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Title: Utopia of Usurers and other Essays

Author: G. K. Chesterton

Release Date: April, 2000 [EBook #2134]
[This file was last updated on February 22, 2003]

Edition: 11

Language: English

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Utopia of Usurers and other Essays

by Gilbert Keith Chesterton




CONTENTS

A Song of Swords

Utopia of Usurers
 I. Art and Advertisement
 II. Letters and the New Laureates
 III. Unbusinesslike Business
 IV. The War on Holidays
 V. The Church of the Servile State
 VI. Science and the Eugenists
 VII. The Evolution of the Prison
 VIII. The Lash for Labour
 IX. The Mask of Socialism


The Escape
The New Raid
The New Name
A Workman's History of England
The French Revolution and the Irish
Liberalism: A Sample
The Fatigue of Fleet Street
The Amnesty for Aggression
Revive the Court Jester
The Art of Missing the Point
The Servile State Again
The Empire of the Ignorant
The Symbolism of Krupp
The Tower of Bebel
A Real Dancer
The Dregs of Puritanism
The Tyranny of Bad Journalism
The Poetry of the Revolution



A SONG OF SWORDS

"A drove of cattle came into a village called Swords;
and was stopped by the rioters."--Daily Paper.

In the place called Swords on the Irish road
It is told for a new renown
How we held the horns of the cattle, and how
We will hold the horns of the devils now
Ere the lord of hell with the horn on his brow
Is crowned in Dublin town.

Light in the East and light in the West,
And light on the cruel lords,
On the souls that suddenly all men knew,
And the green flag flew and the red flag flew,
And many a wheel of the world stopped, too,
When the cattle were stopped at Swords.

Be they sinners or less than saints
That smite in the street for rage,
We know where the shame shines bright; we know
You that they smite at, you their foe,
Lords of the lawless wage and low,
This is your lawful wage.

You pinched a child to a torture price
That you dared not name in words;
So black a jest was the silver bit
That your own speech shook for the shame of it,
And the coward was plain as a cow they hit
When the cattle have strayed at Swords.

The wheel of the torrent of wives went round
To break men's brotherhood;
You gave the good Irish blood to grease
The clubs of your country's enemies;
you saw the brave man beat to the knees:
And you saw that it was good.

The rope of the rich is long and long--
The longest of hangmen's cords;
But the kings and crowds are holding their breath,
In a giant shadow o'er all beneath
Where God stands holding the scales of Death
Between the cattle and Swords.

Haply the lords that hire and lend
The lowest of all men's lords,
Who sell their kind like kine at a fair,
Will find no head of their cattle there;
But faces of men where cattle were:
Faces of men--and Swords.



UTOPIA OF USURERS


I. Art and Advertisement

I propose, subject to the patience of the reader, to devote two or three
articles to prophecy.  Like all healthy-minded prophets, sacred and
profane, I can only prophesy when I am in a rage and think things look
ugly for everybody.  And like all healthy-minded prophets, I prophesy in
the hope that my prophecy may not come true.  For the prediction made by
the true soothsayer is like the warning given by a good doctor.  And the
doctor has really triumphed when the patient he condemned to death has
revived to life.  The threat is justified at the very moment when it is
falsified.  Now I have said again and again (and I shall continue to say
again and again on all the most inappropriate occasions) that we must hit
Capitalism, and hit it hard, for the plain and definite reason that it is
growing stronger.  Most of the excuses which serve the capitalists as
masks are, of course, the excuses of hypocrites.  They lie when they claim
philanthropy; they no more feel any particular love of men than Albu felt
an affection for Chinamen.  They lie when they say they have reached their
position through their own organising ability.  They generally have to pay
men to organise the mine, exactly as they pay men to go down it.  They
often lie about the present wealth, as they generally lie about their past
poverty.  But when they say that they are going in for a "constructive
social policy," they do not lie.  They really are going in for a
constructive social policy.  And we must go in for an equally destructive
social policy; and destroy, while it is still half-constructed, the
accursed thing which they construct.


The Example of the Arts

Now I propose to take, one after another, certain aspects and departments
of modern life, and describe what I think they will be like in this
paradise of plutocrats, this Utopia of gold and brass in which the great
story of England seems so likely to end.  I propose to say what I think
our new masters, the mere millionaires, will do with certain human
interests and institutions, such as art, science, jurisprudence, or
religion--unless we strike soon enough to prevent them.  And for the sake
of argument I will take in this article the example of the arts.

Most people have seen a picture called "Bubbles," which is used for the
advertisement of a celebrated soap, a small cake of which is introduced
into the pictorial design.  And anybody with an instinct for design (the
caricaturist of the Daily Herald, for instance), will guess that it was
not originally a part of the design.  He will see that the cake of soap
destroys the picture as a picture; as much as if the cake of soap had been
used to Scrub off the paint.  Small as it is, it breaks and confuses the
whole balance of objects in the composition.  I offer no judgment here
upon Millais's action in the matter; in fact, I do not know what it was.
The important point for me at the moment is that the picture was not
painted for the soap, but the soap added to the picture.  And the spirit
of the corrupting change which has separated us from that Victorian epoch
can be best seen in this: that the Victorian atmosphere, with all its
faults, did not permit such a style of patronage to pass as a matter of
course.  Michael Angelo may have been proud to have helped an emperor or a
pope; though, indeed, I think he was prouder than they were on his own
account.  I do not believe Sir John Millais was proud of having helped a
soap-boiler.  I do not say he thought it wrong; but he was not proud of it.
And that marks precisely the change from his time to our own.  Our
merchants have really adopted the style of merchant princes.  They have
begun openly to dominate the civilisation of the State, as the emperors
and popes openly dominated in Italy.  In Millais's time, broadly speaking,
art was supposed to mean good art; advertisement was supposed to mean
inferior art.  The head of a black man, painted to advertise somebody's
blacking, could be a rough symbol, like an inn sign.  The black man had
only to be black enough.  An artist exhibiting the picture of a negro was
expected to know that a black man is not so black as he is painted.  He
was expected to render a thousand tints of grey and brown and violet: for
there is no such thing as a black man just as there is no such thing as a
white man.  A fairly clear line separated advertisement from art.


The First Effect

I should say the first effect of the triumph of the capitalist (if we
allow him to triumph) will be that that line of demarcation will entirely
disappear.  There will be no art that might not just as well be
advertisement.  I do not necessarily mean that there will be no good art;
much of it might be, much of it already is, very good art.  You may put it,
if you please, in the form that there has been a vast improvement in
advertisements.  Certainly there would be nothing surprising if the head
of a negro advertising Somebody's Blacking now adays were finished with as
careful and subtle colours as one of the old and superstitious painters
would have wasted on the negro king who brought gifts to Christ.  But the
improvement of advertisements is the degradation of artists.  It is their
degradation for this clear and vital reason: that the artist will work,
not only to please the rich, but only to increase their riches; which is a
considerable step lower.  After all, it was as a human being that a pope
took pleasure in a cartoon of Raphael or a prince took pleasure in a
statuette of Cellini.  The prince paid for the statuette; but he did not
expect the statuette to pay him.  It is my impression that no cake of soap
can be found anywhere in the cartoons which the Pope ordered of Raphael.
And no one who knows the small-minded cynicism of our plutocracy, its
secrecy, its gambling spirit, its contempt of conscience, can doubt that
the artist-advertiser will often be assisting enterprises over which he
will have no moral control, and of which he could feel no moral approval.
He will be working to spread quack medicines, queer investments; and will
work for Marconi instead of Medici.  And to this base ingenuity he will
have to bend the proudest and purest of the virtues of the intellect, the
power to attract his brethren, and the noble duty of praise.  For that
picture by Millais is a very allegorical picture.  It is almost a prophecy
of what uses are awaiting the beauty of the child unborn.  The praise will
be of a kind that may correctly be called soap; and the enterprises of a
kind that may truly be described as Bubbles.


