Capitalism's Conscience: 200 Years of the Guardian

Introduction:

‘Just the Establishment’?

Des Freedman

The Guardian is not a left-wing newspaper. It publishes left-wing columnists, is read by people on the left and has a reputation for identifying with left-wing positions. But it is not a title of the left; it is not affiliated to nor was it borne out of left-wing movements. It has never been a consistent ally of socialist or anti-imperialist voices and has failed to perform for the left what titles like the Mail and the Telegraph have done for their constituencies on the right.

Instead it is the home of a vigorous liberalism that consistently outrages voices to its right and, equally regularly, disappoints its critics on the left. If the Economist can be described as the ‘lodestar’1 of a certain type of laissez-faire liberalism, then the Guardian can be seen as the harbinger of a more progressive, socially conscious form of liberalism that combines support for existing social relations with appeals to ‘enlightened’ views and a ‘moral conviction’, in the words of its current editor Katharine Viner, that ‘we are all of equal worth’.2 This is a liberalism that can pursue equality, celebrate diversity and extol emancipation whilst simultaneously defending the institutions that give rise to inequality, discrimination and militarism. It is a liberalism that is based on a commitment to liberty that ‘has provided an ideological bulwark against authoritarianism [but that] has also always been connected to the configurations of the liberal democratic capitalist state’.3 That is why we describe it here as ‘capitalism’s conscience’.

In May 2021, the Guardian turned 200. From its inception in Manchester in 1821 as a response to the murder of ordinary people by soldiers in the 1819 Peterloo Massacre to its historic identification with centrist and centre-left politics, the Guardian has remained a key institution for the definition and development of liberalism. The stereotype of the ‘Guardianista’, an environmentally conscious, Labour-voting, progressively minded public sector worker remains part of the popular mythology of British press history.

Yet the title has a complex lineage.

The Guardian advocated the abolition of slavery in the US, favoured Home Rule for Ireland, stood virtually alone in the national press in criticising the Boer War and exposing the existence of British concentration camps, backed women’s suffrage, supported the Republican cause in the Spanish Civil War and opposed UK military intervention during the Suez crisis. While Friedrich Engels described it as the ‘organ of the middle-class’ in his Conditions of the Working-Class in England, he was nevertheless heavily reliant on it as a source of data for his study of poverty in nineteenth-century Manchester.4 The Guardian has since published some of the most celebrated examples of investigative journalism, which in recent years include the breaking of the phone hacking story, Edward Snowden’s revelations of US and UK surveillance programmes and the uncovering of the Windrush scandal in 2018.

On the other hand, the Guardian owes its existence to a cotton merchant determined to head off more radical ideas at the start of the Industrial Revolution. Some 40 years after its founding, it criticised Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation and refused to back Manchester cotton workers who, following Lincoln’s plea, were boycotting the raw cotton picked by US slaves. It condemned direct action taken by the suffragette movement, opposed the creation of the National Health Service, has at various times called for a vote for the Conservatives, Social Democrats and Liberal Democrats (rather than Labour), supported the First Gulf War and the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia and consistently denigrated Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership of the Labour Party between 2015 and 2020. It has both fiercely defended the need for fearless, independent journalism and handed over documents and hard drives to the authorities; it has carved out a niche for itself in the UK press market as an occasionally bold and angry voice but has also consistently diminished more radical projects to the left.

Its business model shows signs of some of the same contradictions. Following its origins in the Manchester business community, it was then controlled by a trust after 1936, and has therefore been partially protected from the proprietorial interference that its counterparts have always faced. It has led the way in innovative design and formats, was the first British title to set up a reader’s editor, established editions in the US and Australia and now champions a membership model with some one million people who have either signed up to the scheme or made a one-off contribution. The Guardian now proclaims on every page that it is ‘[a]vailable for everyone, funded by readers’ and its editor insists that its ‘ownership structure means we are entirely independent and free from political and commercial influence’.5

