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Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Literacy: revised version

Literacy is difficult to define with any degree of accuracy and, in the first sixty years of the nineteenth century difficult to quantify.[1] The concept of literacy can be defined very broadly as a person’s ability to read and sometimes write down the cultural symbols of a society or social group. [2] Literacy has always been a two-edged sword providing the means to expand experience but also leading to control over what people read. It is not surprising that the dominant culture wants to control literacy while subordinate groups call for freer access to the ‘really useful knowledge’ of the dominant culture.[3]

The economic innovations of the eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries led to important changes in the working life of many people who were increasingly drawn to work in factories. This disrupted earlier patterns of domestic and community life. Child employment meant that many children were denied the disciplines of schooling. New types of schools were established to compensate for these factory-related developments. Factory schools, Sunday schools, evening schools and infant schools were all designed to accommodate the consequences of industrialisation. These new schools adopted a new social agenda seeking not only to inculcate virtue but also remould their pupils to fit in with the needs of an industrial society. Schools began to place much greater emphasis on continuous and regular attendance with teachers developing elaborate pedagogies to ensure that all children remained busy at their allotted tasks.

Two developments flowed from this. First, much greater attention was given to the education, training and competence of elementary school teachers. Rote methods were given much less attention and, instead, teachers were expected to be accomplished in more intellectual methods of instruction. They were expected not merely to inspect the contents of their pupils’ minds by hearing memorised lessons but also to exercise the minds of their charges by questioning them on their lessons. Secondly, there was a major expansion of the school curriculum promoted alongside the spread of elementary education. Children began to be taught through secular as well as religious topics. It was assumed that if children knew how the world worked, they would be more ready to accept their allotted, if unnatural, place in the scheme of things. Another educational consequence of economic change was that writing began to enter the core curriculum of schooling. This did not meet with unqualified approval. Some argued that writing, a business skill, should not be taught in Sunday schools, while others claimed that it would promote crime; ‘if you teach them to write, you teach them to forge’. Many assumed that writing skills would elevate people above their proper station in life. Nevertheless, there was a powerful lobby that recognised the importance of writing skills to the prosperity and administration of the economy. The army of clerks expanded with industrialisation.

The spread of reading skills was aided by the technology of printing in the 1830s and 1840s with the steam-driven printing press. The spread of writing in commercial institutions also received a technological stimulus with the invention of the mass-produced and low-cost steel-nibbed pen in the 1830s and the introduction of cheaper esparto grass paper in the 1860s to replace the expensive quills, penknives and paper. The stamp duty on newspapers and the tax on paper were both substantially reduced in 1836 and finally abolished in 1855 and 1861 respectively. The average price of books halved between 1828 and 1853. Books and newspapers became more readily available with the Public Libraries Act of 1850 and communications were improved by the introduction of the Penny Post in 1840.[4]

‘Read or was read to’: it is only in the course of the nineteenth century that reading gradually became a private rather than a public act for the mass of the population. Until the 1830s, if you could read, you were expected to read aloud and share your reading with family, friends and workmates.[5] A population with a significant proportion of ‘illiterates’ may not be ill-informed and may be at least as well informed as a population where the formal reading skill is widely diffused but seldom used.

There is some debate over whether levels of literacy were rising or falling in the first thirty years of the nineteenth century. The problem that historians face is that there is no agreed standard for measuring literacy in this period. Attempts have taken two main forms: a counting of institutions and a counting of signatures on marriage registers and legal documents. Both are fraught with problems. Counting the number of schools tells historians little about the education that went on in them, the average attendance, length of the school year or average length of school life, all of which have a direct relevance to levels of literacy. Counting signatures likewise poses problems. It may lead to an overestimation of literacy levels as individuals may be able to sign but have little else in the way of literacy skills. Conversely, the same evidence may lead to an underestimation of literacy skills. Writing requires a productive proficiency that reading does not and those who cannot sign may be able to read, but would be in danger of being classified as illiterate. Yet signatures are the better figures, far more soundly based than attempts to count schools or scholars.

W.P. Baker’s survey of seventeen country parishes in the East Riding of Yorkshire found that male literacy was 64% in both 1754-1760 and 1801-1810 and rose steadily afterwards.[6] Lawrence Stone argues that literacy was rising between the 1770s and 1830 based upon more widespread analysis seeing this as a result of the process of industrialisation and its demands for a more literate workforce.[7] This optimistic view has, however, been called into question as far as England as a whole was concerned. There are various reasons for questioning whether literacy did rise. First, the sharp rise in population after the 1760s began to swamp the existing provision of schools, especially charity schools funded by local patrons.[8] Private, charitable investment in education slackened after 1780 as people diverted their investment into more expensive and pressing outlets such as enclosure, canal and turnpike investment. The dynamic areas of growth in the education system were no longer the charity schools for the working population but private fee-paying schools for the upper-classes and grammar schools for the middle-classes. Secondly, children were drawn into the new processes of industrialisation and there were increased opportunities to employ them from an early age. This too militated against working-class children receiving an education that would make and keep them literate, especially in industrial areas.[9] Under these circumstances it would not be surprising if literacy rates did sag. There is some statistical evidence for a fall in literacy in the last decades of the eighteenth century and the first decades of the nineteenth. Studies of Lancashire, Devon and Yorkshire suggest that there was a sharp fall in literacy in the 1810s and 1820s from around 67% to fewer than 50%. Stephen Nicholas has examined 80,000 convicts transported to Australia between 1788 and 1840 and he found that urban literacy continued to rise until 1808 and rural literacy to 1817 but then both fell consistently for the rest of the period.[10]

It was the Sunday school movement that from the 1780s countered these factors. In 1801, there were some 2,290 schools rising to 23,135 in 1851 with over 2 million enrolled children. By then, three-quarters of working-class children aged 5-15 were attending such institutions. However, there are some limitations to making a strong case that Sunday schools sustained the literacy rate. First, many schools ceased the teaching of writing after the 1790s. Secondly, they have been seen as either the creation of a working-class culture of respectability and self-reliance or as middle-class conservative institutions for the reform of their working-class pupils from above. A positive force in a worsening situation, they probably prevented literacy falling more than it did in areas vulnerable to decline. These divergent views illustrate the difficulty of extrapolating from specific examples to a general picture. England’, especially urban England, was not a homogenous unit experiencing ‘optimistic’ or ‘pessimistic’ literacy trends before 1830.

From 1830, levels of literacy began to rise, a process that continued for the rest of the century, though inevitably with regional variation in pace. Literacy rates were published by the Registrar General for each census year in percentages.

 

1841

1851

1861

1871

Male

67.3

69.3

75.4

80.6

Female

51.1

54.8

65.3

73.2

This was paralleled by growth in the average number of years of schooling for boys: 2.3 years in 1805 to 5 years in 1846-1851 to 6.6 years by 1867-1871. Various factors lay behind this, but first it is important to consider the motives both of educators and of educated that made this possible. The Churches were concerned with the salvation of souls and the winning back of the irreligious working-class urban population to Christianity. The Church of England felt itself under attack from a revival of Nonconformity and Catholicism in the 1830s. By 1870, there were 8,798 voluntary assisted schools of which 6,724 were National Society Schools. At a more secular level the long period of radical unrest from the 1790s to the 1840s created deep anxiety about order and social control. Richard Johnson put it well when he says

The early Victorian obsession with the education of the poor is best understood as a concern about authority, about power, about the assertion (or the reasserting) of control.[11] 

For example, in Spitalfields much education was aimed at controlling the population in the interests of social and economic stability while in the north-eastern coalfields coal owners created schools attached to collieries in the 1850s as a means of social control following damaging strikes in 1844.[12]

The social control argument dated back to the Sunday Schools, the SPCK Charity schools and beyond. These suggested that schooling and literacy would make the poor unfit for the performance of menial tasks because it would raise their expectations. Even worse, the acquisition of literate skills would make the working-classes receptive to radical and subversive literature. This was the essential dilemma: whether to deny education to the poor and so avoid trouble, or whether to provide ample education in the hope that it would serve as an agent of social control. By the late 1830s, the latter ideology dominated the minds of policy makers. First, education was seen as a means of reducing crime and the rising cost of punishment. Secondly, it was seen as a way of keeping the child or the child when adult out of the workhouse. In the 1860s, these views were joined by two other that presaged the 1870 Act. The military victories of Prussia and the northern States of America in the 1860s suggested that good levels of education contributed to military efficiency. At home the Reform Act 1867 prompted concern to ensure the education of those who would soon wield political power through an extended franchise: we must now education our masters’ spoke Robert Lowe, a leading Conservative politician. Education may have been of limited value for actual performance in some occupations, but it had important wider bearings on the creation of an industrial society. It made it possible for people to be in touch with a basic network of information dispersal and could make labourers aware of the possibilities open to them or the products of consumers. For such reasons, a positive belief in the value of education on the part of the authorities replaced earlier assumptions that teaching the poor to read would merely lead to the diffusion of subversive literature and the wholesale flight of the newly educated from menial tasks.