II. Letters and the New Laureates

In these articles I only take two or three examples of the first and
fundamental fact of our time.  I mean the fact that the capitalists of our
community are becoming quite openly the kings of it.  In my last (and
first) article, I took the case of Art and advertisement.  I pointed out
that Art must be growing worse--merely because advertisement is growing
better.  In those days Millais condescended to Pears' soap.  In these days
I really think it would be Pears who condescended to Millais.  But here I
turn to an art I know more about, that of journalism.  Only in my ease the
art verges on artlessness.

The great difficulty with the English lies in the absence of something one
may call democratic imagination.  We find it easy to realise an individual,
but very hard to realise that the great masses consist of individuals.
Our system has been aristocratic: in the special sense of there being only
a few actors on the stage.  And the back scene is kept quite dark, though
it is really a throng of faces.  Home Rule tended to be not so much the
Irish as the Grand Old Man.  The Boer War tended not to be so much South
Africa as simply "Joe."  And it is the amusing but distressing fact that
every class of political leadership, as it comes to the front in its turn,
catches the rays of this isolating lime-light; and becomes a small
aristocracy.  Certainly no one has the aristocratic complaint so badly as
the Labour Party.  At the recent Congress, the real difference between
Larkin and the English Labour leaders was not so much in anything right or
wrong in what he said, as in something elemental and even mystical in the
way he suggested a mob.  But it must be plain, even to those who agree
with the more official policy, that for Mr. Havelock Wilson the principal
question was Mr. Havelock Wilson; and that Mr. Sexton was mainly
considering the dignity and fine feelings of Mr. Sexton.  You may say they
were as sensitive as aristocrats, or as sulky as babies; the point is that
the feeling was personal.  But Larkin, like Danton, not only talks like
ten thousand men talking, but he also has some of the carelessness of the
colossus of Arcis; "Que mon nom soit fletri, que la France soit libre."


A Dance of Degradation

It is needless to say that this respecting of persons has led all the
other parties a dance of degradation.  We ruin South Africa because it
would be a slight on Lord Gladstone to save South Africa.  We have a bad
army, because it would be a snub to Lord Haldane to have a good army.
And no Tory is allowed to say "Marconi" for fear Mr. George should say
"Kynoch."  But this curious personal element, with its appalling lack of
patriotism, has appeared in a new and curious form in another department
of life; the department of literature, especially periodical literature.
And the form it takes is the next example I shall give of the way in which
the capitalists are now appearing, more and more openly, as the masters
and princes of the community.

I will take a Victorian instance to mark the change; as I did in the case
of the advertisement of "Bubbles."  It was said in my childhood, by the
more apoplectic and elderly sort of Tory, that W. E. Gladstone was only a
Free Trader because he had a partnership in Gilbey's foreign wines.  This
was, no doubt, nonsense; but it had a dim symbolic, or mainly prophetic,
truth in it.  It was true, to some extent even then, and it has been
increasingly true since, that the statesman was often an ally of the
salesman; and represented not only a nation of shopkeepers, but one
particular shop.  But in Gladstone's time, even if this was true, it was
never the whole truth; and no one would have endured it being the admitted
truth.  The politician was not solely an eloquent and persuasive bagman
travelling for certain business men; he was bound to mix even his
corruption with some intelligible ideals and rules of policy.  And the
proof of it is this: that at least it was the statesman who bulked large
in the public eye; and his financial backer was entirely in the background.
Old gentlemen might choke over their port, with the moral certainty that
the Prime Minister had shares in a wine merchant's.  But the old gentleman
would have died on the spot if the wine merchant had really been made as
important as the Prime Minister.  If it had been Sir Walter Gilbey whom
Disraeli denounced, or Punch caricatured; if Sir Walter Gilbey's favourite
collars (with the design of which I am unacquainted) had grown as large as
the wings of an archangel; if Sir Walter Gilbey had been credited with
successfully eliminating the British Oak with his little hatchet; if, near
the Temple and the Courts of Justice, our sight was struck by a majestic
statue of a wine merchant; or if the earnest Conservative lady who threw a
gingerbread-nut at the Premier had directed it towards the wine merchant
instead, the shock to Victorian England would have been very great indeed.


Haloes for Employers

Now something very like that is happening; the mere wealthy employer is
beginning to have not only the power but some of the glory.  I have seen
in several magazines lately, and magazines of a high class, the appearance
of a new kind of article.  Literary men are being employed to praise a big
business man personally, as men used to praise a king.  They not only find
political reasons for the commercial schemes--that they have done for some
time past--they also find moral defences for the commercial schemers.
They describe the capitalist's brain of steel and heart of gold in a way
that Englishmen hitherto have been at least in the habit of reserving for
romantic figures like Garibaldi or Gordon.  In one excellent magazine Mr.
T. P. O'Connor, who, when he likes, can write on letters like a man of
letters, has some purple pages of praise of Sir Joseph Lyons--the man who
runs those teashop places.  He incidentally brought in a delightful
passage about the beautiful souls possessed by some people called Salmon
and Gluckstein.  I think I like best the passage where he said that
Lyons's charming social acaccomplishments included a talent for "imitating
a Jew."  The article is accompanied with a large and somewhat leering
portrait of that shopkeeper, which makes the parlour-trick in question
particularly astonishing.  Another literary man, who certainly ought to
know better, wrote in another paper a piece of hero-worship about Mr.
Selfridge.  No doubt the fashion will spread, and the art of words, as
polished and pointed by Ruskin or Meredith, will be perfected yet further
to explore the labyrinthine heart of Harrod; or compare the simple
stoicism of Marshall with the saintly charm of Snelgrove.

Any man can be praised--and rightly praised.  If he only stands on two
legs he does something a cow cannot do.  If a rich man can manage to stand
on two legs for a reasonable time, it is called self-control.  If he has
only one leg, it is called (with some truth) self-sacrifice.  I could say
something nice (and true) about every man I have ever met.  Therefore, I
do not doubt I could find something nice about Lyons or Selfridge if I
searched for it.  But I shall not.  The nearest postman or cab-man will
provide me with just the same brain of steel and heart of gold as these
unlucky lucky men.  But I do resent the whole age of patronage being
revived under such absurd patrons; and all poets becoming court poets,
under kings that have taken no oath, nor led us into any battle.



III. Unbusinesslike Business

The fairy tales we were all taught did not, like the history we were all
taught, consist entirely of lies.  Parts of the tale of "Puss in Boots" or
"Jack and the Beanstalk" may strike the realistic eye as a little unlikely
and out of the common way, so to speak; but they contain some very solid
and very practical truths.  For instance, it may be noted that both in
"Puss in Boots" and "Jack and the Beanstalk" if I remember aright, the
ogre was not only an ogre but also a magician.  And it will generally be
found that in all such popular narratives, the king, if he is a wicked
king, is generally also a wizard.  Now there is a very vital human truth
enshrined in this.  Bad government, like good government, is a spiritual
thing.  Even the tyrant never rules by force alone; but mostly by fairy
tales.  And so it is with the modern tyrant, the great employer.  The
sight of a millionaire is seldom, in the ordinary sense, an enchanting
sight: nevertheless, he is in his way an enchanter.  As they say in the
gushing articles about him in the magazines, he is a fascinating
personality.  So is a snake.  At least he is fascinating to rabbits; and
so is the millionaire to the rabbit-witted sort of people that ladies and
gentlemen have allowed themselves to become.  He does, in a manner, cast a
spell, such as that which imprisoned princes and princesses under the
shapes of falcons or stags.  He has truly turned men into sheep, as Circe
turned them into swine.