At the same time, it has ramped up its commercial orientation: the Scott Trust was wound up in 2008 and replaced by a private company, Scott Trust Ltd, with a mandate to secure its financial future in a much tougher marketplace. This has led to a series of commercial partnerships, rarely acknowledged openly, including 346 such relationships in 2014 alone and the creation of branded content opportunities through the Guardian Labs team together with extensive philanthropic partnerships with a range of individuals and foundations.6 Of course it is by no means the only news organisation pursuing these commercial opportunities, however its online partnerships with, companies such as BT, Unilever and Philips in its ‘Sustainable Business’ section, are bound to test its claim that it is a unique and wholly independent voice in global journalism.7

The current editor is aware of this complex history and acknowledges some of the ‘missteps’, as she describes them, in the paper’s record. Indeed, she admits that the newspaper ‘began to drift from the political ideals that had inspired its founding’ after the death of its founder John Edward Taylor in 1844 and suggests that its support for the Confederates in the US Civil War marked a ‘period of complacency’ that was out of kilter with its liberal origins. It has, she argues, not always lived up to its own values and its newsroom still falls short of the diversity necessary to truly serve a multicultural public. She has, however, promised that the title will now ‘challenge the economic assumptions of the last three decades’, ‘challenge the powerful’ and ‘use clarity and imagination to build hope’.8

This collection seeks to examine these claims and to contest the notion that the Guardian has ever been a reliable ally for the left. It is by no means a comprehensive overview of the Guardian’s history, journalism, business model or newsroom culture. It does not seek to emulate the official biographies that already exist: William Haslam Mills’ centenary book on The Manchester Guardian (with an introduction by the then editor C.P. Scott) and the subsequent volume by former Guardian journalist David Ayerst that was published on its 150th anniversary in 1971 (with copyright held by Guardian Newspapers Ltd). A third official biography is due to be published to coincide with the bicentenary but, in any case, our book is designed not to provide an impartial or disinterested overview of the Guardian’s record but to propose an analysis from the left of some prominent controversies in which the paper has been involved.

The book opens with a challenge to the widely promoted view that the Guardian was founded as a direct response to the Peterloo Massacre of 1819 in order to extend the mass movement for democracy and workers’ rights. Instead, we provide a radical narrative that argues that the title was intimately connected to the interests and emerging liberal orientations of a section of the Manchester business community that sought not radical change but social stability. Aaron Ackerley then provides an analysis of the Guardian’s political economy: its business model, its emergence as a Trust, its plans for the future and the endless conflict between commercial and editorial priorities.

Former editor-at-large, Gary Younge, reflects on life as a working-class black journalist at the Guardian and considers how its liberalism permeated its newsroom culture and editorial agendas. Victoria Brittain explores the rise and fall of Third World Review, the weekly section of the newspaper she edited in the 1980s that was dedicated to providing first-hand reports from marginalised voices in parts of the world, notably the Global South, that were then undergoing major social transformations. The Palestinian author and activist Ghada Karmi tackles the Guardian’s record in reporting on Israel and Palestine, which she argues is more favourable than the rest of the UK press but nevertheless shaped by a liberal conception that this is a ‘conflict’ involving two equivalent sides rather than an ‘old-style settler colonialist project’. Alan MacLeod examines how the title has covered the ‘pink tide’ in South America and condemns the paper’s reporting on developments in Bolivia, Brazil, Colombia and Venezuela before concluding that it has ‘attacked progressive movements . . . while failing to hold the region’s right-wing rulers to the same standard’.

Hannah Hamad acknowledges the contribution of the Guardian women’s page to twentieth century liberal feminism and highlights the role of Mary Stott, its editor from 1957 to 1972, in paving the way for ‘second wave’ feminist movements and beyond. Jilly Boyce Kay and Mareile Pfannebecker then identify how a ‘centrist feminism’ came to dominate the Guardian’s coverage of trans issues after 2014, which provided a ‘progressive feminist gloss’ for its broader criticisms of Corbynism and the rise of the left inside the Labour Party.