The literacy rate was driven up by the injection of public money into the building and maintenance of elementary schools. This rose from £193,000 in 1850 to £723,000 in 1860 and £895,000 by 1870. The money was channelled largely into two religious societies: the Anglican National Society, founded in 1811, and the British and Foreign School Society, a Nonconformist body created three years later. These bodies raised money to build schools usually run on monitorial lines. However, by the early 1830s, it was obvious that they were unable to counter the defects in school provision, especially in the north. State funding began in 1833 with investment of about 1% of national income. From the 1840s, under the guidance of the Privy Council for Education and its Secretary James Kay-Shuttleworth, expenditure increased as grants were extended from limited capital grants for buildings to equipment in 1843, teacher training three years later and capitation grants for the actual running of schools in 1853. Closer control over these grants was instituted in 1862 with the system of payment by results and by a reduction of teacher training to try and control sharply rising expenditure.

Important though the role of the state and religious societies was in developing literacy levels, some historians have pointed to the large sector of cheap private education where the working-classes bought education for their children outside the church and state system. It has been suggested that at least a quarter of working-class children were educated in this way. Many in the working-class spurned the new National and British schools and chose slightly more expensive, small dame and common day schools. Although their quality was maligned by publicists such as Kay-Shuttleworth who advocated a state-financed system, they were not regarded as part of the authority system and had no taint of charity or the heavy social control of the Churches. Parents often regarded the teachers as their employees and they fitted in with working-class lifestyles.[13]

There is no doubt, however, that the expansion of this type of education did result in the creation of a remarkably literate working-class. A major factor in rising literacy was the creation of a teaching profession in elementary schools. The religious societies had their own training colleges before the 1830s and from 1839 many Anglican dioceses established colleges to serve diocesan National Schools. The system received its most important stimulus from the Minutes of 1846 that established the training and career structure for teachers. The 1850s saw the rapid rise of a schoolteacher class: there were 681 certificated teachers in 1849 but 6,878 ten years later. A further important factor was the role of Her Majesty’s Inspectors first appointed in 1839 to ensure that the state grant was spent properly. Their duties expanded into more educational roles, examining pupil teachers and the training colleges, calculating the capitation grants of the 1850s and then examining children in the subjects on which the grant was based in the 1860s. They encouraged the replacement of the monitorial system with class teaching. By 1870, their number has risen from 2 to 73.

Four things mopped up the illiteracy of deprived groups who, left to themselves, would have remained a hard core of illiterates: the ragged, workhouse, prison and factory schools. Ragged schools began during the early 1840s and the Ragged School Union dated from 1844. They charged no fees and took the poorest children for a basic education, depending for their support on a circle of philanthropists including Charles Dickens. By 1852, there were 132 Ragged Schools in London with 26,000 children and 70 outside the capital in 42 towns. By 1870, at their peak, there were 250 schools in London and 100 in the provinces until they were taken over by the School Boards.

Workhouse and prison schools catered for children who had lost their freedom or who had fallen into the safety-net of the workhouse. Their education was guaranteed in the 1834 Poor Law Amendment Act and the 1823 Prisons Act. Finally, factory schools were created by the 1833 Factory Act that obliged factory owners to ensure that their child workers received a regular education either in a factory schools or outside before being allowed to work. This was firmly enforced. All these measures helped the most disadvantaged groups of children.

Mass elementary education was grounded in the basic skills of reading, writing and arithmetic. Religion and bible study was equally central to the religious societies. Attempts to extend the curriculum were stopped when the Revised Code limited grants to the 3Rs and away from the broader cultural subjects. From 1867, history, geography and geometry were made grant-earning subjects but languages and a range of science subjects had to wait until the 1870s. What was learned was important and the development of a body of reading material accessible to the masses was a characteristic feature of the years after 1830.

At the school level, the SPCK, acting as the publishing arm of the National Society, set up its Committee of General Literature and Education in 1832 to produce schoolbooks.[14] The National Society gradually took over from the SPCK and in 1845 established its own book collection for National schools. The British Society similarly published secular books for schools after 1839. There was also concern among the governing elite to provide informative books for adults that would divert them away from the propaganda of radicalism. The Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, established in 1826, issued a library of cheap, short books on popular science, history and all types of secular subjects to combat the strong tradition of radical literature ushering in publishing for a mass audience.[15] The Society was particularly influential in spreading science to a broad and diverse population. It was deliberately inclusive in its audience, actively seeking to make its publications useful and appealing to a wide variety of readers of all classes, genders, educational levels and professions. By providing the same information, in the same format, for all readers, the Society democratised learning across the social boundaries of the period and broadened the horizon for future popularisers. The commercial market also played an increasingly important role for literate society with the sensationalist ‘penny dreadfuls’, serialisation of novels by authors such as Dickens, Gothic and romantic novels and the railway reading of W.H. Smith.

Literacy rates had risen by the 1860s before the advent of state secular schools or free or compulsory education. However, one and a half million children, 39% of those between 3 and 12 were not at school and there was a further million children without school places even had they chosen to attend. The 1870 Act filled in the gaps in areas where voluntary provision was inadequate. The building of non-sectarian schools, the work of 2,000 School Boards and compulsory education after 1880 finally led to the achievement of mass literacy by 1900.


[1] On literacy see Cipolla, C.M., Literacy and the Development in the West, (Penguin), 1969 contains an excellent chapter on literacy and the industrial revolution.   Altick, R.D., The English Common Reader, (Phoenix Books), 1963, Webb, R.K., The British Working-class Reader 1790-1848: Literacy and Social Tension, (Allen & Unwin), 1955 and Sanderson, M., Education, Economic Change and Society in England 1780-1870, 2nd ed., (Macmillan), 1991 contain important material.   Vincent, D., Literacy and popular culture: England 1750-1914, (Cambridge University Press), 1989 is an important study based on computerised research. Smith, O., The Politics of Language 1791-1819, (Oxford University Press), 1984 examines how ideas about language were used to maintain repression and class divisions.

[2] The concept of functional literacy has been developed to deal with the semantic problem of defining ‘literacy’. It was originally coined by the United States Army during World War II and denoted an ability to understand military operations and to be able to read at a fifth-grade level. Subsequently, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) defined functional literacy in terms of an individual possessing the requisite reading and writing skills to be able to take part in the activities that are a normal part of that individual’s social milieu.

[3] On ‘useful knowledge’, see Connell, Philip, Romanticism, Economics and the Question of ‘Culture’, (Oxford University Press), 2001, pp. 76-83.

[4] On popular literature Williams, R., The Long Revolution, (Penguin), 1961 contains important chapters on the growth of the reading public and the popular press. Ibid, Vincent, D., Literacy and popular culture: England 1750-1914 and Neuburg, V.E., Popular Literature: A History and Guide, (Penguin), 1977 are good introductions. James, L., Print and the People 1819-1851, (Peregrine), 1978 and Fiction for the Working Man 1830-1850, (Penguin), 1973 are more detailed studies. Cross, N., The Common Writer: Life in nineteenth century Grub Street, (Cambridge University Press), 1985 is the most useful study of nineteenth century writing. On the press Read, D., Press and People 1790-1850: Opinion in Three English Cities, (Edward Arnold), 1961 is excellent on the impact of the middle class press while Hollis, P., The Pauper Press: A Study in Working-Class Radicalism of the 1830s, (Oxford University Press), 1970, Wickwar, W.H., The Struggle for the Freedom of the Press 1819-1832, (Allen & Unwin), 1928 and Weiner, J., The War of the Unstamped: the movement to repeal the British newspaper tax, 1830-1836, (Cornell University Press), 1969 on the popular press. There has been a proliferation of regional and local studies on the role of the press: for example, Milne, M., Newspapers of Northumberland and Durham, (Graham), 1951 and Murphy, M.J., Cambridge Newspapers and Opinion 1780-1850, (Oleander Press), 1977. Shattock, J. and Wolff, M., (eds.), The Victorian Periodical Press: Samplings and Soundings, (Leicester University Press), 1982 contains several valuable articles. Koss, Stephen, The Rise and Fall of the Political Press in Britain, (Fontana), 1990 is a monumental study.