Now, the chief of the fairy tales, by which he gains this glory and
glamour, is a certain hazy association he has managed to create between
the idea of bigness and the idea of practicality.  Numbers of the
rabbit-witted ladies and gentlemen do really think, in spite of themselves
and their experience, that so long as a shop has hundreds of different
doors and a great many hot and unhealthy underground departments (they
must be hot; this is very important), and more people than would be needed
for a man-of-war, or crowded cathedral, to say: "This way, madam," and
"The next article, sir," it follows that the goods are good.  In short,
they hold that the big businesses are businesslike.  They are not.  Any
housekeeper in a truthful mood, that is to say, any housekeeper in a bad
temper, will tell you that they are not.  But housekeepers, too, are human,
and therefore inconsistent and complex; and they do not always stick to
truth and bad temper.  They are also affected by this queer idolatry of
the enormous and elaborate; and cannot help feeling that anything so
complicated must go like clockwork.  But complexity is no guarantee of
accuracy--in clockwork or in anything else.  A clock can be as wrong as
the human head; and a clock can stop, as suddenly as the human heart.

But this strange poetry of plutocracy prevails over people against their
very senses.  You write to one of the great London stores or emporia,
asking, let us say, for an umbrella.  A month or two afterwards you
receive a very elaborately constructed parcel, containing a broken parasol.
You are very pleased.  You are gratified to reflect on what a vast
number of assistants and employees had combined to break that parasol.
You luxuriate in the memory of all those long rooms and departments and
wonder in which of them the parasol that you never ordered was broken.  Or
you want a toy elephant for your child on Christmas Day; as children, like
all nice and healthy people, are very ritualistic.  Some week or so after
Twelfth Night, let us say, you have the pleasure of removing three layers
of pasteboards, five layers of brown paper, and fifteen layers of tissue
paper and discovering the fragments of an artificial crocodile.  You smile
in an expansive spirit.  You feel that your soul has been broadened by the
vision of incompetence conducted on so large a scale.  You admire all the
more the colossal and Omnipresent Brain of the Organiser of Industry, who
amid all his multitudinous cares did not disdain to remember his duty of
smashing even the smallest toy of the smallest child.  Or, supposing you
have asked him to send you some two rolls of cocoa-nut matting: and
supposing (after a due interval for reflection) he duly delivers to you
the five rolls of wire netting.  You take pleasure in the consideration
of a mystery: which coarse minds might have called a mistake.  It consoles
you to know how big the business is: and what an enormous number of people
were needed to make such a mistake.

That is the romance that has been told about the big shops; in the
literature and art which they have bought, and which (as I said in my
recent articles) will soon be quite indistinguishable from their ordinary
advertisements.  The literature is commercial; and it is only fair to say
that the commerce is often really literary.  It is no romance, but only
rubbish.

The big commercial concerns of to-day are quite exceptionally incompetent.
They will be even more incompetent when they are omnipotent.  Indeed,
that is, and always has been, the whole point of a monopoly; the old and
sound argument against a monopoly.  It is only because it is incompetent
that it has to be omnipotent.  When one large shop occupies the whole of
one side of a street (or sometimes both sides), it does so in order that
men may be unable to get what they want; and may be forced to buy what
they don't want.  That the rapidly approaching kingdom of the Capitalists
will ruin art and letters, I have already said.  I say here that in the
only sense that can be called human, it will ruin trade, too.

I will not let Christmas go by, even when writing for a revolutionary
paper necessarily appealing to many with none of my religious sympathies,
without appealing to those sympathies.  I knew a man who sent to a great
rich shop for a figure for a group of Bethlehem.  It arrived broken.  I
think that is exactly all that business men have now the sense to do.



IV. The War on Holidays

The general proposition, not always easy to define exhaustively, that the
reign of the capitalist will be the reign of the cad--that is, of the
unlicked type that is neither the citizen nor the gentleman--can be
excellently studied in its attitude towards holidays.  The special
emblematic Employer of to-day, especially the Model Employer (who is the
worst sort) has in his starved and evil heart a sincere hatred of holidays.
I do not mean that he necessarily wants all his workmen to work until
they drop; that only occurs when he happens to be stupid as well as wicked.
I do not mean to say that he is necessarily unwilling to grant what he
would call "decent hours of labour." He may treat men like dirt; but if
you want to make money, even out of dirt, you must let it lie fallow by
some rotation of rest.  He may treat men as dogs, but unless he is a
lunatic he will for certain periods let sleeping dogs lie.

But humane and reasonable hours for labour have nothing whatever to do
with the idea of holidays.  It is not even a question of tenhours day and
eight-hours day; it is not a question of cutting down leisure to the space
necessary for food, sleep and exercise.  If the modern employer came to
the conclusion, for some reason or other, that he could get most out of
his men by working them hard for only two hours a day, his whole mental
attitude would still be foreign and hostile to holidays.  For his whole
mental attitude is that the passive time and the active time are alike
useful for him and his business.  All is, indeed, grist that comes to his
mill, including the millers.  His slaves still serve him in
unconsciousness, as dogs still hunt in slumber.  His grist is ground not
only by the sounding wheels of iron, but by the soundless wheel of blood
and brain.  His sacks are still filling silently when the doors are shut
on the streets and the sound of the grinding is low.


The Great Holiday

Now a holiday has no connection with using a man either by beating or
feeding him.  When you give a man a holiday you give him back his body and
soul.  It is quite possible you may be doing him an injury (though he
seldom thinks so), but that does not affect the question for those to whom
a holiday is holy.  Immortality is the great holiday; and a holiday, like
the immortality in the old theologies, is a double-edged privilege.  But
wherever it is genuine it is simply the restoration and completion of the
man.  If people ever looked at the printed word under their eye, the word
"recreation" would be like the word "resurrection," the blast of a trumpet.


A man, being merely useful, is necessarily incomplete, especially if he be
a modern man and means by being useful being "utilitarian." A man going
into a modern club gives up his hat; a man going into a modern factory
gives up his head.  He then goes in and works loyally for the old firm to
build up the great fabric of commerce (which can be done without a head),
but when he has done work he goes to the cloak-room, like the man at the
club, and gets his head back again; that is the germ of the holiday.  It
may be urged that the club man who leaves his hat often goes away with
another hat; and perhaps it may be the same with the factory hand who has
left his head.  A hand that has lost its head may affect the fastidious as
a mixed metaphor; but, God pardon us all, what an unmixed truth!  We could
almost prove the whole ease from the habit of calling human beings merely
"hands" while they are working; as if the hand were horribly cut off, like
the hand that has offended; as if, while the sinner entered heaven maimed,
his unhappy hand still laboured laying up riches for the lords of hell.
But to return to the man whom we found waiting for his head in the
cloak-room.  It may be urged, we say, that he might take the wrong head,
like the wrong hat; but here the similarity ceases.  For it has been
observed by benevolent onlookers at life's drama that the hat taken away
by mistake is frequently better than the real hat; whereas the head taken
away after the hours of toil is certainly worse: stained with the cobwebs
and dust of this dustbin of all the centuries.


The Supreme Adventure

All the words dedicated to places of eating and drinking are pure and
poetic words.  Even the word "hotel" is the word hospital.  And St. Julien,
whose claret I drank this Christmas, was the patron saint of innkeepers,
because (as far as I can make out) he was hospitable to lepers.  Now I do
not say that the ordinary hotel-keeper in Piccadilly or the Avenue de
l'Opera would embrace a leper, slap him on the back, and ask him to order
what he liked; but I do say that hospitality is his trade virtue.  And I
do also say it is well to keep before our eyes the supreme adventure of a
virtue.  If you are brave, think of the man who was braver than you.  If
you are kind, think of the man who was kinder than you.

That is what was meant by having a patron saint.  That is the link between
the poor saint who received bodily lepers and the great hotel proprietor
who (as a rule) receives spiritual lepers.  But a word yet weaker than
"hotel" illustrates the same point--the word "restaurant."  There again
you have the admission that there is a definite building or statue to
"restore"; that ineffaceable image of man that some call the image of God.
And that is the holiday; it is the restaurant or restoring thing that, by
a blast of magic, turns a man into himself.