Investigative journalists Matt Kennard and Mark Curtis of Declassified UK consider how the Guardian went from the title that published Edward Snowden’s revelations about comprehensive state surveillance to a ‘platform trusted by the security state to amplify its information operations’. Informed by interviews with current and former Guardian journalists, they suggest there is an increasingly risk-averse environment, in part caused by the departure of some of its most experienced investigative reporters. Natalie Fenton reflects on a similar trajectory: how the Guardian at once broke the story of phone-hacking in 2009, paving the way for the Leveson Inquiry that later recommended the creation of a more robust form of independent press self-regulation, and then refused to support Leveson’s recommendations. She concludes that ‘if the Guardian saved itself, it did so at the expense of other casualties’.

Justin Schlosberg focuses on the political and economic contexts of the Guardian’s negative framing of the leadership of Jeremy Corbyn and the broader movement of ‘Corbynism’. In particular, his chapter identifies inaccuracies and distortions in its coverage of the antisemitism crisis within the Labour Party. While defending liberal values against a populist insurgency, Schlosberg concludes that the paper eventually came to undermine its own core commitment to ‘the sanctity of facts’. Tom Mills then provides a detailed analysis of the Twitter networks of key Guardian columnists which reveals that they are ensconced in insular networks that are largely oriented towards other journalists and centrist politicians. The Guardian’s commentariat, it appears, is locked inside its own liberal echo chamber.

Mike Berry uses the 2008 financial crisis to explore how the press narrated both the crisis and subsequent developments concerning the UK’s deficit and austerity programme. He argues that, particularly thanks to the tenacity of its economics editor, Larry Elliott, the Guardian was better prepared than most papers to critique mainstream economic thinking but was nevertheless hamstrung by the paucity at that time of radical alternatives to austerity. He suggests that the paper’s coverage of the economic proposals that emerged under Corbynism was more positive than any of its other policies but doubts whether this approach will survive under the leadership of Keir Starmer. Mike Wayne then considers the significance of what he describes as ‘liberal neoliberalism’ in achieving hegemony in the conjunctural moment of Brexit:

The Guardian, as a leading organ of ‘progressive’ neo-liberalism, played a key role in discrediting Corbyn (for whom Brexit was his ‘Achilles heel’), fracturing Labour support along class lines and orchestrating this ‘game of thrones’.

Finally, Katy Brown, Aurelien Mondon and Aaron Winter evaluate the Guardian’s series on ‘The New Populism’ to identify ways in which mainstream media run the risk of ‘euphemising’ and ‘amplifying’ illiberal speech even at the same time as condemning it. While they welcome some of the Guardian’s comment pieces, the authors nevertheless warn how certain tropes around populism and ‘free speech’ have been used to legitimise a ‘false equivalence’ that helps to ‘mainstream’ far right ideas.

In the end, should we simply be disappointed or angered by the Guardian’s social liberalism and dismissal of radical left politics or should we value the space that it continues to provide to voices on the left? Should we reserve our ire for the most pernicious proponents of market fundamentalism and right-wing politics or does it matter even more that liberal voices have been used to condemn movements to their left? Media Lens writers David Cromwell and David Edwards argue that the Guardian, along with the BBC, forms a crucial part of ‘a propaganda system for elite interests’9 while others, including Gary Younge in his chapter for this collection, suggest that we should never have invested our hopes in a title that has an historic relationship to liberal, rather than socialist, values.

Tony Benn put this dilemma very well back in 2008 when reflecting, in his diary, on the Guardian’s affiliation with elite interests and its attraction to power:

The Guardian represents a whole batch of journalists, from moderate right to moderate left – i.e. centre journalists – who, broadly speaking like the status quo. They like the two-party system with no real change. They’re quite happy to live under the aegis of the Americans and NATO; they are very keen on the European Union because the Commissioners control everything. They are very critical of the left, but would also be critical of a wild right-wing movement. They are just the Establishment. It is a society that suits them well. I should think that probably most of them send their kids to private schools. I should think a lot of them don’t use the National Health Service, but they tolerate it as the price you have to pay in order to keep the populace content. They’re not interested in me any more because they don’t think I have any power, and I can’t say I’m very interested in them, except as exhibits in a zoo.10

Yet liberalism is far from a mere sideshow or spectacle and instead constitutes a powerful brake on any radical political project from the left. For all its occasional and welcome forays into investigative journalism, the Guardian – with its huge international audience of some 160 million global monthly browsers11 – plays a key role in marking out a space for liberal politics that is explicitly hostile to transformative social change. In these circumstances, disappointment is surely not a sufficient response. It is essential to build an independent media that tells the story of the left and that more consistently holds power to account, and that is precisely what this collection aims to do: to scrutinise an institution that, in the final instance, is intimately connected to existing relations of power. The Guardian is read by many people on the left but, as with liberal democracy more generally, it does not serve them consistently or adequately in the pursuit of radical social change. This book is an expression not simply of disappointment but of the conviction that we need a very different sort of media if we are to pursue a very different sort of society.