[5] Vincent, D., ‘The decline of oral tradition in popular culture’, in Storch R.D., (ed.), Popular culture and custom in 19th-century England, (Croom Helm), 1982, pp. 20-47.

[6] Baker, W.P., Parish registers and illiteracy in East Yorkshire, (East Yorkshire Local History Society), 1961

[7] Stone, L., ‘Literacy and education in England 1640-1900’, Past and Present, Vol. 42, (1969), pp. 69-139.

[8] Jones, Mary, The Charity School Movement: A Study of Eighteenth Century Puritanism in action, (Cambridge University Press), 1938 and Mason, J., ‘Scottish Charity Schools of the Eighteenth Century’, Scottish Historical Review, Vol. 33, (1), (1954), pp. 1-13.

[9] Sanderson, M., ‘Literacy and social mobility in the industrial revolution in England’, Past and Present, Vol. 56, (1972), pp. 75-104.

[10] Nicholas, Stephen, (ed.), Convict Workers: Reinterpreting Australia’s Past, (Cambridge University Press), 1988; see also, Richards, E., ‘An Australian map of British and Irish literacy in 1841’, Population Studies, Vol. 53, (1999), pp. 345-359.

[11] Johnson, Richard, ‘Educational Policy and social control in early Victorian England’, Past & Present, Vol. 49, (1970), p. 119.

[12] McCann, Phillip and Young, Francis A., Samuel Wilderspin and the Infant School Movement, (Taylor & Francis), 1982, pp. 15-33 and McCann, Phillip, ‘Popular Education, Socialisation and Social Control: Spitalfields 1812-1824’, in McCann, Phillip, (ed.), Popular Education and Socialisation in the Nineteenth Century, (Methuen), 1977, pp. 1-49 consider Spitalfields. Colls, R., ‘‘Oh Happy English Children!’: Coal, Class and Education in the North-East’, Past & Present, Vol. 73, (1), pp. 75-99 looks at coalfield schools.

[13] Gardner, Philip, ‘Literacy, Learning and Education’, in Williams, Chris (ed.), A companion to nineteenth-century Britain (Blackwell Publishers), 2004, pp. 353-368.

[14] Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, the oldest Anglican mission organisation was founded in 1698 in England to encourage Christian education and the production and 1709 in Scotland as a separate organisation for establishing new schools. See, Allen, William Osborne Bird and McClure, Edmund, Two Hundred Years: the History of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1698-1898, (SPCK), 1898 and Clarke, W.K.L., A History of the SPCK, (SPCK), 1959.

[15] Kinraid, R.B., The Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge and the democratization of learning in early nineteenth-century Britain, (University of Wisconsin-Madison), 2006.  See also, Rauch, Alan, Useful Knowledge: the Victorians, morality, and the march of intellect, (Duke University Press), 2001,

Friday, 14 January 2011

Extending factory reform beyond 1878

Legislation restricting or prohibiting women’s work in mines or limiting their duties or hours of work featured prominently in the factory reforms of the 1830s and 1840s. When the issue was revisited in the 1880s with women’s employment as its primary target the political context was of a very different complexion. Despite the ability of women’s organisations to lobby parliament, state intervention in areas of social and economic concern was a growing reality despite voices raised in support of the values of individualism. The extension of the Factory Inspectorate after 1878 and the appointment of women inspectors signalled a more serious intention of enforcement by the authorities than had the earlier, more permissive, legislation.[1]

The issue was a difficult one for Victorian feminists dividing them less along class lines than along lines of political belief. Three positions emerged in the debate. First, there was outright laissez-faire opposition to any proposals that restricted women’s freedom. Secondly, some women saw restriction as a progressive and humane response of the state. Finally there were those who applauded the principle of protective legislation but only where its application was not on the basis of gender. The reaction of working women varied but there is little doubt that the impact of government reform was an unwelcome reality for many late Victorian and Edwardian working people. The significant point is that women were legislated for without consultation. There was a total neglect of their views. It was a case of men legislating for women. Women, from markedly different ideological camps, agreed that there was clearly a need to curb the excesses of employers whose interpretation of the free market was detrimental to the health and safety of their workers. They also broadly agreed where government legislated for mixed employment as in the 1878 Factory Act. But the 1878 Act specifically exempted workplaces exclusively employing women and the sweated trades were left untouched. Domestic service, the largest employer of female labour, and agricultural work, despite the governmental investigation of this area from the 1840s, were largely unregulated.[2] The problem that the anti-legislation lobby had was that in championing women’s rights to all available employment, they came close to sanctioning work that clearly endangered health and safety.

By the end of the nineteenth century it is possible to see the sexual division of labour clearly in operation. Women were concentrated into a few low paid industries, where the great majority of employees were female and in domestic service. Attention shifted to the sweated trades, those trades often carried on in domestic workshops or actually in a house, where hours were notoriously long and wages low. In 1888, a Select Committee of the House of Lords was appointed to report on the sweated trades and in 1892 another Royal Commission was established on labour conditions generally but which provided valuable information on both sweated and non-sweated trades. In 1901, the Factories and Workshops Act consolidated the law further.

Meanwhile in the major industries a new practice had grown up that had a further influence on the limiting of hours. This was the setting up of Wages Boards or Trades Boards on which both employers and employees were represented. In determining wages, working hours were also taken into consideration and this was particularly important as there was still no legislation specifically restricting the working hours of men. The Nottingham Hosiery Board dated from the 1860s while the Midland Iron and Steel Board came into informal existence in 1872 and was re-constituted more formally in 1876.[3] The Midlands Mining Wages Board also began informally in 1874, with an official position from 1883 onwards. In addition, in the Birmingham area, the ‘alliance system’ was used from time to time. Under this arrangement employers would fix wages and employ only one union, while the workmen would all join the union and work only for employers in the alliance. In this way it was hoped to avoid competitive wage cutting by employers. [4]

If one explanation for the early opposition to factory reform was simple ignorance of conditions, there could be no such excuse by 1900. In addition to Royal Commission and Select Committee reports, there were annual Reports of the Mines Inspectors and the Inspectors for Factories and Workshops that became more detailed as the century advanced. Early in the twentieth century, three further advances occurred. In 1908, the Eight Hours Act was passed, the first legislation regulating the hours of work for men that fixed the working day for miners.[5] In 1909, the Sweated Industries Act (sometimes called the Trades Board Act) was passed, made necessary by the continued sweating of workers in certain trades. [6] The Act required wage boards to be set up in specified sweated industries such as tailoring so that even these notoriously difficult to control industries came under increasing supervision. This piece of legislation was gender neutral and covered homeworkers as well as factory hands. But it included only the most notoriously low-paying industries and less than a quarter of a million workers. The Shops Act 1912 consolidated three existing laws regulating employment in shops. The Shop Hours Regulation Act 1886 limited the hours of work of persons under eighteen to seventy four hours a week. The Shop Hours Act 1904 empowered local authorities to fix shop closing hours where two thirds of the shops agreed. The 1911 Shops Act introduced a weekly half-day holiday for all staff and said that shops should have at least one early closing day.

The working week after 1850 was gradually reduced in length. Although it was still a six day week, Saturday labour was less than before and only a half-day was worked in many trades from the 1870s onwards. Working men acquired four statutory holidays with the passing of the Bank Holiday Acts in 1871 and 1875. By 1900, a week’s holiday a year was not unknown though it was more likely to be enjoyed by skilled than unskilled workers.

Regulations grew increasingly complex in the area of safety at work. The Coal Mines Acts provide a good illustration of this. By 1900, safety regulations were very extensive and the 1911 Act added further regulations covering many different matters: the fixing of hours for engine men, the provision of baths and facilities for drying clothes at the bigger pits and the searching of men for matches and other forbidden items. Accidents still happened and the rules were not always obeyed but the contrast with the 1850s is striking. At other places of work employers found themselves under increasing pressure to make their premises safe.

The Employers Liability Act 1880 made the employer responsible for injuries at work and gave the injured worker the right to sue. However, the burden of proof as well as other legal expenses was on the worker. The 1880 Act was repealed and replaced with a Workmen’s Compensation Act in 1897. [7] After 1897, injured employees had only to show that they had been injured doing their job. The work to which the Act applied was stated to be railways, mining and quarrying, factory work and laundry work. However, the courts took a restrictive interpretation of a ‘workman’ in 1905 in Simpson v. Ebbw Vale Steel, Iron & Coal Company in which a widow claimed for the death of a colliery manager who had been killed in an underground accident. Lord Collins, Master of the Rolls held that her dead husband was outside the Act's scope, because though the act extended to non-manual workers the victim ‘must still be a workman’ and said the Act

...presupposes a position of dependence; it treats the class of workmen as being in a sens inopes consilii, and the Legislature does for them what they cannot do for themselves: it gives them a sort of State insurance, it being assumed that they are either not sufficiently intelligent or not sufficiently in funds to insure themselves. In no sense can such a principle extend to those who are earning good salaries.