This complete and reconstructed man is the nightmare of the modern
capitalist.  His whole scheme would crack across like a mirror of Shallot,
if once a plain man were ready for his two plain duties--ready to live and
ready to die.  And that horror of holidays which marks the modern
capitalist is very largely a horror of the vision of a whole human being:
something that is not a "hand" or a "head for figutes."  But an awful
creature who has met himself in the wilderness.  The employers will give
time to eat, time to sleep; they are in terror of a time to think.

To anyone who knows any history it is wholly needless to say that holidays
have been destroyed.  As Mr. Belloc, who knows much more history than you
or I, recently pointed out in the "Pall Mall Magazine," Shakespeare's
title of "Twelfth Night: or What You Will" simply meant that a winter
carnival for everybody went on wildly till the twelfth night after
Christmas.  Those of my readers who work for modern offices or factories
might ask their employers for twelve days' holidays after Christmas.  And
they might let me know the reply.



V. THE CHURCH OF THE SERVILE STATE

I confess I cannot see why mere blasphemy by itself should be an excuse
for tyranny and treason; or how the mere isolated fact of a man not
believing in God should be a reason for my believing in Him.

But the rather spinsterish flutter among some of the old Freethinkers has
put one tiny ripple of truth in it; and that affects the idea which I wish
to emphasise even to monotony in these pages.  I mean the idea that the
new community which the capitalists are now constructing will be a very
complete and absolute community; and one which will tolerate nothing
really independent of itself.  Now, it is true that any positive creed,
true or false, would tend to be independent of itself.  It might be Roman
Catholicism or Mahomedanism or Materialism; but, if strongly held, it
would be a thorn in the side of the Servile State.  The Moslem thinks all
men immortal: the Materialist thinks all men mortal.  But the Moslem does
not think the rich Sinbad will live forever; but the poor Sinbad will die
on his deathbed.  The Materialist does not think that Mr. Haeckel will go
to heaven, while all the peasants will go to pot, like their chickens.
In every serious doctrine of the destiny of men, there is some trace of
the doctrine of the equality of men.  But the capitalist really depends on
some religion of inequality.  The capitalist must somehow distinguish
himself from human kind; he must be obviously above it--or he would be
obviously below it.  Take even the least attractive and popular side of
the larger religions to-day; take the mere vetoes imposed by Islam on
Atheism or Catholicism.  The Moslem veto upon intoxicants cuts across all
classes.  But it is absolutely necessary for the capitalist (who presides
at a Licensing Committee, and also at a large dinner), it is absolutely
necessary for him, to make a distinction between gin and champagne.  The
Atheist veto upon all miracles cuts across all classes.  But it is
absolutely necessary for the capitalist to make a distinction between his
wife (who is an aristocrat and consults crystal gazers and star gazers in
the West End), and vulgar miracles claimed by gipsies or travelling
showmen.  The Catholic veto upon usury, as defined in dogmatic councils,
cuts across all classes.  But it is absolutely necessary to the capitalist
to distinguish more delicately between two kinds of usury; the kind he
finds useful and the kind he does not find useful.  The religion of the
Servile State must have no dogmas or definitions.  It cannot afford to
have any definitions.  For definitions are very dreadful things: they do
the two things that most men, especially comfortable men, cannot endure.
They fight; and they fight fair.

Every religion, apart from open devil worship, must appeal to a virtue or
the pretence of a virtue.  But a virtue, generally speaking, does some
good to everybody.  It is therefore necessary to distinguish among the
people it was meant to benefit those whom it does benefit.  Modern
broad-mindedness benefits the rich; and benefits nobody else.  It was
meant to benefit the rich; and meant to benefit nobody else.  And if you
think this unwarranted, I will put before you one plain question.  There
are some pleasures of the poor that may also mean profits for the rich:
there are other pleasures of the poor which cannot mean profits for the
rich?  Watch this one contrast, and you will watch the whole creation of a
careful slavery.

In the last resort the two things called Beer and Soap end only in a froth.
They are both below the high notice of a real religion.  But there is
just this difference: that the soap makes the factory more satisfactory,
while the beer only makes the workman more satisfied.  Wait and see if
the Soap does not increase and the Beer decrease.  Wait and see whether
the religion of the Servile State is not in every case what I say: the
encouragement of small virtues supporting capitalism, the discouragement
of the huge virtues that defy it.  Many great religions, Pagan and
Christian, have insisted on wine.  Only one, I think, has insisted on Soap.
You will find it in the New Testament attributed to the Pharisees.



VI. SCIENCE AND THE EUGENISTS

The key fact in the new development of plutocracy is that it will use its
own blunder as an excuse for further crimes.  Everywhere the very
completeness of the impoverishment will be made a reason for the
enslavement; though the men who impoverished were the same who enslaved.
It is as if a highwayman not only took away a gentleman's horse and all
his money, but then handed him over to the police for tramping without
visible means of subsistence.  And the most monstrous feature in this
enormous meanness may be noted in the plutocratic appeal to science, or,
rather, to the pseudo-science that they call Eugenics.

The Eugenists get the ear of the humane but rather hazy cliques by saying
that the present "conditions" under which people work and breed are bad
for the race; but the modern mind will not generally stretch beyond one
step of reasoning, and the consequence which appears to follow on the
consideration of these "conditions" is by no means what would originally
have been expected.  If somebody says: "A rickety cradle may mean a
rickety baby," the natural deduction, one would think, would be to give
the people a good cradle, or give them money enough to buy one.  But that
means higher wages and greater equalisation of wealth; and the plutocratic
scientist, with a slightly troubled expression, turns his eyes and
pince-nez in another direction.  Reduced to brutal terms of truth, his
difficulty is this and simply this: More food, leisure, and money for the
workman would mean a better workman, better even from the point of view of
anyone for whom he worked.  But more food, leisure, and money would also
mean a more independent workman.  A house with a decent fire and a full
pantry would be a better house to make a chair or mend a clock in, even
from the customer's point of view, than a hovel with a leaky roof and a
cold hearth.  But a house with a decent fire and a full pantry would also
be a better house in which to refuse to make a chair or mend a clock--a
much better house to do nothing in--and doing nothing is sometimes one of
the highest of the duties of man.  All but the hard-hearted must be torn
with pity for this pathetic dilemma of the rich man, who has to keep the
poor man just stout enough to do the work and just thin enough to have to
do it.  As he stood gazing at the leaky roof and the rickety cradle in a
pensive manner, there one day came into his mind a new and curious
idea--one of the most strange, simple, and horrible ideas that have ever
risen from the deep pit of original sin.

The roof could not be mended, or, at least, it could not be mended much,
without upsetting the capitalist balance, or, rather, disproportion in
society; for a man with a roof is a man with a house, and to that extent
his house is his castle.  The cradle could not be made to rock easier, or,
at least, not much easier, without strengthening the hands of the poor
household, for the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world--to that
extent.  But it occurred to the capitalist that there was one sort of
furniture in the house that could be altered.  The husband and wife could
be altered.  Birth costs nothing, except in pain and valour and such
old-fashioned things; and the merchant need pay no more for mating a
strong miner to a healthy fishwife than he pays when the miner mates
himself with a less robust female whom he has the sentimentality to prefer.
Thus it might be possible, by keeping on certain broad lines of
heredity, to have some physical improvement without any moral, political,
or social improvement.  It might be possible to keep a supply of strong
and healthy slaves without coddling them with decent conditions.  As the
mill-owners use the wind and the water to drive their mills, they would
use this natural force as something even cheaper; and turn their wheels by
diverting from its channel the blood of a man in his youth.  That is what
Eugenics means; and that is all that it means.

