Movements 1908–1930,” International Review of Social History 16 (1971):
139.
69. See Llewellyn Smith, Life and Leisure, vol. 9 of The New Survey of London Life
and Labour (London: P. S. King and Son, 1935), 190–91.
70. Springhall, “The Boy Scouts, Class and Militarism,” 138–39. David I. Macleod’s
detailed study of the Boy Scouts of America addresses both the desire to extend
middle-class character to working-class boys, which similarly dominated social-
reform schemes in the United States during the Progressive Era, and the general
failure of such character-building projects to appeal to boys across the classes.
See Macleod, Building Character in the American Boy, esp. 56–71, 133–45,
216–217.
71. Quoted in E. E. Reynolds, Baden-Powell: A Biography of Lord Baden-Powell of
Gilwell (London: Oxford University Press, 1943), 210.
72. Rosenthal, The Character Factory, 7 (my emphasis).
73. MacKenzie, Propaganda and Empire, 246. Rather, as Michael J. Childs suc-
cinctly puts it, “the Scout movement failed to hold or even attract working-class
boys,” and thus, on “the evidence of numbers alone, it is difficult to see how
public school loyalties and values could be disseminated among a group who
never joined.” See Childs, Labour’s Apprentices: Working-Class Lads in Late
Victorian and Edwardian England (Montreal: McGill University Press; Kingston:
Queen’s University Press, 1992), 149.
74. Sillitoe, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (New York: Penguin Books, 1992),
134.
75. Roberts, The Classic Slum: Salford Life in the First Quarter of the Century (Lon-
don: Penguin Books, 1990), 161.
Notes 201
76. Baden-Powell’s notions conform to the “zymotic” theory of disease, which posited
that the body maintains its health by excreting (through respiration as well as
other means) noxious matter and which posited that disease is spread when the
gases thus disposed of are inhaled by and introduced into the blood of healthy
persons. Regarding the prevalence of zymotic disease theory in the Victorian
period, see Mary Poovey, Uneven Developments: The Ideological Work of Gender
in Mid-Victorian England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 180–
81. Although by the turn of the century most scientists had rejected zymotic
fantasies in favor of the germ theory of disease, Baden-Powell is not alone in
clinging to the earlier model, given that it enables environmental explanations of
working-class “deterioration” and resistance to economic analyses of access to
adequate health care. For instance, in Child Life and Labour (first published in
the same month, February 1908, as Scouting for Boys) Margaret Alden—a phy-
sician and the author of numerous books on children’s health issues—affirms
that tuberculosis is “due to the results of bad air, and if we give the child bad air
in the school, as well as bad air in the home, there can be no doubt as to the final
issue.” Alden applauds inspectors who divide schools “into five classes according
to the degree of foul air and smell which prevailed in them” and notes that the
“micro-organisms were very numerous, and in one school 213 per cubic foot
were found in the infants’ department.” Also she recommends the removal of
adenoids, which “make mouth-breathing, instead of correct nose-breathing, a
necessity.” See Alden, Child Life and Labour, 3rd ed., Social Service Handbooks
6 (London: Headley Brothers, 1913), 69, 88.
77. Stallybrass and White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression (Ithaca: Cornell
University Press, 1986), 145.
78. Baden-Powell, Scoutmastership, 79–80.
79. Seltzer, Bodies and Machines (New York: Routledge, 1992), 154.
CHAPTER 6
1. Price is quoted in Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1975), 27. Regarding Captain Nevill and his footballs,
see also Colin Veitch, “‘Play up! Play up! and Win the War!’: Football, the Nation
and the First World War 1914–15,” Journal of Contemporary History 20 (1985):
363–65; and Peter Parker, The Old Lie: The Great War and the Public-School
Ethos (London: Constable, 1987), esp. 213–215.
2. See M. H. Abrams et al., eds., The Norton Anthology of English Literature, 6th
ed. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1993), 2:1826. For an illuminating analysis of
such representations of the First World War, see Daniel Pick, War Machine: The
Rationalisation of Slaughter in the Modern Age (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1993), 189–204.