The Workmen’s Compensation Act 1906 fixed the compensation that a workman could recover from an employer in case of accident. It gave to a workman, except in certain cases of ‘serious and willful misconduct’, a right against his employer to compensation on the mere occurrence of an accident where the common law gives the right only for negligence of the employer. Exceptions were made at the top and bottom ends of the labour market, including non-manual workers employed on annual pay over £250, casual workers employed ‘otherwise than for the purposes of their employer’s trade or business’, outworkers and family workers. National Insurance after 1911 and voluntary insurance before were no longer the only ways of coping with industrial injuries.


[1] McFeely, Mary Drake, Lady Inspectors: The Campaign for a Better Workplace 1893-1921, (Basil Blackwell), 1988 is a useful study of how women fared as factory inspectors. Liversey, Ruth, ‘The politics of work: feminism, professionalisation and women inspectors of factories and workshops’, Women’s History Review, Vol. 13, (2), (J2004) , pp. 233-262 is a case study of the first women appointed as official government factory inspectors in Britain.

[2] Blackburn, Sheila C., ‘“To be poor and to be honest…is the hardest struggle of all”: sweated needlewomen and campaigns for protective legislation, 1840–1914’, in Harris, Beth, (ed.), Famine and fashion: needlewomen in the nineteenth century, (Ashgate), 2005, pp. 243-258, Malone, Carolyn, ‘Campaigning journalism: the Clarion, the Daily Citizen, and the protection of women workers, 1898-1912’, Labour History Review, Vol. 67, (2002), pp. 281-297.

[3] Taylor, E., The better temper: a commemorative history of the Midland Iron and Steel Wages Board, 1876-1976, (Iron and Steel Trades Confederation), 1976.

[4] See, Treble, John G., ‘Interpreting the record of wage negotiations under an arbitral regime: a game theoretic approach to the coal industry conciliation boards, 1893-1914’, Business History, Vol. 31, (1989), pp. 61-80.

[5] McCormick, Brian and Williams, J. E., ‘The miners and the eight-hour day, 1863-1910’, Economic History Review, 2nd ser., Vol. 12, (1959), pp. 222-238. See also, Duffy, A.E.P., ‘The Eight Hours Day Movement in Britain 1886-1893’, The Manchester School, Vol. 36, (3), pp. 203-222.

[6] Blackburn, Sheila C., ‘Ideology and social policy: the origins of the Trade Boards Act’, Historical Journal, Vol. 34, (1991), pp. 43-64, ‘“Princesses and Sweated-Wage Slaves Go Well Together”: Images of British Sweated Workers, 1843–1914’, International Labor and Working-Class History, Vol. 61, (2002), pp. 24-44 and A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work?: sweated labour and the origins of minimum wage legislation in Britain, (Ashgate), 2007 and Melling, Joseph, ‘Welfare capitalism and the origins of welfare states: British industry, workplace welfare and social reform, c.1870-1914’, Social History, Vol. 17, (1992), pp. 453-478.

[7] Markham, Lester, V., ‘The employers’ liability workmen’s compensation debate of the 1890s revisited’, Historical Journal, Vol. 44, (2001), pp. 471-495.

Monday, 10 January 2011

Charivaris against Loyalists

The first mention of charivaris was at the beginning of the fourteenth century in France where it was a regular custom after weddings.[1] Its origins were defined by abbé Jean Bonnecaz,

Le charivari est un bruit confus, tumultueux et désagréable, d’une assemblée de gens qui crient d’une manière bouffonne, et font du tumulte avec des poêles, chaudrons, des cors et des tambours, pour faire quelque sorte de confusion à ceux qui se marient en secondes noces.[2]

In charivari, people from the local community gathered to ‘celebrate’ a marriage, usually one they regarded as questionable, gathering outside the window of the couple. They banged metal implements or used other items to create noise in order to keep the couple awake all night. Sometimes they wore disguises or masks. Later it became a form of protest or social disapproval against marriages, for example the marriage of widows before completing the socially acceptable period of mourning. In the early seventeenth century, the Council of Tours forbade charivari and threatened participants with excommunication. Nevertheless, the custom continued in rural areas. Shivaree, sometimes called ‘belling’ or ‘horning’, was practiced at least in Ontario and Quebec in Canada and in the American Midwest, New England, Middle Tennessee, Louisiana and rural northern Pennsylvania. [3]

French pioneers brought the charivari with them to the Valley of the St. Lawrence. Allan Greer states,

Le ton carnavalesque et railleur des rassemblements, leur cadre nocturne, le vacarme, les masques et les costumes des participants, les longues processions dans les rues et leur caractère résolument public, tout cela rappelle des pratiques françaises qui remontent au Moyen Âge.[4]

In Lower Canada, the first charivaris occurred in the towns. Certainly, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, their use was found in the increasingly densely populated villages. For Allan Greer, the later presence of the charivari in a rural setting can be explained by the need for a substantial crowd from within the community as required by custom. [5] Nevertheless, during the three decades before the Rebellions in 1837 and 1838, the charivari became one of the characteristics of village life in Lower Canada. Between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, the rituals of the charivari changed little and appeared to be a coherent and uniform form of local ritual. Contrary to others parts of the world where customs had changed dramatically, the charivaris of Lower Canada were used primarily where newly married couples were considered ill-matched and followed French ritual in making a din in front of the house of the couple during the night. The individuals who carried out the charivari were often disguised and the demonstration and the atmosphere generally festive. However, things could become hostile obliging the new couple to call upon a mediator in order to haggle over a price to obtain peace. Once an agreement occurred, the charivari ended and couple were then able to live in peace.

From the middle of 1837, there were concerted efforts to coerce individuals and officials into supporting the Patriotes. In the Richelieu valley, [6] French Canadians were expanding southwards towards the British-American settlements while in the Deux-Montagnes British settlers were thrusting into French Canadian areas of settlement. [7] Papineau’s demands for the boycott of British goods and attacks on the British American Land Company and the increasingly exaggerated language of the Patriote press were soon translated by habitants into racial overtones exacerbating existing animosities. As a result, the nature and role of the charivari in Lower Canada was transformed. Although charivaris were an expression of local grievances, they reflected the depth of feeling felt by many habitants about the actions of the colonial government. [8] Charivaris played an important role in the events of 1837. We do not know the full extent of the charivaris in the area round Montreal, in the Richelieu valley or in the comté de l’Acadie in the autumn of 1837 but Greer argues that there were ‘dozens’ and they proved very effective.[9] They left supporters of the Crown isolated and often besieged and allowed the rural Patriotes to give active support to the movement in the autumn of 1837. [10]

This enabled Patriotes to mobilised sympathetic political opinion into community action and there are clear parallels between this and the ‘Scotch Cattle’ activities in South Wales. [11] For example, on 7 July 1837, Paquin curé of St-Eustache was the victim of a charivari when he openly condemned the Patriote movement. [12] In other instances, like that of Rosalie Cherrier of St-Denis, it was sexual behaviour as well as support for the colonial regime that led to charivaris. It was, however, the magistrates and militia captains who had not given their support to the Patriotes who were the most targeted victims of charivaris and often resulted in them resigning their position or simply leaving their homes.[13] Officers in the militia had their flagpoles cut down and their houses were often ransacked. If they resigned their commission, the charivaris ended and the crowds moved on to other victims. Groups of men, normally disguised, came to the victim’s house and shouted Patriote slogans. John Oswald, a farmer from St-Eustache reported that crowds shouted their support for Papineau and the Patriotes in front of the houses of loyalists, before going to the homes of their victims.[14] The explicit use of violence formed a further aspect of charivaris at this time with the burning of houses and the firing of weapons though Greer argues that the use of physical as opposed to psychological violence should not be exaggerated.[15]

From early in the summer 1837, the Deux-Montagnes was distinguished by a large number of charivaris. Their use by the radical Patriotes seldom extended beyond intimidation and verbal violence. [16] However, there were two exceptions to this: the cases of Robert Hall and of Eustache Cheval. On the night of 28 June 1837, Robert Hall, a farmer in Ste- Scholastique was visited by four men menacingly under the command of John C. Hawley who admonished him for not joining the Patriotes in the parish and for not having signed a petition. In his deposition, Hall affirmed that

...la porte de sa maison a été enfoncée et que l’une de ses fenêtres a été fracassée en miettes avec des pierres...L’une de celles-ci pesant environ cinq livres est tombée tout près de l’un de ses jeunes enfants qui dormait dans une couchette sur le sol.