Of the moral state of those who think of such things it does not become us
to speak.  The practical question is rather the intellectual one: of
whether their calculations are well founded, and whether the men of
science can or will guarantee them any such physical certainties.
Fortunately, it becomes clearer every day that they are, scientifically
speaking, building on the shifting sand.  The theory of breeding slaves
breaks down through what a democrat calls the equality of men, but which
even an oligarchist will find himself forced to call the similarity of men.
That is, that though it is not true that all men are normal, it is
overwhelmingly certain that most men are normal.  All the common Eugenic
arguments are drawn from extreme cases, which, even if human honour and
laughter allowed of their being eliminated, would not by their elimination
greatly affect the mass.  For the rest, there remains the enormous
weakness in Eugenics, that if ordinary men's judgment or liberty is to be
discounted in relation to heredity, the judgment of the judges must be
discounted in relation to their heredity.  The Eugenic professor may or
may not succeed in choosing a baby's parents; it is quite certain that he
cannot succeed in choosing his own parents.  All his thoughts, including
his Eugenic thoughts, are, by the very principle of those thoughts,
flowing from a doubtful or tainted source.  In short, we should need a
perfectly Wise Man to do the thing at all.  And if he were a Wise Man he
would not do it.



VII. THE EVOLUTION OF THE PRISON

I have never understood why it is that those who talk most about evolution,
and talk it in the very age of fashionable evolutionism, do not see the
one way in which evolution really does apply to our modern difficulty.
There is, of course, an element of evolutionism in the universe; and I
know no religion or philosophy that ever entirely ignored it.  Evolution,
popularly speaking, is that which happens to unconscious things.  They
grow unconsciously; or fade unconsciously; or rather, some parts of them
grow and some parts of them fade; and at any given moment there is almost
always some presence of thc fading thing, and some incompleteness in the
growing one.  Thus, if I went to sleep for a hundred years, like the
Sleeping Beauty (I wish I could), I should grow a beard--unlike the
Sleeping Beauty.  And just as I should grow hair if I were asleep, I
should grow grass if I were dead.  Those whose religion it was that God
was asleep were perpetually impressed and affected by the fact that he had
a long beard.  And those whose philosophy it is that the universe is dead
from the beginning (being the grave of nobody in particular) think that is
the way that grass can grow.  In any case, these developments only occur
with dead or dreaming things.  What happens when everyone is asleep is
called Evolution.  What happens when everyone is awake is called
Revolution.

There was once an honest man, whose name I never knew, but whose face I
can almost see (it is framed in Victorian whiskers and fixed in a
Victorian neck-cloth), who was balancing the achievements of France and
England in civilisation and social efficiencies.  And when he came to the
religious aspect he said that there were more stone and brick churches
used in France; but, on the other hand, there are more sects in England.
Whether such a lively disintegration is a proof of vitality in any
valuable sense I have always doubted.  The sun may breed maggots in a
dead dog; but it is essential for such a liberation of life that the dog
should be unconscious or (to say the least of it) absent-minded.  Broadly
speaking, you may call the thing corruption, if you happen to like dogs.
You may call it evolution, if you happen to like maggots.  In either case,
it is what happens to things if you leave them alone.


The Evolutionists' Error

Now, the modern Evolutionists have made no real use of the idea of
evolution, especially in the matter of social prediction.  They always
fall into what is (from their logical point of view) the error of
supposing that evolution knows what it is doing.  They predict the State
of the future as a fruit rounded and polished.  But the whole point of
evolution (the only point there is in it) is that no State will ever be
rounded and polished, because it will always contain some organs that
outlived their use, and some that have not yet fully found theirs.  If we
wish to prophesy what will happen, we must imagine things now moderate
grown enormous; things now local grown universal; things now promising
grown triumphant; primroses bigger than sunflowers, and sparrows stalking
about like flamingoes.

In other words, we must ask what modern institution has a future before
it?  What modern institution may have swollen to six times its present size
in the social heat and growth of the future?  I do not think the Garden
City will grow: but of that I may speak in my next and last article of
this series.  I do not think even the ordinary Elementary School, with its
compulsory education, will grow.  Too many unlettered people hate the
teacher for teaching; and too many lettered people hate the teacher for
not teaching.  The Garden City will not bear much blossom; the young idea
will not shoot, unless it shoots the teacher.  But the one flowering tree
on the estate, the one natural expansion which I think will expand, is the
institution we call the Prison.


Prisons for All

If the capitalists are allowed to erect their constructive capitalist
community, I speak quite seriously when I say that I think Prison will
become an almost universal experience.  It will not necessarily be a
cruel or shameful experience: on these points (I concede certainly for the
present purpose of debate) it may be a vastly improved experience.  The
conditions in the prison, very possibly, will be made more humane.  But
the prison will be made more humane only in order to contain more of
humanity.  I think little of the judgment and sense of humour of any man
who can have watched recent police trials without realising that it is no
longer a question of whether the law has been broken by a crime; but, now,
solely a question of whether the situation could be mended by an
imprisonment.  It was so with Tom Mann; it was so with Larkin; it was so
with the poor atheist who was kept in gaol for saying something he had
been acquitted of saying: it is so in such cases day by day.  We no longer
lock a man up for doing something; we lock him up in the hope of his doing
nothing.  Given this principle, it is evidently possible to make the mere
conditions of punishment more moderate, or--(more probably) more secret.
There may really be more mercy in the Prison, on condition that there is
less justice in the Court.  I should not be surprised if, before we are
done with all this, a man was allowed to smoke in prison, on condition, of
course, that he had been put in prison for smoking.

Now that is the process which, in the absence of democratic protest, will
certainly proceed, will increase and multiply and replenish the earth and
subdue it.  Prison may even lose its disgrace for a little time: it will
be difficult to make it disgraceful when men like Larkin can be imprisoned
for no reason at all, just as his celebrated ancestor was hanged for no
reason at all.  But capitalist society, which naturally does not know the
meaning of honour, cannot know the meaning of disgrace: and it will still
go on imprisoning for no reason at all.  Or rather for that rather simple
reason that makes a cat spring or a rat run away.

It matters little whether our masters stoop to state the matter in the
form that every prison should be a school; or in the more candid form that
every school should be a prison.  They have already fulfilled their
servile principle in the case of the schools.  Everyone goes to the
Elementary Schools except the few people who tell them to go there.  I
prophesy that (unless our revolt succeeds) nearly everyone will be going
to Prison, with a precisely similar patience.



VIII. THE LASH FOR LABOUR

If I were to prophesy that two hundred years hence a grocer would have the
right and habit of beating the grocer's assistant with a stick, or that
shop girls might be flogged, as they already can be fined, many would
regard it as rather a rash remark.  It would be a rash remark.  Prophecy
is always unreliable; unless we except the kind which is avowedly
irrational, mystical and supernatural prophecy.  But relatively to nearly
all the other prophecies that are being made around me to-day, I should
say my prediction stood an exceptionally good chance.  In short, I think
the grocer with the stick is a figure we are far more likely to see than
the Superman or the Samurai, or the True Model Employer, or the Perfect
Fabian Official, or the citizen of the Collectivist State.  And it is
best for us to see the full ugliness of the transformation which is
passing over our Society in some such abrupt and even grotesque image at
the end of it.  The beginnings of a decline, in every age of history, have
always had the appearance of being reforms.  Nero not only fiddled while
Rome was burning, but he probably really paid more attention to the fiddle
than to the fire.  The Roi Soleil, like many other soleils, was most
splendid to all appearance a little before sunset.  And if I ask myself
what will be the ultimate and final fruit of all our social reforms,
garden cities, model employers, insurances, exchanges, arbitration courts,
and so on, then, I say, quite seriously, "I think it will be labour under
the lash."