3. J. M. Bourne offers an excellent discussion of how the diplomatic arrangements
that led Britain to declare war on the Central Powers—the treaties, alliances, and
conventions with the United States, Japan, and Russia, and especially the Anglo-
French Entente of 1904—were explicitly designed to protect British colonial
interests, particularly in the Middle East and on the Indian subcontinent. See
202 Notes
Bourne, Britain and the Great War 1914–1918 (London: Edward Arnold, 1989),
1–8.
4. It should, perhaps, go without saying that a war of attrition (such as the First
World War) requires the mobilization of an extremely large number of soldiers
and that in an industrial nation (such as Georgian England) these soldiers will be
predominantly working-class men, who form the demographic majority of the
male citizenry. Unfortunately, popular and scholarly representations of the First
World War have so often gone without saying any such thing that one must remark,
as J. M. Bourne does, that the
quite disproportionate attention paid to officer casualties and to the “lost
generation” of public schoolboys should not be allowed to disguise the
true nature of Britain’s war losses. Almost 94 per cent of British dead
belonged to the “Other Ranks.” These were overwhelmingly working class.
See Bourne, Britain and the Great War 1914–1918, 205. For a wealth of statisti-
cal information regarding the working-class constitution of the fighting forces
during the war, see P. E. Dewey, “Military Recruiting and the British Labour
Force During the First World War,” Historical Journal 27 (1984): 199–223.
5. The best study specifically focusing on football and the First World War is Veitch,
“‘Play up! Play up! and Win the War!’” 363–78. On football and turn-of-the-
century English culture more generally, see Charles P. Korr, “West Ham United
Football Club and the Beginnings of Professional Football in East London, 1895–
1914,” Journal of Contemporary History 13 (1978): 211–232; Peter Bailey,
Leisure and Class in Victorian England: Rational Recreation and the Contest
for Control, 1830–1885 (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; Toronto: Univer-
sity of Toronto Press, 1978), 124–46; Tony Mason, Association Football and
English Society, 1863–1915 (Brighton: Harvester Press; Atlantic Highlands, NJ:
Humanities Press, 1980), 222–58; James Walvin, Football and the Decline of
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6. Baden-Powell, Scoutmastership: A Handbook for Scoutmasters on the Theory of
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34.
7. See Mangan, The Games Ethic and Imperialism: Aspects of the Diffusion of an
Ideal (Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Viking Books, 1986), esp. 17–100. For other
discussions of the importance of games to imperialist ideology, see J. A. Mangan,
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Consolidation of an Educational Ideology (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1981), 179–206; Parker, The Old Lie, 77–84; James Walvin, “Symbols of
Moral Superiority: Slavery, Sport and the Changing World Order, 1800–1950,”
in Manliness and Morality: Middle-Class Masculinity in Britain and America
1800–1940, ed. J. A. Mangan and James Walvin (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
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Preparatory School: Cradle and Crèche of Empire?” in “Benefits Bestowed”?:
Notes 203
gym and swimming pool that can be enjoyed for a minimal membership fee—is
the result of a late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century transformation of the
Association’s mission, such that the Y became a purveyor of “Christian manliness”
to working-class men and boys. The best study of the YMCA is David I. Macleod,
Building Character in the American Boy: The Boy Scouts, YMCA, and Their
Forerunners, 1870–1920 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1983), 117–
129, 171–229, which focuses on the parallel transformation of the Association
in the United States. The relation of the British YMCA to imperialist national-
ism needs far more study; the best examination to date is H. E. Meller, Leisure
and the Changing City, 1870–1914 (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1976),
144–60.
15. For other discussions of the metaphorical comparison of sport and war in the
late-Victorian and Edwardian periods, see Parker, The Old Lie, 211–217; Robert
H. MacDonald, “A Poetics of War: Militarist Discourse in the British Empire,
1880–1918,” Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature 23.3
(1990): 17–35; and Michael Anton Budd, The Sculpture Machine: Physical Cul-
ture and Body Politics in the Age of Empire (New York: New York University
Press, 1997), 101–116.
16. Ubique [Captain Guggisberg], Modern Warfare; or, How our Soldiers Fight (Lon-
don: T. Nelson and Sons, 1903), 94. The emphases are in the original.
