The Collier, by Robert Havell (1814). Image: Science and Society Picture Library
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To be continued: how much has English society changed since 1714?

Much has changed in English culture since 1710. But a new book argues our systems of power are less different than we might think.

Very Different, but Much the Same: the Evolution of English Society Since 1714
W G Runciman
Oxford University Press, 208pp, £30

Every exam season, thousands of history students are asked to look at a big event or a period of time in a nation’s past and explain it by assessing the extent to which it represented “continuity” or “change”. They thrash away at, say, the birth of the Industrial Revolution in mid- and late-18th-century Britain, striving to reach some kind of judgement about whether it would best be ascribed to a quickening of the pace of the country’s long-established advantages or to a clutch of inventors and brilliant entrepreneurs who brought on a huge and rapid change in economic life.

The better candidates scribble away, noting that the population had been growing for decades and that there had been a stable political system that was beneficial to investment long before figures such as Matthew Boulton or Josiah Wedgwood emerged and created the sinews of a more complex economy. The examinee must judiciously mention these factors, and many more, and weigh them up. Some might see this as an exercise in carefully crafting fudge but it is what a great deal of historical writing does, not merely in essays by students, and there is nothing untoward in providing the reader with a conscientious balancing act of continuity and change. It often makes for good and rich history.

Garry Runciman’s juggling of continuity and change is a much more intellectually ambitious affair. The sage of British sociology and chair of the Royal Commission on Criminal Justice in the 1990s sweeps across centuries, showing scant interest in the impact of celebrated historical figures and focusing very little on individual military, political or industrial events that others of a more orthodox disposition might consider “turning points”. He is an evolutionary sociologist, using the language of Darwin to survey 300 years of English (and sometimes British) political, economic and ideological history in 200 or so densely written pages.

Changes in education, religious practice, law and order or political affiliation are described in terms of adaptation, reproduction of mutant behaviour, variation, design advantage and co-evolution. He borrows, with attribution, from Richard Dawkins, too, using his word “meme” to describe how information-affecting behaviour is transmitted from one mind to another. Neither his method nor his vocabulary makes for a light read but they are worth the effort.

Runciman’s starting point – and his yardstick for change – is Daniel Defoe’s A Tour Through the Whole Island of Great Britain, written in the 1720s, in which he mused at length on politics, religion, commerce and human foibles. But despite the suggestion from Runciman’s title that equal weight is given to difference and sameness in his anatomy of 300 years of English history, his principal argument is bolder than that. Yes, since Defoe, there have been innumerable changes in lifestyles and mores, as well as in Britain’s political place in the wider world, and he provides a long list of developments that would leave Defoe baffled if he were alive: the rise of sexual tolerance, the change in the roles occupied by women, the moderation of criminal punishment, the spread of literacy, the decline in religious observance, the vast panoply of technological devices at our disposal – and much else besides. However, when it comes to power, the types of people who have it and how it is distributed, Runciman yanks very hard the other way. Defoe, he claims, would have no trouble recognising our “institutional modes of coercion, persuasion and production”. In a nutshell, political, economic and ideological institutions have been impervious to substantial change.

This is an uncompromising conclusion but it is suffused neither with anger nor with a cerebral version of Russell Brand-like cynicism about all aspects of political or economic life. There is a lot of subtlety on display; for instance, over the continuing resentment of many in the working classes to the intrusion of the state on matters relating to health, schooling, housing or licensing laws.

Runciman asserts that, throughout the period, English society can fairly be described as democratic, liberal and capitalist and he is not a subscriber to the idea that all change counts for nought. He sees that universal suffrage is not, as the 19th-century French anarchist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon would have it, “a device to make the people lie” but that it led to “visible changes in both the volume and the content of legislation reflecting working-class concerns”. Yet when Runciman catalogues various elections, political manoeuvres, party splits and other assorted dramas – from the miscalculation of parliamentary tactics by Gladstone and Disraeli to Michael Foot’s unpopularity and the arrival of Margaret Thatcher and beyond – he does not see that any of these events changed the motors of power: “They had no more influence on the distribution of political power within English society than had the results of the elections in which a small, venal and wholly unrepresentative minority of the adult population had cast their votes in full view of observers in a position to bribe or intimidate them.”