The Sultan and the Sack

Let us arrange in some order a number of converging considerations that
all point in this direction.  (1) It is broadly true, no doubt, that the
weapon of the employer has hitherto been the threat of dismissal, that is,
the threat of enforced starvation.  He is a Sultan who need not order the
bastinado, so long as he can order the sack.  But there are not a few
signs that this weapon is not quite so convenient and flexible a one as
his increasing rapacities require.  The fact of the introduction of fines,
secretly or openly, in many shops and factories, proves that it is
convenient for the capitalists to have some temporary and adjustable form
of punishment besides the final punishment of pure ruin.  Nor is it
difficult to see the commonsense of this from their wholly inhuman point
of view.  The act of sacking a man is attended with the same disadvantages
as the act of shooting a man: one of which is that you can get no more out
of him.  It is, I am told, distinctly annoying to blow a fellow creature's
brains out with a revolver and then suddenly remember that he was the only
person who knew where to get the best Russian cigarettes.  So our Sultan,
who is the orderer of the sack, is also the bearer of the bow-string.  A
school in which there was no punishment, except expulsion, would be a
school in which it would be very difficult to keep proper discipline; and
the sort of discipline on which the reformed capitalism will insist will
be all of the type which in free nations is imposed only on children.
Such a school would probably be in a chronic condition of breaking up for
the holidays.  And the reasons for the insufficiency of this extreme
instrument are also varied and evident.  The materialistic Sociologists,
who talk about the survival of the fittest and the weakest going to the
wall (and whose way of looking at the world is to put on the latest and
most powerful scientific spectacles, and then shut their eyes), frequently
talk as if a workman were simply efficient or non-efficient, as if a
criminal were reclaimable or irreclaimable.  The employers have sense
enough at least to know better than that.  They can see that a servant may
be useful in one way and exasperating in another; that he may be bad in
one part of his work and good in another; that he may be occasionally
drunk and yet generally indispensable.  Just as a practical school-master
would know that a schoolboy can be at once the plague and the pride of the
school.  Under these circumstances small and varying penalties are
obviously the most convenient things for the person keeping order; an
underling can be punished for coming late, and yet do useful work when he
comes.  It will be possible to give a rap over the knuckles without wholly
cutting off the right hand that has offended.  Under these circumstances
the employers have naturally resorted to fines.  But there is a further
ground for believing that the process will go beyond fines before it is
completed.

(2) The fine is based on the old European idea that everybody possesses
private property in some reasonable degree; but not only is this not true
to-day, but it is not being made any truer, even by those who honestly
believe that they are mending matters.  The great employers will often do
something towards improving what they call the "conditions" of their
workers; but a worker might have his conditions as carefully arranged as a
racehorse has, and still have no more personal property than a racehorse.
If you take an average poor seamstress or factory girl, you will find that
the power of chastising her through her property has very considerable
limits; it is almost as hard for the employer of labour to tax her for
punishment as it is for the Chancellor of the Exchequer to tax her for
revenue.  The next most obvious thing to think of, of course, would be
imprisonment, and that might be effective enough under simpler conditions.
An old-fashioned shopkeeper might have locked up his apprentice in his
coal-cellar; but his coal-cellar would be a real, pitch dark coal-cellar,
and the rest of his house would be a real human house.  Everybody
(especially the apprentice) would see a most perceptible difference
between the two.  But, as I pointed out in the article before this, the
whole tendency of the capitalist legislation and experiment is to make
imprisonment much more general and automatic, while making it, or
professing to make it, more humane.  In other words, the hygienic prison
and the servile factory will become so uncommonly like each other that the
poor man will hardly know or care whether he is at the moment expiating an
offence or merely swelling a dividend.  In both places there will be the
same sort of shiny tiles.  In neither place will there be any cell so
unwholesome as a coal-cellar or so wholesome as a home.  The weapon of the
prison, therefore, like the weapon of the fine, will be found to have
considerable limitations to its effectiveness when employed against the
wretched reduced citizen of our day.  Whether it be property or liberty
you cannot take from him what he has not got.  You cannot imprison a slave,
because you cannot enslave a slave.


The Barbarous Revival

(3) Most people, on hearing the suggestion that it may come to corporal
punishment at last (as it did in every slave system I ever heard of,
including some that were generally kindly, and even successful), will
merely be struck with horror and incredulity, and feel that such a
barbarous revival is unthinkable in the modern atmosphere.  How far it
will be, or need be, a revival of the actual images and methods of ruder
times I will discuss in a moment.  But first, as another of the converging
lines tending to corporal punishment, consider this: that for some reason
or other the old full-blooded and masculine humanitarianism in this matter
has weakened and fallen silent; it has weakened and fallen silent in a
very curious manner, the precise reason for which I do not altogether
understand.  I knew the average Liberal, the average Nonconformist
minister, the average Labour Member, the average middle-class Socialist,
were, with all their good qualities, very deficient in what I consider a
respect for the human soul.  But I did imagine that they had the ordinary
modern respect for the human body.  The fact, however, is clear and
incontrovertible.  In spite of the horror of all humane people, in spite
of the hesitation even of our corrupt and panic-stricken Parliament,
measures can now be triumphantly passed for spreading or increasing the
use of physical torture, and for applying it to the newest and vaguest
categories of crime.  Thirty or forty years ago, nay, twenty years ago,
when Mr. F. Hugh O'Donnell and others forced a Liberal Government to drop
the cat-o-nine-tails like a scorpion, we could have counted on a mass of
honest hatred of such things.  We cannot count on it now.

(4) But lastly, it is not necessary that in the factories of the future
the institution of physical punishment should actually remind people of
the jambok or the knout.  It could easily be developed out of the many
forms of physical discipline which are already used by employers on the
excuses of education or hygiene.  Already in some factories girls are
obliged to swim whether they like it or not, or do gymnastics whether they
like it or not.  By a simple extension of hours or complication of
exercises a pair of Swedish clubs could easily be so used as to leave
their victim as exhausted as one who had come off the rack.  I think it
extremely likely that they will be.


IX. THE MASK OF SOCIALISM

The chief aim of all honest Socialists just now is to prevent the coming
of Socialism.  I do not say it as a sneer, but, on the contrary, as a
compliment; a compliment to their political instinct and public spirit.  I
admit it may be called an exaggeration; but there really is a sort of sham
Socialism that the modern politicians may quite possibly agree to set up;
if they do succeed in setting it up, the battle for the poor is lost.