NOTES

  1. Alexander Zevin, Liberalism at Large: The World According to the Economist (London: Verso, 2019), p. 7.

  2. Katharine Viner, ‘A Mission for Journalism in a Time of Crisis’, Guardian , 16 November 2017, www.theguardian.com/news/2017/nov/16/a-mission-for-journalism-in-a-time-of-crisis (accessed 17 October 2020).

  3. Gholam Khiabany, ‘Introduction’ in Alejandro Abraham-Hamanoiel et al. (eds) Liberalism in Neoliberal Times (London: Goldsmiths Press, 2017), p. 4. See also Domenico Losurdo, Liberalism: A Counter-History (London: Verso, 2014).

  4. Friedrich Engels, The Condition of the Working-Class in England (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1943), p. 69.

  5. Viner, ‘A Mission for Journalism’.

  6. Arif Durrani, ‘Why HSBC’s Relationship with the Telegraph and the Guardian is the Press Story of Our Time’, Campaign , 26 February 2015, www.campaignlive.co.uk/article/why-hsbcs-relationship-telegraph-guardian-press-story-time/1335446 ; ‘Philanthropic Partnerships at the Guardian’, 2 October, 2018, www.theguardian.com/info/2018/oct/02/philanthropic-partnerships-at-the-guardian (both accessed 17 October 2020).

  7. See www.theguardian.com/sustainable-business/partnership-opportunities (accessed 17 October 2020).

  8. Viner, ‘A Mission for Journalism’.

  9. David Edwards and David Cromwell, Guardians of Power: The Myth of the Liberal Media (London: Pluto, 2005), p. 2.

10. Tony Benn, A Blaze of Autumn Sunshine: The Last Diaries (London: Arrow Books, 2014), p. 153.

11. See www.advertising.theguardian.com/advertising/media-kit (accessed 17 October 2020).

1

In the Wake of Peterloo? A Radical Account of the Founding of the Guardian

Des Freedman

INTRODUCTION

The Guardian regularly, and proudly, declares that it was born in the aftermath of the Peterloo massacre of August 1819, one of the turning-points in British working-class history. Some 50,000 people attended a mass rally in St Peter’s Fields in Manchester to press for electoral reform and trade union rights and were met with a brutal assault by local yeomanry that led to the deaths of 18 people and widespread outrage against the authorities. Peterloo, argues one historian, ‘was no accident; it was a political earthquake in the northern powerhouse of the industrial revolution’1 that ultimately weakened the grip of the old aristocratic forces and emboldened the movement for reform.

In the crowd that day was John Edward Taylor, a cotton merchant and part-time journalist who wrote up his account of the massacre for The Times, helping to make what might have been contained as a local event into a national sensation. According to the current editor of the Guardian, Katharine Viner, ‘Taylor exposed the facts, without hysteria. By reporting what he had witnessed, he told the stories of the powerless, and held the powerful to account.’2 Peterloo radicalised Taylor and prompted him, in the words of a Guardian feature in 2018, ‘to start his own paper, two years later, to campaign for reform’3 and to pursue a democratic agenda based on truth-telling and a commitment to progressive, liberal values. This paper was the Manchester Guardian, and its supporters argue that it has continued ever since to devote itself to the pursuit of ‘enlightenment values, liberty, reform and justice’.4

This chapter argues that this account of the Guardian’s birth conceals far more than it reveals and glosses over a central fact: that the liberal values espoused by Taylor served to contain, rather than to promote, demands for more fundamental democratic change. Taylor had a far more ambivalent reaction to the events at Peterloo than is widely credited, and launched the Guardian in order to foster a constitutional alternative to radical social forces and to cater to the needs of an increasingly politically confident business community in Manchester. The chapter challenges some of the myths surrounding the founding of the newspaper (not least that it was designed to serve as a fearless advocate of progressive social change and working-class representation), explores the objectives of the group of businessmen who sponsored it and examines its coverage of key reform issues in its first few years.