I find myself quarrelling a bit with this. The arrival in Downing Street of Clement Attlee in 1945 or Mrs Thatcher in 1979 seems to me to have counted for more than Runciman is prepared to concede. The ability to go to a doctor without paying at the surgery or to buy your council house was hugely important to millions of people – and the introduction of those rights brought about something of a shift in aspects of ideological and economic power. Maybe these sorts of things do not constitute a wholesale overhaul in the structure of power but they were felt as big differences by those who experienced them. I am left unsure as to what would satisfy him that something truly fundamental had occurred – other than the scale of upheaval involved in the French or Russian Revolutions or the rise of fascism, all of which he mentions by way of contrast with the stability of the English state.

Runciman’s is a cool intellect and he wants us to concentrate on “the practices rather than the people”. So only occasionally, mostly in touching vignettes at the
end of chapters, does he get drawn into describing lives and hopes. This is a long way away from the flesh-and-blood approach of The Making of the English Working Class by E P Thompson – a book that in its own way also deals with power – or the descriptions of “ordinary” life provided recently by the likes of Jenny Uglow in her study of Britain during the Napoleonic wars and Vic Gatrell in his studies of 18th-century London.

Underneath Runciman’s fiercely analytical approach, however, you sense a deeply humane temperament, and his perspective adds much to our understanding of why, despite many outbreaks of “enmity and discord”, England’s history since the Glorious Revolution of 1688 is so different from that of the rest of Europe. He believes that once the Hanoverian succession was assured, there was almost no chance of either monarchical absolutism or military dictatorship taking hold. There were just too many impediments, institutional and cultural.

State power, throughout, has been challenged and checked. There is in Runciman not a scintilla of complacent superiority but, yes, the English are different.

Mark Damazer is Master of St Peter’s College, Oxford

This article first appeared in the 30 January 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Class Ceiling

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This Ada Lovelace Day, let’s celebrate women in tech while confronting its sexist culture

In an industry where men hold most of the jobs and write most of the code, celebrating women's contributions on one day a year isn't enough. 

Ada Lovelace wrote the world’s first computer program. In the 1840s Charles Babbage, now known as the “father of the computer”, designed (though never built) the “Analytical Engine”, a machine which could accurately and reproducibly calculate the answers to maths problems. While translating an article by an Italian mathematician about the machine, Lovelace included a written algorithm for which would allow the engine to calculate a sequence of Bernoulli numbers.

Around 170 years later, Whitney Wolfe, one of the founders of dating app Tinder, was allegedly forced to resign from the company. According to a lawsuit she later filed against the app and its parent company, she had her co-founder title removed because, the male founders argued, it would look “slutty”, and because “Facebook and Snapchat don’t have girl founders. It just makes it look like Tinder was some accident". (They settled out of court.)

Today, 13 October, is Ada Lovelace day – an international celebration of inspirational women in science, technology, engineering and mathematics (STEM). It’s lucky we have this day of remembrance, because, as Wolfe’s story demonstrates, we also spend a lot of time forgetting and sidelining women in tech. In the wash of pale male founders of the tech giants that rule the industry,we don't often think about the women that shaped its foundations: Judith Estrin, one of the designers of TCP/IP, for example, or Radia Perlman, inventor of the spanning-tree protocol. Both inventions sound complicated, and they are – they’re some of the vital building blocks that allow the internet to function. 

And yet David Streitfield, a Pulitzer-prize winning journalist, someow felt it accurate to write in 2012: “Men invented the internet. And not just any men. Men with pocket protectors. Men who idolised Mr Spock and cried when Steve Jobs died.”

Perhaps we forget about tech's founding women because the needle has swung so far into the other direction. A huge proportion – perhaps even 90 per cent - of the world’s code is written by men. At Google, women fill 17 per cent of technical roles. At Facebook, 15 per cent. Over 90 per cent of the code respositories on Github, an online service used throughout the industry, are owned by men. Yet it's also hard to believe that this erasure of women's role in tech is completely accidental. As Elissa Shevinsky writes in the introduction to a collection of essays on gender in tech, Lean Out: “This myth of the nerdy male founder has been perpetuated by men who found this story favourable."