We must note, first of all, a general truth about the curious time we live
in.  It will not be so difficult as some people may suppose to make the
Servile State look rather like Socialism, especially to the more pedantic
kind of Socialist.  The reason is this.  The old lucid and trenchant
expounder of Socialism, such as Blatchford or Fred Henderson, always
describes the economic power of the plutocrats as consisting in private
property.  Of course, in a sense, this is quite true; though they too
often miss the point that private property, as such, is not the same as
property confined to the few.  But the truth is that the situation has
grown much more subtle; perhaps too subtle, not to say too insane, for
straight-thinking theorists like Blatchford.  The rich man to-day does not
only rule by using private property; he also rules by treating public
property as if it were private property.  A man like Lord Murray pulled
the strings, especially the pursestrings; but the whole point of his
position was that all sorts of strings had got entangled.  The secret
strength of the money he held did not lie merely in the fact that it was
his money.  It lay precisely in the fact that nobody had any clear idea of
whether it was his money, or his successor's money, or his brother's money,
or the Marconi Company's money, or the Liberal Party's money, or the
English Nation's money.  It was buried treasure; but it was not private
property.  It was the acme of plutocracy because it was not private
property.  Now, by following this precedent, this unprincipled vagueness
about official and unofficial moneys by the cheerful habit of always
mixing up the money in the pocket with the money in the till, it would be
quite possible to keep the rich as rich as ever in practice, though they
might have suffered confiscation in theory.  Mr. Lloyd George has four
hundred a year as an M. P.; but he not only gets much more as a Minister,
but he might at any time get immeasurably more by speculating on State
secrets that are necessarily known to him.  Some say that he has even
attempted something of the kind.  Now, it would be quite possible to cut
Mr. George down, not to four hundred a year, but to fourpence a day; and
still leave him all these other and enormous financial superiorities.  It
must be remembered that a Socialist State, in any way resembling a modern
State, must, however egalitarian it may be, have the handling of huge sums,
and the enjoyment of large conveniences; it is not improbable that the
same men will handle and enjoy in much the same manner, though in theory
they are doing it as instruments, and not as individuals.  For instance,
the Prime Minister has a private house, which is also (I grieve to inform
that eminent Puritan) a public house.  It is supposed to be a sort of
Government office; though people do not generally give children's parties,
or go to bed in a Government office.  I do not know where Mr.  Herbert
Samuel lives; but I have no doubt he does himself well in the matter of
decoration and furniture.  On the existing official parallel there is no
need to move any of these things in order to Socialise them.  There is no
need to withdraw one diamond-headed nail from the carpet; or one golden
teaspoon from the tray.  It is only necessary to call it an official
residence, like 10 Downing-street.  I think it is not at all improbable
that this Plutocracy, pretending to be a Bureaucracy, will be attempted or
achieved.  Our wealthy rulers will be in the position which grumblers in
the world of sport sometimes attribute to some of the "gentlemen" players.
They assert that some of these are paid like any professional; only their
pay is called their expenses.  This system might run side by side with a
theory of equal wages, as absolute as that once laid down by Mr. Bernard
Shaw.  By the theory of the State, Mr.  Herbert Samuel and Mr. Lloyd
George might be humble citizens, drudging for their fourpence a day; and
no better off than porters and coal-heavers.  If there were presented to
our mere senses what appeared to be the form of Mr. Herbert Samuel in an
astrakhan coat and a motor-car, we should find the record of the
expenditure (if we could find it at all) under the heading of "Speed Limit
Extension Enquiry Commission."  If it fell to our lot to behold (with the
eye of flesh) what seemed to be Mr. Lloyd George lying in a hammock and
smoking a costly cigar, we should know that the expenditure would be
divided between the "Condition of Rope and Netting Investigation
Department," and the "State of Cuban Tobacco Trade: Imperial Inspector's
Report."

Such is the society I think they will build unless we can knock it down as
fast as they build it.  Everything in it, tolerable or intolerable, will
have but one use; and that use what our ancestors used to call usance or
usury.  Its art may be good or bad, but it will be an advertisement for
usurers; its literature may be good or bad, but it will appeal to the
patronage of usurers; its scientific selection will select according to
the needs of usurers; its religion will be just charitable enough to
pardon usurers; its penal system will be just cruel enough to crush all
the critics of usurers: the truth of it will be Slavery: and the title of
it may quite possibly be Socialism.



THE ESCAPE

We watched you building, stone by stone,
The well-washed cells and well-washed graves
We shall inhabit but not own
When Britons ever shall be slaves;
The water's waiting in the trough,
The tame oats sown are portioned free,
There is Enough, and just Enough,
And all is ready now but we.


But you have not caught us yet, my lords,
You have us still to get.
A sorry army you'd have got,
Its flags are rags that float and rot,
Its drums are empty pan and pot,
Its baggage is--an empty cot;
But you have not caught us yet.


A little; and we might have slipped
When came your rumours and your sales
And the foiled rich men, feeble-lipped,
Said and unsaid their sorry tales;
Great God!  It needs a bolder brow
To keep ten sheep inside a pen,
And we are sheep no longer now;
You are but Masters.  We are Men.


We give you all good thanks, my lords,
We buy at easy price;
Thanks for the thousands that you stole,
The bribes by wire, the bets on coal,
The knowledge of that naked whole
That hath delivered our flesh and soul
Out of your Paradise.


We had held safe your parks; but when
Men taunted you with bribe and fee,
We only saw the Lord of Men
Grin like an Ape and climb a tree;
And humbly had we stood without
Your princely barns; did we not see
In pointed faces peering out
What Rats now own the granary.


It is too late, too late, my lords,
We give you back your grace:
You cannot with all cajoling
Make the wet ditch, or winds that sting,
Lost pride, or the pawned wedding rings,
Or drink or Death a blacker thing
Than a smile upon your face.




THE NEW RAID

The two kinds of social reform, one of which might conceivably free us at
last while the other would certainly enslave us forever, are exhibited in
an easy working model in the two efforts that have been made for the
soldiers' wives--I mean the effort to increase their allowance and the
effort to curtail their alleged drinking.  In the preliminary
consideration, at any rate, we must see the second question as quite
detached from our own sympathies on the special subject of fermented
liquor.  It could be applied to any other pleasure or ornament of life; it
will be applied to every other pleasure and ornament of life if the
Capitalist campaign can succeed.  The argument we know; but it cannot be
too often made clear.  An employer, let us say, pays a seamstress twopence
a day, and she does not seem to thrive on it.  So little, perhaps, does
she thrive on it that the employer has even some difficulty in thriving
upon her.  There are only two things that he can do, and the distinction
between them cuts the whole social and political world in two.  It is a
touchstone by which we can--not sometimes, but always--distinguish
economic equality from servile social reform.  He can give the girl some
magnificent sum, such as sixpence a day, to do as she likes with, and
trust that her improved health and temper will work for the benefit of his
business.  Or he may keep her to the original sum of a shilling a week,
but earmark each of the pennies to be used or not to be used for a
particular purpose.  If she must not spend this penny on a bunch of
violets, or that penny on a novelette, or the other penny on a toy for
some baby, it is possible that she will concentrate her expenditure more
upon physical necessities, and so become, from the employer's point of
view, a more efficient person.  Without the trouble of adding twopence to
her wages, he has added twopenny-worth to her food.  In short, she has the
holy satisfaction of being worth more without being paid more.

This Capitalist is an ingenious person, and has many polished
characteristics; but I think the most singular thing about him is his
staggering lack of shame.  Neither the hour of death nor the day of
reckoning, neither the tent of exile nor the house of mourning, neither
chivalry nor patriotism, neither womanhood nor widowhood, is safe at this
supreme moment from his dirty little expedient of dieting the slave.  As
similar bullies, when they collect the slum rents, put a foot in the open
door, these are always ready to push in a muddy wedge wherever there is a
slit in a sundered household or a crack in a broken heart.  To a man of
any manhood nothing can be conceived more loathsome and sacrilegious than
even so much as asking whether a woman who has given up all she loved to
death and the fatherland has or has not shown some weakness in her seeking
for self-comfort.  I know not in which of the two cases I should count
myself the baser for inquiring--a case where the charge was false or a
case where it was true.  But the philanthropic employer of the sort I
describe is not a man of any manhood; in a sense he is not a man at all.
He shows some consciousness of the fact when he calls his workers "men" as
distinct from masters.  He cannot comprehend the gallantry of
costermongers or the delicacy that is quite common among cabmen.  He finds
this social reform by half-rations on the whole to his mercantile profit,
and it will be hard to get him to think of anything else.

But there are people assisting him, people like the Duchess of Marlborough,
who know not their right hand from their left, and to these we may
legitimately address our remonstrance and a resume of some of the facts
they do not know.  The Duchess of Marlborough is, I believe, an American,
and this separates her from the problem in a special way, because the
drink question in America is entirely different from the drink question in
England.  But I wish the Duchess of Marlborough would pin up in her
private study, side by side with the Declaration of Independence, a
document recording the following simple truths: (1) Beer, which is largely
drunk in public-houses, is not a spirit or a grog or a cocktail or a drug.
It is the common English liquid for quenching the thirst; it is so still
among innumerable gentlemen, and, until very lately, was so among
innumerable ladies.  Most of us remember dames of the last generation
whose manners were fit for Versailles, and who drank ale or Stout as a
matter of course.  Schoolboys drank ale as a matter of course, and their
schoolmasters gave it to them as a matter of course.  To tell a poor woman
that she must not have any until half the day is over is simply cracked,
like telling a dog or a child that he must not have water.  (2) The
public-house is not a secret rendezvous of bad characters.  It is the open
and obvious place for a certain purpose, which all men used for that
purpose until the rich began to be snobs and the poor to become slaves.
One might as well warn people against Willesden Junction.  (3) Many poor
people live in houses where they cannot, without great preparation, offer
hospitality.  (4) The climate of these picturesque islands does not favour
conducting long conversations with one's oldest friends on an iron seat in
the park.  (5) Halfpast eleven a.m. is not early in the day for a woman
who gets up before six.  (6) The bodies and minds of these women belong to
God and to themselves.