PETERLOO IN CONTEXT

There is little doubt that the second decade of the nineteenth century was an insurrectionary period in English history. With the French Revolution a recent memory and with basic democratic rights to vote and to organise denied to the vast majority of the population, there was a rebellious mood amongst a growing working-class movement characterised by the smashing up of machinery, huge radical meetings, hunger marches and food riots.5 As Viner notes: ‘The combination of economic depression, political repression and the politicisation of workers with economic need was combustible.’6

This presented a threat not simply to the landed gentry still in power but also to an emerging professional class who were terrified about the prospects of a powerful labour movement. According to John Saville, the middle class at this time ‘never forgot the history of revolutionary France and they were constantly reminded of the problems and the dangers of too rapid change when they listened to the ultra-radical doctrines of their own working people’.7 The choice for the old order in this context was either continued repression or else accommodation to the demands for change. However, in 1819 the latter approach, as E.P. Thompson argues, ‘would have meant concession to a largely working class reform movement; the middle-class reformers were not yet strong enough . . . to offer a moderate line of advance.’8

The violence meted out at Peterloo helped to transform the balance of forces amongst proponents of reform. It exposed the barbarism of the authorities to a national audience and opened the door to liberal reformers to make a case for piecemeal change and thus to pre-empt the need to cave in to radical demands for universal suffrage. Indeed, while the ‘constitutionalist’ wing of the movement gained in confidence following Peterloo, the ‘revolutionary’ wing, facing sustained repression and internal division, temporarily lost its momentum. According to Thompson, once the ‘clamour of 1819 had died down, the middle-class reform movement assumed a more determined aspect’ and the industrial militancy that had characterised that decade died down, at least for a few years.9

In Manchester, this paved the way for liberal-minded business leaders to agitate for parliamentary reform, religious freedom and, above all, free trade. People like Taylor, his good friend and fellow journalist Archibald Prentice, his then business partner John Shuttleworth and his future publisher Jeremiah Garnett were part of what was known as the ‘Little Circle’, a group of Manchester merchants that opposed both the rule of the ‘old order’ and the extension of the franchise to all working people. According to David Knott, the Circle believed that, ‘it was preferable to have a small bourgeois public such as themselves exercising political rights, as they alone would approach this role with objectivity and rationality.’10 Many of its members were connected to the cotton trade, an industry that was intimately linked to and dependent on the profits yielded by slave labour in the Caribbean and US, even though, as individuals, many of them were also active as abolitionists, an apparent contradiction to which we will return later in this chapter.

Peterloo played a key role in the development of the Circle, convincing its members of the need for a new, constitutionally focused political strategy. Knott argues that while Circle members were outraged by the violence they witnessed at Peterloo, ‘they also wanted to distance themselves from the event’ and to channel radical political dissent into ‘deliberative assemblies’ that took the form of ‘rational debate within legally sanctioned indoor local political forums’.11 What they lacked at the time was a vehicle that could articulate their values and promote these assemblies – such as a regular newspaper – and the fallout from Peterloo provided precisely this opportunity.

TAYLOR AND THE LIBERAL RESPONSE TO PETERLOO

The two most recent editors of the Guardian, Alan Rusbridger and Katharine Viner, both identify Peterloo as the main inspiration for the birth of the title. For Viner, the ‘history of the Guardian begins on 16 August 1819’.12 Yet one of the Guardian’s official biographers, David Ayerst, suggests that, far from emerging spontaneously from the battleground of St Peter’s Fields, the idea actually emerged a few months earlier, following Taylor’s victory in a libel case in March 1819 that was brought against him by a Tory politician who accused him of inciting vandalism. ‘It is now plain you have the elements of public work in you,’ remarked a friend of his on the way home from the trial. ‘Why don’t you start a newspaper?’13 Taylor was aggrieved, according to another Guardian biographer, Haslam Mills, not simply that he had been wrongly accused of criminal behaviour but that his Tory opponents had claimed that he was not a ‘moderate reformer’ but a more incendiary one.14 Taylor was already contributing to the liberal Manchester Gazette, but events would propel him to seek a more reliable outlet for his worldview.