17. Archibald Primrose [Lord Rosebery], Questions of Empire (New York: Thomas
Y. Crowell, 1901), 32.
18. Primrose, Questions of Empire, 9.
19. Primrose, Questions of Empire, 5–6.
20. See Veitch, “‘Play up! Play up! and Win the War!’” 363–78.
21. Shee, The Briton’s First Duty: The Case for Conscription (London: Grant
Richards, 1901), 200.
22. Baden-Powell, Scouting for Boys: A Handbook for Instruction in Good Citizen-
ship, 7th ed. (London: C. Arthur Pearson, 1915), 292.
23. Baden-Powell, Scouting for Boys, 292.
24. Regarding the construction of sporting militarism in the works of Henty and
similar writers for young people, see Reader, At Duty’s Call, 18–59.
25. Henty, With Kitchener in the Soudan: A Story of Atbara and Omdurman (Lon-
don: Blackie and Son, 1903), 55, 53. Subsequent page references to With Kitchener
in the Soudan, abbreviated WKS, will appear parenthetically in my text.
26. In his valuable study of Henty’s fictions, Jeffrey Richards claims that they offer
a potent combination of Smilesian self-help and class destiny. War is seen
in this formula as a rite of passage, a passport to manhood. It functions
both on a personal level as a force for character-building and character-
testing and on a national level as a morally justified means of imperial
expansion.
See Richards, “Popular Imperialism and the Image of the Army in Juvenile Lit-
erature,” in Popular Imperialism and the Military 1850–1950, ed. John M.
MacKenzie (Manchester: Manchester University Press; New York: St. Martin’s
Press, 1992), 91. Although this is an accurate characterization of the Hentyesque
Notes 205
ironic narrator makes abundantly clear: “for ever the beauty of young men seems
to be set in smoke, however lustily they chase footballs, or drive cricket balls . . .
Possibly they are soon to lose it.” See Woolf, Jacob’s Room (San Diego: Harcourt,
Brace, and Jovanovich, Harvest Books, 1978), 98, 139, 117.
55. Donald J. Childs offers a perceptive analysis of Bradshaw’s eugenicism and of
Lady Bruton’s eugenicist imperialism. See Childs, Modernism and Eugenics:
Woolf, Eliot, Yeats, and the Culture of Degeneration (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2001), 38–42, 51–57.
56. The scholarship on Woolf and the First World War is now quite considerable.
The finest book-length study is Karen L. Levenback, Virginia Woolf and the
Great War (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1999), which includes (44–82)
a valuable discussion of Mrs. Dalloway. Frequently, however, studies of Woolf
and the First World War tend to read her fiction as an elaboration of the more
polemical (and fantastical) portions of her Three Guineas (1938), which puts
forth the notion that militarism is inimical to women—a notion to which Woolf’s
representation of middle-class women such as Clarissa Dalloway and especially
Lady Bruton certainly gives the lie. For examples of such scholarship, see Nancy
Topping Bazin and Jane Hamovit Lauter, “Virginia Woolf’s Keen Sensitivity to
War: Its Roots and Its Impact on Her Novels,” in Virginia Woolf and War: Fiction,
Reality, and Myth, ed. Mark Hussey (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1991),
14–39; Masami Usui, “The Female Victims of the War in Mrs. Dalloway,” in
Virginia Woolf and War: Fiction, Reality, and Myth, ed. Mark Hussey (Syracuse:
Syracuse University Press, 1991), 151–63; Margaret R. Higonnet, “Women in
the Forbidden Zone: War, Women, and Death,” in Death and Representation, ed.
Sarah Webster Goodwin and Elisabeth Bronfen (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Uni-
versity Press, 1993), 192–209; and Sharon Ouditt, Fighting Forces, Writing
Women: Identity and Ideology in the First World War (London: Routledge, 1994),
169–216. A valuable, if brief, corrective is Kathy J. Phillips’s discussion of Lady
Bruton’s imperialist militarism in Virginia Woolf Against Empire (Knoxville:
University of Tennessee Press, 1994), 8–14.
57. Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, ed. Richard Lancelyn
Green (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 279.