Some of his fences had been pulled down and destroyed. His corn field was left opened to animals, while his horses had their manes and tails shaved exposing Hall to ridicule when he travels with them.[17] Like Hall, Eustache Cheval had reported to the authorities on Patriote assemblies held in the Deux-Montagnes. In order to be avenged and to protect itself from the ‘seigneurial clique’, a group of men went to Cheval’s farm at the beginning of July 1837. Before they arrived, Cheval took measure to defend his house with his brother Joseph and four friends. In the middle of the night, they found the men near his cattle shed and drove them off. Later, a musket or pistol ball smashed a window in the house wounding one of his daughters. Cheval was convinced that they had tried to kill him.

Following these two incidents, the assistant of the Attorney-General of Lower Canada received complaints and began criminal prosecutions. He ordered the arrest of the four individuals denounced by Hall and offered £100 for information leading to the identification of those men who had attacked Cheval. [18] On 13 July 1837, Chief Constable Benjamin Delisle and Édouard-Louis-Antoine Duchesnay, the assistant to the sheriff accompanied by a sergeant and two constables left Montreal with arrest warrants. At St-Eustache, they found François Labelle[19] on his farm but his wife ran for help. A large crowd, armed with sticks and farm tools, confronted the constables who, fearing attack left but took Labelle with them. A group of Patriotes from St-Benoît arrived too late to free him. [20] The same day, two officials from Montreal arrived at Grand-Brûlé to put up posters about the ‘Cheval affair’. [21] In Louis Coursolles’ inn, the two men were verbally intimidated by Coursolles and Luc-Hyacinthe Masson and decided to leave.[22] Continuing tensions and the persistence of charivari in the Deux-Montagnes continued throughout the autumn until the battle of St-Eustache on 14 December 1837.

A wave of charivaris occurred in the Richelieu valley in September 1837.[23] The seigneur of St-Charles, Pierre-Dominique Debartzch, a Roman Catholic Polish immigrant was the victim of a terrifying charivari.[24] Originally a strong supporter of Papineau, he had done much to spread the Patriote programme along the Richelieu but, once he accepted a seat on the Legislative Council in 1832 he drew away from the more militant sections of Papineau’s party. He was bitterly resented by more militant Patriotes and was criticised by the British party as unprincipled and untrustworthy because he had raised Patriote expectations and then deserted them. Debartzch was among the most unpopular politicians in Lower Canada.[25] Those involved in the charivaris, called ‘Septembrists’ in the loyalist press, generally came from St-Denis and were supporters of Wolfred Nelson and acted in his name, though he does not seem to have been involved personally. [26] Although the main cause of these charivaris was Debartzch’s unpopularity, Le Populaire suggested that a speech Papineau gave at Ste-Hyacinthe during a speaking tour of Lower Canada was largely responsible for local Patriotes taking action. However, Papineau was highly cautious and suspicious of charivaris largely because he saw them as unjustifiably raising tensions and giving the authorities increased loyalist support

...il n’y a pas de bureaucrates ici; s’il y en avait, il faudrait les mettre entres deux bœufs.[27]

Debartzch, despite his unpopularity, was an important public figure whose engagements were, like Papineau’s, listed in the press. In September 1837, he returned to St-Charles with his family after the Legislative Council session in Quebec ended. He broke his journey at St-Ours for the baptism of one of his brother-in-law Roch de Saint-Ours’ children. After the reception, rioters arrived at Roch de Saint-Ours’ manor house and subjected those inside to a terrifying charivari. The following day, some of the Septembrists apologised to Roch de Saint-Ours for the fear caused to his family making it clear that Debartzch was their real target.[28] After staying a few days with the Saint-Ours, possibly to recover from the fright, Debartzch, his wife and four children continued their journey to St-Charles.[29] At St-Denis, which they had to pass through, his effigy had been hung at the end of a pole. Debartzch suspected that there might be a problem and enquired of a local farmer what was going on in the village. Informed of the preparations, he then decided to change his route to bypass the village. According to his testimony, he received no local support against popular justice and could not escape as the charivarists followed him to his home in St-Charles.[30] If one accepts the evidence of curé Blanchet, with one exception, the habitants of St-Charles did not take part in the charivaris against Debartzch.[31] Once the rebellion broke out, Debartzch and his family were held prisoner for several days before being freed when he agreed that he would not act against the Patriotes, a promise he immediately broke when he arrived in Montreal. The Patriotes were then free to occupy his manor house and, on 20 November, it was fortified but it was destroyed in Wetherall’s successful attack on the village five days later.

The area around Saint-Hyacinthe in the Richelieu valley was an important centre of Patriote support. On 13 September 1837, Sir John Colborne, commander-in-chief of British forces in Canada was en route to the Eastern Townships on a tour of inspection and had reached the village. By chance, on the same day, Louis-Joseph Papineau brought his sons Lactance and Amédée to the seminary of Saint-Hyacinthe for the beginning of their classes. Papineau’s arrival resulted in the leading citizens of the village announcing festivities in his honour and escorted Papineau to the seminary. [32] Roused by the excitement, some of the crowd diverted to the inn where Colborne was staying crying ‘Vive Papineau! À bas Colborne et Gosford!’ The same evening, a political charivari was organised against the general. [33] Colborne was not the first victim of a charivari but the event took on a greater significance because of his political position in the colony. The crowd of about forty people led by Thomas Bouthillier, Eusèbe Cartier and Arthur Delphos surrounded the inn chanting insults ‘A bas Colborne; c’est un traître au pays! À bas les anglais! Hourra pour Papineau! À bas les soldats!’ [34] Embarrassed, Papineau called the leaders of the crowd to the house of Mme Dessaulles, his sister and seigneur of the village and demanded that they end the charivari. The following day, Thomas Bouthillier, Pierre Boucher de La Bruère, Eusèbe Cartier and thirty others erected a maypole in Papineau’s honour topped by a cap of liberty in front of the village church. [35] This event sent out a clear message: in the eyes of the people it was Papineau not Colborne who represented legitimate authority.

The Richelieu valley was particularly tense during September 1837 largely because the colonial authorities had decided to withdraw the commissions of those magistrates it believed had been encouraging civil disobedience. [36] As a result a group of agitators undertook a series of charivaris against individuals associated with colonial government.[37] After Colborne and Debartzch, it was Léonard Godefroy de Tonnancour who was the next victim of the ‘Septembrists’. De Tonnancour was the deputy for Yamaska and the son of a well-established seigneurial family from Saint-Michel-de-Yamaska. He had been a long-time supporter of Papineau, but the growing militancy of some Patriotes in the middle of 1837 resulted in a change in his political views and he increasingly called for moderation. [38]

On 24 September, in the early evening, he came to St-Denis to visit his mother-in-law, the widow Benjamin Cherrier for a family meal.[39] There had already been several charivaris directed at Debartzch but Tonnancour’s arrival in the village further raised tensions. A group of men went to the Nelson’s distillery and probably led by Siméon Marchesseault decided to organise a charivari against him for having voted against Papineau. Tonnancour wanted to address the crowd but was dissuaded from doing so by his fellow guests. The crowd made a din for about an hour and burned Gosford, Debartzch, Saint-Ours and Sabrevois de Bleury in effigy. [40] Mme Saint-Jacques, also known under the name of Rosalie Cherrier, intervened removing the inscriptions placed on the effigies but this had the effect of starting the charivari again. [41] The same evening, a noisy crowd surrounded the house singing obscene songs and demanding her departure from the parish.[42] The crowd tried to enter Mme Saint-Jacques’ house with cries of ‘Vive les Patriotes!’ and she replied with: ‘Vives les bureaucrates, ils ne se sont jamais comportés en gredins comme vous.’