Peterloo and its aftermath however, provided Taylor with a further incentive to imprint his values on a volatile political landscape. This was necessary largely because he was uncomfortable with the orientation of the radical leaders whose voices were dominant up to and including the day of the massacre, and who were demanding universal suffrage, annual parliaments and the immediate repeal of the Corn Laws. For Ayerst, Taylor ‘was out of sympathy with the extreme radical leaders’ and penned an article two weeks before Peterloo criticising them for appealing ‘not to the reason but the passions and sufferings of their abused and credulous fellow-countrymen.’15 Taylor certainly had little time for Henry Hunt, the radical leader who was the main speaker on 16 August, even if he was horrified by the violence meted out by the yeomanry against innocent people in St Peter’s Fields.

Taylor threw himself into a committee aiming to raise funds for the victims of the attack and then wrote a lengthy report, Notes and Observations, in response to the government’s own account of the events. N&O attacks with some passion the abuses of power that he witnessed, exonerates the ordinary people who attended the meeting and challenges official ‘misrepresentations’, for example that ‘clubs’ allegedly used as weapons by ordinary people were in fact walking sticks held by a small minority of the crowd. Referring sarcastically to the ‘glorious victory of the 16th of August’, he excoriates the authorities for losing control: ‘I know of no law, which authorizes a yeoman to sabre me, because I may not give way to him quite so soon as he wishes I would.’16

Yet the report is also determined to be even-handed about where the blame should lie and suggests that the revolutionaries are just as bad as what he calls the ‘plebeian aristocracy’.

I have not a word to say in defence of the presumption, vulgarity and violence of some self-styled reformers on the one hand; but I certainly do think the inhumanity, the ignorance and the rancorous bitterness of many anti-reformers, equally inexcusable on the other.17

Notes and Observations demonstrates Taylor’s reluctance to lay responsibility at the door of the state, insisting that the ‘yeomanary are incapable of acting with deliberate cruelty’ and blaming instead a handful of wayward individuals ‘whose political rancour approaches to absolute insanity’.18 The key lesson for Taylor was not that Peterloo demonstrated the need for thoroughgoing political change and the extension of democracy to the poor but the need to build social harmony and to restore faith in the law – a law that had just permitted the slaughter of more than a dozen citizens. There will be no peace, he argues, ‘until the poor have regained that perfect confidence in the impartiality of the law.’19

Taylor sought deliberately to distinguish his political programme from that of the radicals who had organised the meeting in St Peter’s Fields. Indeed, he chose never to refer to ‘Peterloo’ – a phrase first coined by the left-wing Manchester Observer shortly after 16 August and which caught on straight away – confining himself in N&O to a single reference to the ‘tragedy’ and the ‘atrocities’ of that day. Meanwhile, as he and his friends devoted a lot of time to organising relief for the victims of the violence and led demands for a public inquiry, the ‘middle-class radicals’ (as the Peterloo historian Donald Read calls them) exploited the gap left by a divided working class movement and extended their influence over the campaign for reform.20 Faced with a wave of protest following Peterloo, the government passed the ‘Six Acts’, that criminalised large public meetings, increased stamp duty on newspapers and launched a major assault against the working-class and unlicensed press, all of which resulted in a ‘temporary diminution of Radical agitation’.21 The brutality of Peterloo, combined with the blunt nature of the government’s response,

convinced many of the middle class that Reform was the only alternative to a policy of repression that would lead inevitably to civil war. From this time parliamentary Reforms began to be ‘respectable’ and to appear prominently on the programme of the [liberal opposition] Whigs.22