58. The best discussion of Woolf’s aesthetic practice in terms of the First World War
is Allyson Booth’s insightful analysis of Jacob’s Room. Booth argues that later
in the war much propaganda, confronted with a multitude of dead and wounded
soldier bodies, uses a rhetoric of bodilessness to represent fighting men—a rheto-
ric that Jacob’s Room ironically repeats in order to subject it to modernist expo-
sure and critique. See Booth, Postcards from the Trenches: Negotiating the Space
Between Modernism and the First World War (New York: Oxford University Press,
1996), 21–49.
59. Woolf, The Common Reader: First Series (San Diego: Harcourt, Brace, and
Jovanovich, Harvest Books, 1981), 151.
60. Woolf, The Common Reader: First Series, 156.
61. Gibbs, Now It Can Be Told (New York: Harper, 1920), 131.
62. Woolf, The Common Reader: First Series, 150–51.
63. Gibbs, Now It Can Be Told, 69–70.
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Index
225
226 Index
K M
Kalikoff, Beth, 177 n. 31 MacDonald, Robert H., 195 n. 8, 199 n.
Keep, C. J., 196 n. 12 62, 204 n. 15
Keller, Evelyn Fox, 167 n. 33 Mackay, Charles, 30
Kerr, Rose, 197 n. 24 MacKenzie, John M., 6, 127, 195 n. 8
Kevles, Daniel J., 197 n. 19 Macleod, David I., 199 n. 48, 200 n. 70,
Kingston, W. H. G., 72 204 n. 14
Kipling, Rudyard, 115, 152; see also Mangan, J. A., 135, 202 n. 7, 203 nn. 8–
Children’s literature 9
and Boy Scout organization, 107– Mann, David D., 186 n. 49
108 Marryat, Frederick, 69
and racialist discourse, 107, 195 n. 4 Marx, Karl, 13
and working-class radicalism, 119, Mason, Tony, 202 n. 5
121 Mass Observation, 126, 132
Kitchener, Horatio Herbert, 140–150, Masterman, Charles F. G., 6, 114, 166 n.
152, 157, 160, 205 n. 27 19
Knight, Charles, 49–50, 53 Maxwell, Richard, 170 n. 12
Korr, Charles P., 202 n. 5 Mayhew, Henry, 4, 19–43, 54, 70, 87,
Koven, Seth, 4-5, 197 n. 21 104, 130, 157, 163 n. 2, 168 nn. 1–
2, 169 nn. 6–7, 174 n. 14
L and Chartism, 50, 52, 175 n. 22
Lads’ Drill Association, 115 and degeneration theory, 23
Lamarck, Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine and domestic servants, 41–42, 172 n.
de Monet, 190 n. 26 27
Lauer, Laura, 192 n. 36 and emigration, 39–41, 171 n. 24
Lauter, Jane Hamovit, 207 n. 56 and middle-class domestic life,
Ledger, Sally, 192 n. 31 33–34
Leete, Alfred, 142, 205 n. 28 and middle classes as possessing
Leinster-Mackay, Donald, 202 n. 7, 203 visual power, 17, 20, 27–32, 40, 92
n. 9 and photography, 30–32
Lenin, V. I., 164 n. 7 and prostitution, 171 n. 24
Lentricchia, Frank, 14–16 and racialist discourse, 19–24, 26–27,
Levenback, Karen L., 207 n. 56 91
Lindsay, Vachel, 102 and ragged schools, 171 n. 21, 174 n.