In these circumstances, the comité permanent du comté de Richelieu met. Its president, Wolfred Nelson, who had just returned from Lavaltrie, spoke of those militia officers who had not resigned their commissions in protest against the attitudes of the government. [43] The following day, the charivarists of St-Denis decided to regulate the case of Saint-Jacques but also to visit and put pressure on some of the militia officers at St-Antoine opposite St-Denis. During the night of 25 September, they visited Jacques Cartier, father of the Patriote George-Étienne Cartier ordering him to resign his commission by the following day. Firmin Perrin, a JP and doctor Allaire were also subject to charivaris the same evening.[44] Despite the threats, Saint-Jacques had no intention of leaving her home and in the course of the day procured a rifle and ball. In the evening, waiting for the charivarists, she retired with her family leaving the defence of the house to Mitchell alias W. Southwick, her young American lover. Her unconventional sexual behaviour may also have played a part in the charivari. Around 9 pm, a large and menacing crowd appeared before the house and an hour later apparently encouraged by one of Cherrier’s daughters, Mitchell opened fire on the crowd leaving two people seriously wounded. The enraged crowd then demolished the house but not before its occupants fled. [45]

Faced with the wave of charivaris, curé Blanchet tried to calm his flock. From the pulpit, he preached a sermon on the impropriety of charivaris and the consequences for those involved.[46] Rosalie Saint-Jacques, who had not left St-Denis, was finally arrested by Lacasse de Contrecoeur and taken to Montreal. These events were widely reported not just in Lower Canada but in the United States.[47] The ‘Saint-Jacques’ affair was important since it demonstrated ideological differences within the family clan of Papineau-Cherrier-Dessaulles. Côme-Séraphin Cherrier, her nephew and a Patriote lawyer did not intercede on her behalf and it was Sabrevois de Bleury, a loyalist, who defended Rosalie Cherrier and provided some comfort to her during her imprisonment and B.A.C. Gugy and P.E. Leclère arranged for her provisional release.[48] Some Loyalists even suggested that a medal should be made in recognition of her courage. The matter ended when a Grand Jury of the Criminal Court in Montreal rejected all accusations against her in early 1838.[49] Female domesticity and chastity were a necessary part of masculine civic virtue in the republican discourse of this period. Whether the intimidation of Rosalie Saint-Jacques was a political or a traditional charivari is unclear but it was aimed at a partisan opponent, a woman who dared to intrude into the public sphere as well as someone who lived unconventionally

The area around St-Blaise-sur-Richelieu played a minor part in events in 1837. However, between 27 and 29 October, a charivari took place at the home of Dudley Flowers, a lieutenant in the militia orchestrated by Cyrille-Octave Côté that led to Flowers resigning his commission and leaving with his family. [50] Further charivaris by Patriotes took place at the Protestant mission of Henriette Odin-Feller and at the homes of converts. [51] Unable to establish missions in Montreal or St-Jean where the Catholic Church exercised considerable control, Louisa Roussy, a Swiss missionary and Henriette Odin-Feller decided to establish a mission on newly settled lands where the clergy had less control and where the absence of services such as schooling or a doctor favoured establishing good relations with their neighbours. They quickly established a small Protestant community of twenty-five people, most descendents of Madame Lore, a Protestant of American origin who had converted to Catholicism on her marriage.

The arrival of Protestantism in the region was considered by some habitants as further attack on their traditions and the small Protestant community she established became a legitimate Patriote target. The Patriotes attacked those who had converted to the religion of the colonial power, for not having taken part in the radical reform movement and of disturbing the area by supporting a suspect religion. After a series of charivaris, Odin-Feller and the families who had converted left St-Blaise for Champlain in the United States. The 1837 rebellion marked an important stage in the development of Protestantism in St-Blaise. It appeared to English and Swiss evangelists of Lower Canada to have removed the influence of the clergy, the most significant obstacle to their conversion of the French Canadians. On her return two months later, Odin-Feller distributed food and medicine to local people, stopped further action against those who had burned the converts’ houses, and went to Napierville to speak on their behalf to Richard McGinnis, charged by the government with taking depositions and examining witnesses. She wrote

En général, l’esprit du peuple est tellement changé envers nous, qu’il n’est, je crois, aucune maison de la Grande Ligne dans laquelle je ne puis entrer maintenant.

St-Blaise was not involved in the fighting in November 1838 but there were several loyalist acts of reprisal against Patriotes especially the properties of Pierre Boursquet, Louis Dupuis, Ambroise Guay, Toussaint Martin, Jacques Métivier, Joseph Palin, Antoine Rocque, Cyprien Saint-Amant and Eustache Signouin.


[1] Le Goff, Jacques and Schmitt, Jean-Claude, (eds.), Le charivari, (École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales), 1981, p. 141. It is possible that the blowing of car horns after weddings in France today is a hangover from the charivari of the past.

[2] Cit, Levasseur, Roger, (ed.), De la sociabilité, (Boréal), 1990, p. 59.

[3] Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, (University of Toronto Press), 1993, pp. 69-86, 254-255, and Hardy, René, ‘Le charivari dans l’espace québécois’, in Courville, Serge and Séguin, Normand, (eds.), Espace et Culture/Space and Culture, (Presses de l’Université Laval), 1995, pp. 175-186, provide important discussion on this issue. Thompson, E. P., ‘Rough Music’ reprinted in his Customs in Common, (Merlin Press), 1991, pp. 467-538, an extended version of ‘Rough Music: Le Charivari anglais’, Annales: Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations, Vol. 27, (1972), is also valuable.

[4] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 73.

[5] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 72.

[6] Ibid, Laporte, Gilles, Patriotes et Loyaux, pp. 175-194.

[7] Ibid, Laporte, Gilles, Patriotes et Loyaux, pp. 257-290.

[8] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 71.

[9] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 219.

[10] Ibid, Levasseur, Roger, (ed.), De la sociabilité, pp. 62-66.

[11] Jones, David, ‘The Scotch Cattle and their Black Domain’, in Jones, David, Before Rebecca: Popular Protest in Wales 1793-1835, (Allen Lane), 1975, pp. 86-112.

[12] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 158.

[13] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 200.

[14] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 158.

[15] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 227.

[16] Bernard, Philippe, Amury Girod, Un Suisse chez les Patriotes du Bas-Canada, (Septentrion), p. 167.

[17] ANQM., no. 607, 15 July 1837.

[18] Ibid, Bernard, Philippe, Amury Girod, Un Suisse chez les Patriotes du Bas-Canada, p. 167.

[19] Messier, p. 254.

[20] ANQM, nos. 837-838-839, 14 July 1837.

[21] ANQM, no. 669, 14 July 1837.

[22] Ibid, Bernard, Philippe, Amury Girod, Un Suisse chez les Patriotes du Bas-Canada, p. 168.

[23] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 35.

[24] Ibid, Meunie, Pierre, L’insurrection à Saint-Charles et le Seigneur Debartzch is the most detailed account.

[25] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 257 and Choquette, Mgr C.-P., Histoire de la Ville de Saint-Hyacinthe, (Richer et fils), 1930, p. 131

[26] Le Populaire, 27 September; La Minerve, 12 October 1837.

[27] Le Populaire, 16 October 1837.

[28] Le Populaire, 27 September; La Minerve, 12 October 1837.

[29] La Minerve, 14 and 18 September 1837.

[30] La Minerve, 12 October 1837; Le Populaire, 16 October 1837.

[31] Le Populaire, 2 October 1837.

[32] La Minerve, 14 September 1837.

[33] La Minerve, 14 September 1837.

[34] Le Populaire, 13 and 29 September 1837; Chabot, Richard, Le Curé de campagne et la Contestation locale au Québec de 1791 aux, troubles de 1837-38: La querelle des écoles, l’affaire des fabriques et le problème des insurrections de 1837-38, (Hurtubise HMH), 1975, p. 212.

[35] Ibid, Chabot, Richard, Le Curé de campagne et la Contestation locale au Québec de 1791 aux, troubles de 1837-38, pp. 212-213.

[36] Lamonde, Yvan, Histoire sociale des idées au Québec (1760-1896): Vol. I, (Les Éditions Fides), 2000, p. 246; ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 51.

[37] Richard, J.-B., Les événements de 1837 à Saint-Denis-sur-Richelieu, (Société d’Histoire régionale de Saint-Hyacinthe), 1938, pp. 17-18.

[38] Bibaud, M., Histoire du Canada, sous la domination française, 3rd ed., Montreal, 1878, pp. 454-456

[39] Le Populaire, 2 October 1837.

[40] Le Populaire, 2 October 1837.

[41] La Minerve, 12 October 1837.

[42] Ibid, Greer, Allan, The Patriots and the People: The Rebellion of 1837 in rural Lower Canada, p. 198.

[43] La Minerve, 12 October 1837; Le Populaire, 2 October 1837 ; Allaire, Jean-Baptiste, Histoire de la paroisse de Saint-Denis, (Imprimerie du Courier de Saint-Hyacinthe), 1905, p. 346

[44] Le Populaire, 2 October 1837.

[45] Le Populaire, 2 October 1837.

[46] Le Populaire, 2 October 1837.

[47] Courier Inquirier, 6 October 1837.