Does it matter? It’s hard to believe that it doesn’t. Our society is increasingly defined and delineated by code and the things it builds. Small slip-ups, like the lack of a period tracker on the original Apple Watch, or fitness trackers too big for some women’s wrists, gesture to the fact that these technologies are built by male-dominated teams, for a male audience.

In Lean Out, one essay written by a Twitter-based “start-up dinosaur” (don’t ask) explains how dangerous it is to allow one small segment of society to built the future for the rest of us:

If you let someone else build tomorrow, tomorrow will belong to someone else. They will build a better tomorrow for everyone like them… For tomorrow to be for everyone, everyone needs to be the one [sic] that build it.

So where did all the women go? How did we get from a rash of female inventors to a situation where the major female presence at an Apple iPhone launch is a model’s face projected onto a screen and photoshopped into a smile by a male demonstrator? 

Photo: Apple.

The toxic culture of many tech workplaces could be a cause or an effect of the lack of women in the industry, but it certainly can’t make make it easy to stay. Behaviours range from the ignorant - Martha Lane-Fox, founder of, often asked “what happens if you get pregnant?” at investors' meetings - to the much more sinister. An essay in Lean Out by Katy Levinson details her experiences of sexual harassment while working in tech: 

I have had interviewers attempt to solicit sexual favors from me mid-interview and discuss in significant detail precisely what they would like to do. All of these things have happened either in Silicon Valley working in tech, in an educational institution to get me there, or in a technical internship.

Others featured in the book joined in with the low-level sexism and racism  of their male colleagues in order to "fit in" and deflect negative attention. Erica Joy writes that while working in IT at the University of Alaska as the only woman (and only black person) on her team, she laughed at colleagues' "terribly racist and sexist jokes" and "co-opted their negative attitudes”. 

The casual culture and allegedly meritocratic hierarchies of tech companies may actually be encouraging this discriminatory atmosphere. HR and the strict reporting procedures of large corporates at least give those suffering from discrimination a place to go. A casual office environment can discourage reporting or calling out prejudiced humour or remarks. Brook Shelley, a woman who transitioned while working in tech, notes: "No one wants to be the office mother". So instead, you join in and hope for the best. 

And, of course, there's no reason why people working in tech would have fewer issues with discrimination than those in other industries. A childhood spent as a "nerd" can also spawn its own brand of misogyny - Katherine Cross writes in Lean Out that “to many of these men [working in these fields] is all too easy to subconciously confound women who say ‘this is sexist’ with the young girls who said… ‘You’re gross and a creep and I’ll never date you'". During GamerGate, Anita Sarkeesian was often called a "prom queen" by trolls. 

When I spoke to Alexa Clay, entrepreneur and co-author of the Misfit Economy, she confirmed that there's a strange, low-lurking sexism in the start-up economy: “They have all very open and free, but underneath it there's still something really patriarchal.” Start-ups, after all, are a culture which celebrates risk-taking, something which women are societally discouraged from doing. As Clay says, 

“Men are allowed to fail in tech. You have these young guys who these old guys adopt and mentor. If his app doesn’t work, the mentor just shrugs it off. I would not be able ot get away with that, and I think women and minorities aren't allowed to take the same amount of risks, particularly in these communities. If you fail, no one's saying that's fine.

The conclusion of Lean Out, and of women in tech I have spoken to, isn’t that more women, over time, will enter these industries and seamlessly integrate – it’s that tech culture needs to change, or its lack of diversity will become even more severe. Shevinsky writes:

The reason why we don't have more women in tech is not because of a lack of STEM education. It's because too many high profile and influential individuals and subcultures within the tech industry have ignored or outright mistreated women applicants and employees. To be succinct—the problem isn't women, it's tech culture.

Software engineer Kate Heddleston has a wonderful and chilling metaphor about the way we treat women in STEM. Women are, she writes, the “canary in the coal mine”. If one dies, surely you should take that as a sign that the mine is uninhabitable – that there’s something toxic in the air. “Instead, the industry is looking at the canary, wondering why it can’t breathe, saying ‘Lean in, canary, lean in!’. When one canary dies they get a new one because getting more canaries is how you fix the lack of canaries, right? Except the problem is that there isn't enough oxygen in the coal mine, not that there are too few canaries.” We need more women in STEM, and, I’d argue, in tech in particular, but we need to make sure the air is breatheable first. 

Barbara Speed is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman and a staff writer at CityMetric.