Llewellyn Smith, H., 126 11
Lloyd, Edward, 44–45, 48, 52–53, 55, and Street Orderly Brigade, 35–37, 46,
63–65, 173 n. 7, 180 n. 49, 180 nn. 171 n. 22
1–2; see also Penny bloods and urban spectatorship, 27–28, 32–
Lombroso, Cesare, 52, 56, 79, 176 n. 28, 34, 93, 114, 171 n. 25, 172 n. 26
190 n. 26 and violence, 47–53, 59, 66
London, Jack, 149–150 and working-class domestic life, 34
London Sketch Club, 199 n. 51 and working-class literacy, 28, 47–48,
Lovett, William, 52 169 n. 7, 174 n. 11, 174 n. 13
Low, Gail Ching-Liang, 9, 187 n. 57, and working-class radicalism, 50, 52,
199 n. 62 175 n. 22
Low, Jeanette, 197 n. 24 and working classes as embodied, 17,
Lowe, Robert, 67, 181 n. 10 20, 27–32, 35, 38, 40, 46, 57, 76,
Loxley, Diana, 72–73, 83, 184 n. 34 170 n. 11
Index 231
Penny dreadfuls, 4, 65–72, 179 n. 46 Poovey, Mary, 13, 167 n. 43, 190 n. 27,
aesthetics of, 70, 81–82 201 n. 76
as children’s literature, 180 n. 1 Pratt, Mary Louise, 12
and crime, 66–67, 181 n. 7 Prest, Thomas, 179 n. 48
distinguished from penny bloods, 180 Price, L. S., 133
nn. 1–2 Price, Richard, 8
and gender of readers, 180 n. 1, 182 n. Primrose, Archibald Philip, 138
26 Prostitution, 48, 95–99, 171 n. 24, 189 n.
middle-class criticisms of, 17, 65–72, 25, 190 n. 27
81–82, 87, 110, 181 n. 7 Public schools, 71, 117, 130, 133, 135–
and violence, 81–82 137, 152, 202 n. 4, 203 n. 9
and working-class radicalism, 66, 68– Public-school story, 70–72, 117
69 Pure Literature Society, 71
Penny fiction; see Penny bloods; Penny
dreadfuls; Penny fictions, “improv- R
ing”; see also Children’s literature Racialist discourse, 19–24, 26–27, 56–
Penny fictions, “improving,” 65–83, 180 57, 91, 107, 114, 118–119, 122, 189
n. 2, 184 n. 36, 186 n. 50; see also n. 18, 195 n. 4, 196 n. 16
Stevenson, Robert Louis Radcliffe, Ann, 61
and adventure fiction, 65, 69–71 Ragged schools, 171 n. 21, 174 n. 11
and gender of readers, 71, 182 n. 26 Reader, W. J., 203 n. 9, 204 n. 24
and hegemonic imperialism, 17, 63, Realism, literary, 154
66, 71, 85–86, 183 n. 27, 183 n. 30 Recapitulation theory, 118–119, 199 n.
and historical fiction, 66, 71, 186 n. 48
51, 186 n. 54 Rediker, Marcus, 184 n. 42, 187 n. 55
serial publication of, 81, 185 n. 49, Reed, Daniel, 183 n. 27
186 n. 51 Reed, Henry, 148
and violence, 63, 186 nn. 49–50 Reform Act, Second (1867), 2–3, 9, 24,
and working-class literacy, 67–69, 182 66–67, 87–88, 110, 164 n. 5, 179 n.
n. 12 42, 181 n. 6, 182 n. 12, 182 n. 18
and working-class radicalism, 63, 66, Reform Act, Third (1884), 9, 67, 76, 87–
68–69, 185 n. 44 88, 104, 110, 164 n. 5, 179 n. 42,
and working-class resistance to 181 n. 6, 182 n. 12
hegemonic imperialism, 71, 184 n. Religious Tract Society, 70–71, 182 n.
34 26, 184 n. 36
and working classes as juvenile, 76, Rendall, Jane, 181 n. 6
185 n. 46 Resnais, Alain, 54
and working classes as lacking visual Reynolds, E. E., 200 n. 67
power, 76, 184 n. 41 Reynolds, G. W. M., 44, 48, 175 n. 17,
Phillips, Kathy J., 207 n. 56 180 n. 49
Photography, 11, 30–32 Reynolds, Kimberley, 182 n. 26
Pick, Daniel, 190 n. 26, 195 n. 7, 201 n. Rhodes, Cecil, 3–6, 11–12, 106, 163 n.
2, 205 n. 40 2, 164 nn. 6–7
Pierce, Jason A., 186 n. 51 Rich, Eric E., 181 n. 11
Plotz, Judith, 165 n. 12 Richards, Jeffrey, 181 n. 2, 204 n. 26
Pluck, 70–71 Richards, Thomas, 5, 195 n. 7
Polidori, John, 51, 176 n. 23 Roberts, Frederick, 149
Poor Law Amendment Act (1835), 9 Roberts, Lord, see Roberts, Frederick
Index 233