[48] Le Populaire, 16 October 1837.

[49] Le Populaire, 7 March 1838.

[50] Archives Nationales du Québec, fonds P224, no. 146.

[51] Balmer, Randall, and Randall, Catharine, ‘“Her Duty to Canada”: Henriette Feller and French Protestantism in Quebec’, Church History, Vol. 70, (2001), pp. 49-72, examines her role as a Protestant missionary. See also, Hardy, R., Contrôle social et mutation de la culture religieuse au Québec, 1830-1930, (Boréal), 1999, pp. 30-35.

Factory reform: extending the early legislation, 1850-1880

The Ten Hours Act, together with the repeal of the Corn Laws, came to be regarded as part of the symbolic ‘social settlement’ underpinning the apparent social harmony of the mid-Victorian period. The absence of factory acts became part of a collective memory of the ‘bad old days’, an unacceptable face of capitalism that no doubt helped to make its current face seem more benign. From the 1860s, the factory agitation could be recalled as part of the general progress of society. For employers, the improvements associated with the Acts became part of an image of the well-regulated factory as the site of that economic, social and moral progress that the Victorian middle-classes liked to represent as its mission in life. The factory inspectors saw themselves as agents of moral improvement among workers as much as their protectors from unscrupulous employers.

The Factory movement as such disappeared in the 1850s with great success to its credit. As yet the legislation applied only to textiles and Ashley, who in 1851 became the seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, continued the battle in Parliament to extend legislation to unprotected trades. In many respects, however, 1850 remained the legislative high water mark.

The first phase occurred naturally, if somewhat illogically, on the hitherto excluded textile industries and their satellites such as bleaching and dyeing. This process had begun in 1845 when the 1844 Act was extended to calico printing. Next the great range of other child-employing industries where working conditions and arrangements were similar to those in cotton manufacture came under review. These included pottery, the metal trades, paper-making, chemicals, glassworks and printing. Finally the principle of comparability was applied to units of production, whatever their size.

In the 1850s, the colour green became extremely popular as it was seen as new and modern. New colouring agents made green greener than ever before. Unfortunately arsenic was an important part of the process and as a result was liberally released into the atmosphere. Green wallpaper was a killer and when one Limehouse family lost four children the green wallpaper in their bedroom was analysed and every square foot was found to contain a lethal dose. Manufacturers, however, persistently denied that there was a problem among them William Morris who used green pigments widely and never accepted that they were harmful. For those who worked with these green pigments, especially in the fashion trade, this could prove fatal. They developed sores, ilcers and skin loss and the death of Matilda Scheurer, aged 19, made headlines. There was no disagreement about what killed her, the issue was whether it justified restricting the use of arsenic in manufacture. A leading medical journal decided that it was not the business of the state to ‘hinder...young women from destroying themselves for a beggarly livelihood’.[1] Parliament agreed; foreigners might introduce legislation but that was not the British way! More importantly perhaps, arsenic was valuable for trade. In 1883, the National Health Society drew up a list of safeguards for the use of arsenic, but none of them became law. [2]

In 1862, Shaftesbury suggested the establishment of the Children’s Employment Commission to inquire into the conditions in the unregulated trades. By 1866, the Commission had published five reports that the Russell government was preparing to act on. The last report was published in 1867 and drew attention to the practice of employing women and children in gangs in some agricultural counties.[3] The minority Conservative government took up these plans and in 1867 produced two measures: the Factory Act Extension Act and the Hours of Labour Regulation Act that applied to premises including private houses with less than fifty workers. The former applied to premises with more than fifty employees in industries such as metalwork, printing, paper and glassworks, while the main effects of the latter were felt in clothing. Children under eight years were forbidden to work and older children were required to have ten hours’ schooling a week. Young people and women were also protected, and in all the measures affected 1.4 million people. The second measure was left to the local authorities instead of the factory inspectorate to enforce and they did it badly. The extension of the jurisdiction of the inspectorate to cover the handicrafts had to wait until 1878. By 1870, over 1,000 lives were still being lost in mining accidents each year. In 1872, the Coal Mines Regulation Act introduced the requirement for pit managers to have state certification of their training. Miners were also given the right to appoint inspectors from among themselves. The Mines Regulation Act, passed in 1881, empowered the Home Secretary to hold inquiries into the causes of mine accidents. It remained clear, however, that there were many aspects of mining that required further intervention and regulation.

By the late 1860s over a wide range of industries the abolition of infant labour, the reduction of the hours of children to six and a half, the principles of ‘protected classes’ of children, young persons and women in the mills and workshops, the 60 hour week all round, compulsory education over the age of eight and rudimentary forms of the modern working week and of factory safety and health codes had been achieved. The circle of exceptions was ever-widening but it remained and this meant continued gross abuse of infant, child, adolescent and female labour elsewhere.

The next decade saw the consolidation of early Victorian factory reform. The electoral consequences of the 1867 Reform Act were felt much more powerfully in the general election of 1874 than in 1868.[4] Factory hours were an issue, especially in Lancashire during the election. The result was a spate of legislation on factories and trade unions introduced by Disraeli’s Conservative administration (1874-1880): in 1874 and 1878 there were factory acts and in 1875 the Trade Union Act, Conspiracy and Protection of Property Act and the repeal of the remaining master and servant legislation. The 1874 Factory Act was the work of Richard Cross, Disraeli’s Home Secretary. It finally established the ten-hour day, the historic working-class goal, as far as the factories and workshops embraced in the 1867 legislation were concerned. It carried forward for the first time in a quarter of a century the frontier of regulation: the minimum age of half-time employment was raised from eight (which it had been since 1844) to ten; the minimum age for full-time employment was raised from thirteen (which it had been since 1833) to fourteen; and, women and young persons were specifically included in the body of ‘protected persons’, who were to receive the benefits of the ten-hour day. Men were deliberately excluded: they gained the ten-hour day not in their own right but through the accident of working side by side with the protected persons. The Factory Act 1878, followed from a Royal Commission established in 1876, and, though the more comprehensive act, it was essentially a consolidating Act pulling together all the provisions into one scheme.

The depression of the 1870s inclined some to argue that factory reform had gone too far and indeed was a major cause of the country‘s failure to keep up with her new industrial competitors. By that time, however, the principle of state intervention had been well established and could not be reversed. Children, young people and women at work were the responsibility of the state, secured by legal provisions enforceable through a bureaucratic machine. The effectiveness of the provision depended on the effectiveness of the inspectorate itself. The size of the inspectorate meant that it was always unlikely that there would be comprehensive coverage. In coal mining, only one inspector (H.S. Tremenheere) was appointed in 1842 and it was not until the Coal Mines Inspection Act 1850 that officials were empowered to make underground inspections. The number of inspectors was raised to four in 1850, six in 1852 and twelve in 1855. Even this gave each inspector an impossibly large area to administer and this was equally true of the factory inspectorate where a reorganisation in 1839 left each inspector some 1,500 mills to supervise with the assistance of four superintendents. The total establishment for the factory inspectorate was raised to about twenty in 1839, at which level it remained for some thirty years. The inspectors were also hampered by inadequate budgets: in the mid-1860s, the mines inspectorate had a budget of only £10,000 while that of the factory inspectorate was about a third more. [5]

The inspectorates were never intended as an industrial police force supervising industry’s every move. They were intended to create a moral climate of observance by the principle of inspection. Indeed, it was strongly believed that inspectors should not take from employers the ultimate responsibility for running decent industrial establishments. Almost inevitably the inspectors did not act in concert as a unified service; in fact the 1876 Royal Commission questioned whether any unified policy existed. It was therefore common for inspectors to have different prosecution rates and to concentrate on different sorts of offences. In matters of fencing and safety at work the inspectorate was often quite ineffectual in raising standards but in other areas there were much greater levels of success. Well over three-quarters of prosecutions were successful and at times the rate was over 90%. This was, in part, the result of prosecuting only in those cases that had a good chance of success.

