IN HIS essays on “Culture and Anarchy”, Matthew Arnold argued that the only thing which could prevent industrial societies from disintegrating into warring tribes was high culture. High culture pulls society together by popularising the “best that has been thought and known in the world” and thereby encouraging everyone, regardless of their social background, to live together in an “atmosphere of sweetness and light”.

Britain stands in more need of sweetness and light than it has for decades. Globalisation has divided the country between winners and losers, while social media has divided the population into solipsistic tribes. The Brexit vote has unleashed dangerous passions. And a glance across the Atlantic suggests that there could be worse to come. Yet sweetness and light are in precious short supply (indeed, the very phrase provokes sniggers). Britain’s rulers are more interested in value for money than the value of what money provides. And great cultural institutions such as the BBC have lost their self-confidence.

Melvyn Bragg has had no truck with cultural self-flagellation. Every Thursday for the past 20 years (holidays aside) he has presented a programme called “In Our Time” on BBC Radio 4 that consists of high-minded conversations with three academics. A new book demonstrates the extraordinary range of subjects he has covered. There are the classic high-cultural subjects, such as George Eliot’s “Middlemarch”, but also plenty on the best that is being thought by scientists and mathematicians as well.

Lord Bragg is a working-class boy who made good thanks to the power of education. His parents were factory workers who saved enough money to buy a pub. Young Melvyn went to university only because his history teacher, a Mr James, pestered his parents to let him stay on in the sixth form. He read history at Wadham College, Oxford, where the master, Maurice Bowra, summed up his criteria for selecting students as “clever boys, interesting boys, pretty boys—no shits”. He enjoyed a glorious career at a glorious time for British broadcasting. His “South Bank Show” broke new ground by profiling the likes of Eric Clapton as well as high-cultural icons. He also found time to write three-dozen books. But there were downs as well as ups: the “South Bank Show” was eventually cancelled; his decision to accept a peerage from Tony Blair in 1998 meant he had to stop presenting “Start the Week”, a current-affairs programme; and the only spot he could get for “In Our Time” was the “death slot” at 9am on Thursday.

Lord Bragg seemingly did everything he could to make sure the shift didn’t come alive. He insisted that the programme should be “never knowingly relevant” and jumped wildly from the gin craze of the 18th century to the Palaeocene-Eocene thermal maximum. He expected to be out of a job in six months. But the programme went from strength to strength. Two million people now listen to the live broadcast, and another 300,000-400,000 listen to the repeat. Another 3m people in 48 countries make it the BBC’s most downloaded weekly podcast. The audience ranges from academics to workers on oil rigs. “I have been in broadcasting for 56 years”, says Lord Bragg, “and have never had such a warm and widespread response to a programme.”

Its success is testimony to the power of curiosity. Rather than being sick of experts, people are desperate to hear their reports from the frontiers of knowledge. It is also testimony to something deeper. People want to escape the cacophony of daily life, whether the noise of Twitter-storms or the clash of angry politicians. “In Our Time” provides perspective and calm in a troubled age.

Lord Bragg is remarkable but far from unique. Britain has a great ability to churn out people who can spread sweetness and light. Today’s champions of the form include Neil MacGregor, Simon Schama and Mary Beard. They stand in a long line that includes Jacob Bronowski, A.J.P. Taylor and Bertrand Russell. Some of this has to do with the emphasis that British education places on fluency. Oxbridge still forces its students to defend their essays in an hour-long grilling. It also has a lot to do with the tortured relationship between class and culture. A remarkable number of the great popularisers are outsiders, who were promoted socially because of their love of learning but never felt fully at home with the hereditary ruling class. Lord Bragg still has the flat northern vowels of his childhood and keeps a house in the town where he grew up, where he regularly sees his old history teacher, now 97.

And now for something completely different

The establishment has been slow to wake up to this comparative advantage. The BBC is paralysed by the fear that it is alienating the young, the “Cs and Ds” and ethnic minorities by lecturing them or appearing snobby. Universities put on fatuous courses, such as cultural studies, in an attempt to remain relevant. The success of “In Our Time” demonstrates how foolish this is. Appetite for knowledge is spread widely throughout society. There is nothing inegalitarian about catering to this curiosity, just as there is nothing egalitarian about doling out dumbed-down drivel.

Successive governments have made the situation worse by giving too much power to managers. In the 1980s, when cultural institutions tended to be sloppily run and self-serving, the managerial revolution had much to be said for it. But over time it became counter-productive. Academics spend their lives producing articles that nobody reads and BBC producers churn out formulaic products aimed at the imaginary median viewer.

Institutions like the BBC need to rediscover their cultural self-confidence. The government needs to broaden its focus from measuring value for money to liberating creativity. Britain’s intellectual-cultural complex is not only one of its most under-appreciated assets. It also reminds us that there are better things to think about than political outrage and internet memes. Perhaps Lord Bragg could devote an upcoming “In Our Time” to Matthew Arnold’s “Culture and Anarchy”.