Whereas a militant working-class movement had dominated demands for reform in the run-up to Peterloo, middle-class reformers – with a far more limited programme of social change – were able to consolidate their grip in the years that followed. The Manchester Guardian, therefore, was born not from an industrial and political upturn powered by a mass movement – let alone in a flowering of radical journalism – but, as E.P. Thompson describes the period, in a ‘mildly prosperous plateau of social peace’.23

THE FOUNDING OF THE MANCHESTER GUARDIAN

The official narrative is that the Guardian was launched, above all, as a vehicle to campaign for parliamentary reform. According to Katharine Viner, Taylor was ‘determined to agitate for fair representation in parliament. He decided to start his own newspaper, the Manchester Guardian, with the financial backing of other middle-class radicals.’24 Taylor’s great-great-great granddaughter argues that Taylor was motivated by ‘what he witnessed at Peterloo, and in its aftermath, galvanised in him a belief that education in the form of balanced, honest, well-researched reporting could be the spark for renewed hope.’25 The full story is a little more complicated than this and involves a range of commercial, ideological and political considerations.

The first point to note is this was far from an individual venture. As has already been noted, the group of cotton traders organised in the ‘Little Circle’ were seeking an outlet to articulate their brand of liberalism. Attempting to provide the reform movement with a more ‘respectable’ leadership that would also champion their commitment to free trade, ‘a vigorous reform newspaper was the top priority’ for the Circle as it entered the 1820s.26 Their first instinct was to buy out the liberal Manchester Gazette, to which Taylor, Prentice and Garnett were already contributing. According to Michael Turner:

The wealthier members of the band and some of their prosperous friends and business partners . . . agreed to advance the sums that would be needed and Taylor was spoken of as prospective editor. According to Prentice, Taylor was chosen because he was the only member of the band not fully occupied with business concerns and because he seemed to have the qualities required in a spirited advocate of reform.27

It was only when negotiations with the owner, William Cowdroy, failed that Taylor then approached his friends for financial support to set up a new title. Less than a year later, the Gazette’s owner died leading Turner to note that had Cowdroy died just a little earlier, ‘the Guardian might never have been started because his widow would probably have sold up’ as she did shortly afterwards.28

Nevertheless, Taylor secured the necessary capital from his friends in the Manchester business community to launch the newspaper and immediately produced a prospectus designed to publicise its imminent arrival and, more significantly, to secure advertising. Viner describes it as a ‘powerful document, and one whose ideals still shape the Guardian – a celebration of more people getting educated, of more people engaging in politics, from different walks of life, from poorer communities.’29 Yet the prospectus is actually quite cautious in its political orientation, noticeably failing to mention the events in St Peter’s Fields nor the government’s ongoing repression. Instead, it promises that the newspaper will be committed to ‘the promotion of public happiness and the security of popular rights’ and that ‘it will warmly advocate the cause of reform’ without being tied to any particular political party (despite the Whiggish outlook of its editor). ‘The prospectus of the Guardian was kept intentionally vague’, argues Donald Read, ‘so as to secure support from as wide a range of reformers as possible.’30

Indeed, far from promising to represent the interest of ‘poorer communities’, the prospectus makes it clear that the Manchester Guardian is aimed at ‘the classes to whom . . . Advertisements are generally addressed.’ Noting that no other Manchester newspaper was fully committed to represent the ‘wealth and intelligence of this town’, the prospectus promises to provide comprehensive information about commerce – and about the cotton trade above all:

The commercial connexions and knowledge of the Conductors of the GUARDIAN will, they apprehend, give them the means of occasionally stating, with accuracy and effect, the condition of TRADE and its prospects, particularly as far as regards that most important branch of the Cotton Manufacture.31

It is an uncomfortable reality for the Guardian that the capital required for its start-up came largely from an industry whose own wealth was intimately bound up with the profits accrued from the slave trade,32 and the prospectus clearly illustrates that the title was designed to be the house organ of cotton interests. That some of those involved in the paper’s founding were active abolitionists does little to change the structural dependence of the title on a source of wealth that directly contradicts its own liberal values or, perhaps more accurately, that reflects the fundamentally compromised history of liberalism itself.

Far from praising the prospectus for its radicalism as Viner does, Archibald Prentice – Taylor’s great friend at the time –