The legislation of the 1870s represented the consummation of the early Victorian endeavour. ‘Protection’ was an unchallenged principle. Despite the changes in emphasis and disagreements within the factory debate, the combatants of 1833 soon found common ground in the notion of ‘freedom of contract’ as expressed by John Stuart Mill in his Principles of political economy. Mill started from the proposition that every individual was the best judge of his own interests and should be free to pursue them without interference from the state. However, he recognised that there were circumstances when this was unacceptable. The issue was one of defining where and why the overriding proposition justified state action. Mill accepted three circumstances in which state intervention was acceptable. First, children and ‘young persons’ could not be the best judges of their own interest: for them ‘freedom of contract’ was often ‘but another name for freedom of coercion’.[6] This is the essence of liberal paternalism. Secondly, in such an area as education, since good judgement itself might depend upon being subjected to it, compulsion was justifiable.[7] Finally, there were ‘matters in which the interference of law was required, not to overrule the judgement of individuals respecting their own interests, but to give effect to that judgement’. So, if some employers wished to establish a ten-hour day, they might be restrained from pursuing what they conceive to be in their own best interests because their rivals resisted the innovation. Here all would have to be coerced if ‘the judgement of individuals respecting their own interests’ were to be given effect. [8] This can be seen in Cross’s speech to the Commons in 1874 when he paid lip-service to the old Chadwick doctrine of the free agent

So far as adult males are concerned there could be no question that freedom of contract must be maintained and men must be left to take care of themselves.[9]

The legislation of 1874 and 1878 may have marked a ‘victorious’ climax to a phase but there were harbingers of a new era. In the early 1870s, several bills were introduced in the Commons proposing a nine-hour day for men as for protected persons; and the Royal Commission of 1876 entered at length into the consideration of both health and hygiene in factories. These were early indicators that the battle was to move on to new ground.


[1] Medical Times & Gazette, Vol. 2, (J. & A. Churchill), 1861, 30 November 1861, p. 558.

[2] Ibid, Whorton, James C., The Arsenic Century: How Victorian Britain was Poisoned at Home, Work and Play, pp. 294-323.

[3] These gangs worked long hours under so-called gang-masters who frequently exploited and abused their workers. By the Agricultural Gangs Act 1888 all gang-masters had to be licensed by JPs, no boy or girl under eight was to be employed, and a licensed gang-mistress was necessary when women and girls were included in the gang.

[4] Maehl, W. H., ‘Gladstone, the Liberals, and the election of 1874’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research, Vol. 36, (1963), pp. 53-69.

[5] Crooks, Eddie, The factory inspectors: a legacy of the industrial revolution, (Tempus), 2005.

[6] Mill, J.S., Principles of Political Economy with Some of Their Applications to Social Philosophy: With Some of Their Applications to Social Philosophy, 2 Vols. (C.C. Little & J. Brown), 1848, Vol. 2, pp. 532-536.

[7] Ibid, Mill, J.S., Principles of Political Economy, pp. 528-532.

[8] Ibid, Mill, J.S., Principles of Political Economy, p. 552-554.

[9] Hansard, HC Deb, 6 May 1874, Vol. 218, cc1740-1803, at 1793-1794.

Thursday, 6 January 2011

Paramilitary Loyalism

The formation of the national societies and the MCA and QCA with their branch associations provided a broadly constitutionalist approach to loyalism. As extra-parliamentary organisations, they sought to influence government, criticise policy when necessary and lobby on behalf of their own interests. Although this may have been a legitimate means of challenging the growing hegemony of the Parti Patriote and the wider Patriote movement, its impact of colonial policy in the mid-1830s was limited since it was grounded in the need for some form of conciliation with the Patriote movement as a means of heading off more extreme republican demands. It was the growing physical rather than ideological threat from radical Patriotes that resulted in the formation of loyalist paramilitary groups from late 1835.

British Rifle Corps

The British Rifle Corps (BRC) only existed between 12 December 1835 and 20 January 1836, but was extremely active. During its 39 days, it held 13 activities and 7 meetings.[1] The formation of the BRC is often associated with the MCA because it was formed immediately after its decision to form committees of vigilance in Montreal. [2] However, Filteau argued that Adam Thom[3] was behind the formation of the BRC and its reorganisation as the British Legion which he did not distinguish from the Doric Club. [4]

On 12 December 1835, a meeting was called at the Jones Long Room as the result of an anonymous message in the Montreal Gazette. Around 400 people attended and decided that it was necessary to establish a paramilitary group to protect the interests of the British population. Three days later, a committee was instructed to obtain arms and munitions. It also decided to inform Gosford of their intentions and seek his approval: a letter to that effect was sent on 22 December. The signatories of the letter were individuals active in the MCA: Dr Thomas Arnoldi, son of the founder of the German Society and Francis Hunter, member of the central committee of the MCA, both future members of the Doric Club; Robert Weir, member of the MCA, Aaron P. Hart, lawyer and Robert McKay. [5]

On 28 December, through Walcott his civil secretary, Gosford responded to the letter refusing to ratify the formation of the BRC. He argued that the interests of the British inhabitants of the colony were not threatened and that, even if they were, those interests would be best protected by British regular troops. For Gosford, the formation of a paramilitary organisation was an affront to public order in a time of peace.[6] The BRC received the response on 31 December and sent a further letter to Gosford in which they clarified their intentions and sought to refute his argument that the colony was peaceful. Above all, the second letter sought to show that British interests were under threat. It denounced the activities of Papineau especially his seditious language and the revolutionary ideas being spread by the French Canadian deputies in the Assembly designed to spread a spirit of hatred for the British. Both the violence that accompanied the 1834 elections and the incendiary letter by Clément Sabrevois de Bleury, a militia captain who called for greater commitment by his men in training for military action were used to justify the BRC’s position. [7]

On 7 January, the group met again with their numbers swelled to 600 people who marched to the Place-d’Armes.[8] However, on 15 January, Gosford with the support of the Executive Council ordered the dissolution of the BRC and declared it illegal and unconstitutional. As a result, the BRC held a dissolution meeting on 20 January. Although the group dissolved, several of its members were outraged at being treated as traitors and send a new letter to Gosford to express their opposition. [9] This group formed the Montreal British Legion, a non-military organisation. Some of the younger members of the BRC joined the Doric Club, a more radical and paramilitary organisation.

The Doric Club

Adam Thom increasingly believed that it was necessary to establish a social club and paramilitary organisation to counter the threat from ‘French domination’. His articles in the Montreal Herald were aimed at the members of the short-lived BRC, banned by Gosford in January 1836. It was from among its younger and more militant and radical members that the Doric Club evolved. [10] It became ‘the armed and secret wing of the Constitutionalists and was organised and led by John Shay, a young anglophone from Montreal’. [11] Gosford estimated that it had as many of 2,000 members.

On 16 March 1836, the young loyalists published their manifesto. The group was largely tolerated by Colborne despite Gosford’s opposition. The manifesto made clear its members’ opposition to the policy of tolerating and conciliating the French Canadians

If we are deserted by the British government and the British people, rather than submit to the degradation of being subject of a French-Canadian republic, we are determined by our own right arms to work out our deliverance...we are ready...to pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.

The manifesto was only signed by one person: Dr Thomas Walter Jones, a descendent of one of the earliest British settlers in Montreal and a noble French Canadian family. This has led some historians to argue that the loyalist organisations were now involved in conflict at national level and that they opposed French Canadian domination over British subjects. Gérard Filteau argues that the formation of the Doric Club was part of a British conspiracy led by British officials who channelled loyalist fears and, as a result, deliberately raised levels of tension between the British and French Canadians.[12] The growing conflict between loyalists and supporters of the Parti Patriote came to a head in the street fighting in Montreal on 6 November 1837 between members of the Doric Club and supporters of the Fils de la Liberté.


[1] Ibid, Muzzo, Johanne, Les mouvements réformiste et constitutionnel à Montréal, 1834-1837, p. 95.

[2] Ibid, Muzzo, Johanne, Les mouvements réformiste et constitutionnel à Montréal, 1834-1837, p. 102.

[3] ‘Adam Thom’, DCB, Vol. 12, pp. 874-877.

[4] Filteau, Gerard, Histoire des patriotes, 3 Vols. Montreal, 1939-1941, p. 171.

[5] Christie, Robert, History of the late province of Lower Canada, 1791-1841, 6 Vols. Québec, 1848-1855, Vol 4, pp. 147-148.

[6] Ibid, Christie, Robert, History of the late province of Lower Canada, 1791-1841, Vol. 4, pp. 143-144.

[7] Ibid, pp. 143-147.

[8] Ibid, Muzzo, Johanne, Les mouvements réformiste et constitutionnel à Montréal, 1834-1837, p. 98.

[9] Ibid, Christie, Robert, History of the late province of Lower Canada, 1791-1841, Vol. 4, pp. 144-145.

[10] Senior, Elinor Kyte, Les habits rouges et les Patriotes, (Vlb éditeur), 1997, p. 32.

[11] Ibid, Senior, Elinor Kyte, Les habits rouges et les Patriotes, p. 32

[12] Filteau, Gérard, Histoire des Patriotes, (Les éditions Univer), 1980, pp. 292-293.