THE NEW NAME

Something has come into our community, which is strong enough to save our
community; but which has not yet got a name.  Let no one fancy I confess
any unreality when I confess the namelessness.  The morality called
Puritanism, the tendency called Liberalism, the reaction called Tory
Democracy, had not only long been powerful, but had practically done most
of their work, before these actual names were attached to them.
Nevertheless, I think it would be a good thing to have some portable and
practicable way of referring to those who think as we do in our main
concern.  Which is, that men in England are ruled, at this minute by the
clock, by brutes who refuse them bread, by liars who refuse them news, and
by fools who cannot govern, and therefore wish to enslave.

Let me explain first why I am not satisfied with the word commonly used,
which I have often used myself; and which, in some contexts, is quite the
right word to use.  I mean the word "rebel."  Passing over the fact that
many who understand the justice of our cause (as a great many at the
Universities) would still use the word "rebel" in its old and strict sense
as meaning only a disturber of just rule.  I pass to a much more practical
point.  The word "rebel" understates our cause.  It is much too mild; it
lets our enemies off much too easily.  There is a tradition in all western
life and letters of Prometheus defying the stars, of man at war with the
Universe, and dreaming what nature had never dared to dream.  All this is
valuable in its place and proportion.  But it has nothing whatever to do
with our ease; or rather it very much weakens it.  The plutocrats will be
only too pleased if we profess to preach a new morality; for they know
jolly well that they have broken the old one.  They will be only too
pleased to be able to say that we, by our own confession, are merely
restless and negative; that we are only what we call rebels and they call
cranks.  But it is not true; and we must not concede it to them for a
moment.  The model millionaire is more of a crank than the Socialists;
just as Nero was more of a crank than the Christians.  And avarice has
gone mad in the governing class to-day, just as lust went mad in the
circle of Nero.  By all the working and orthodox standards of sanity,
capitalism is insane.  I should not say to Mr.  Rockefeller "I am a rebel."
I should say "I am a respectable man: and you are not."


Our Lawless Enemies

But the vital point is that the confession of mere rebellion softens the
startling lawlessness of our enemies.  Suppose a publisher's clerk
politely asked his employer for a rise in his salary; and, on being
refused, said he must leave the employment?  Suppose the employer knocked
him down with a ruler, tied him up as a brown paper parcel, addressed him
(in a fine business hand) to the Governor of Rio Janeiro and then asked
the policeman to promise never to arrest him for what he had done?  That
is a precise copy, in every legal and moral principle, of the "deportation
of the strikers." They were assaulted and kidnapped for not accepting a
contract, and for nothing else; and the act was so avowedly criminal that
the law had to be altered afterwards to cover the crime.  Now suppose
some postal official, between here and Rio Janeiro, had noticed a faint
kicking inside the brown paper parcel, and had attempted to ascertain the
cause.  And suppose the clerk could only explain, in a muffled voice
through the brown paper, that he was by constitution and temperament a
Rebel.  Don't you see that he would be rather understating his case?
Don't you see he would be bearing his injuries much too meekly?  They
might take him out of the parcel; but they would very possibly put him
into a mad-house instead.  Symbolically speaking, that is what they would
like to do with us.  Symbolically speaking, the dirty misers who rule us
will put us in a mad-house--unless we can put them there.

Or suppose a bank cashier were admittedly allowed to take the money out of
the till, and put it loose in his pocket, more or less mixed up with his
own money; afterwards laying some of both (at different odds) on "Blue
Murder" for the Derby.  Suppose when some depositor asked mildly what day
the accountants came, he smote that astonished inquirer on the nose,
crying: "Slanderer!  Mud-slinger!" and suppose he then resigned his
position.  Suppose no books were shown.  Suppose when the new cashier
came to be initiated into his duties, the old cashier did not tell him
about the money, but confided it to the honour and delicacy of his own
maiden aunt at Cricklewood.  Suppose he then went off in a yacht to visit
the whale fisheries of the North Sea.  Well, in every moral and legal
principle, that is a precise account of the dealings with the Party Funds.
But what would the banker say? What would the clients say?  One thing, I
think, I can venture to promise; the banker would not march up and down
the office exclaiming in rapture, "I'm a rebel!  That's what I am, a rebel!"
And if he said to the first indignant depositor "You are a rebel," I
fear the depositor might answer, "You are a robber." We have no need to
elaborate arguments for breaking the law.  The capitalists have broken the
law.  We have no need of further moralities.  They have broken their own
morality.  It is as if you were to run down the street shouting,
"Communism!  Communism! Share!  Share!"  after a man who had run away with
your watch.

We want a term that will tell everybody that there is, by the common
standard, frank fraud and cruelty pushed to their fierce extreme; and that
we are fighting THEM. We are not in a state of "divine discontent"; we are
in an entirely human and entirely reasonable rage.  We say we have been
swindled and oppressed, and we are quite ready and able to prove it before
any tribunal that allows us to call a swindler a swindler.  It is the
protection of the present system that most of its tribunals do not.  I
cannot at the moment think of any party name that would particularly
distinguish us from our more powerful and prosperous opponents, unless it
were the name the old Jacobites gave themselves; the Honest Party.


Captured Our Standards

I think it is plain that for the purpose of facing these new and infamous
modern facts, we cannot, with any safety, depend on any of the old
nineteenth century names; Socialist, or Communist, or Radical, or Liberal,
or Labour.  They are all honourable names; they all stand, or stood, for
things in which we may still believe; we can still apply them to other
problems; but not to this one.  We have no longer a monopoly of these
names.  Let it be understood that I am not speaking here of the
philosophical problem of their meaning, but of the practical problem of
their use.  When I called myself a Radical I knew Mr. Balfour would not
call himself a Radical; therefore there was some use in the word.  When I
called myself a Socialist I knew Lord Penrhyn would not call himself a
Socialist; therefore there was some use in the word.  But the capitalists,
in that aggressive march which is the main fact of our time, have captured
our standards, both in the military and philosophic sense of the word.
And it is useless for us to march under colours which they can carry as
well as we.

Do you believe in Democracy?  The devils also believe and tremble.  Do you
believe in Trades Unionism?  The Labour Members also believe; and tremble
like a falling teetotum.  Do you believe in the State?  The Samuels also
believe, and grin.  Do you believe in the centralisation of Empire?  So
did Beit.  Do you believe in the decentralisation of Empire?  So does Albu.
Do you believe in the brotherhood of men: and do you, dear brethren,
believe that Brother Arthur Henderson does not?  Do you cry, "The world
for the workers!"  and do you imagine Philip Snowden would not?  What we
need is a name that shall declare, not that the modern treason and tyranny
are bad, but that they are quite literally, intolerable: and that we mean
to act accordingly.  I really think "the Limits" would be as good a name
as any.  But, anyhow, something is born among us that is as strong as an
infant Hercules: and it is part of my prejudices to want it christened.  I
advertise for godfathers and godmothers.



A WORKMAN'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND

A thing which does not exist and which is very much wanted is "A
Working-Man's History of England."  I do not mean a history written for
working men (there are whole dustbins of them), I mean a history, written
by working men or from the working men's standpoint.  I wish five
generations of a fisher's or a miner's family could incarnate themselves
in one man and tell the story.

It is impossible to ignore altogether any comment coming from so eminent a
literary artist as Mr. Laurence Housman, but I do not deal here so
specially with his well known conviction about Votes for Women, as with
another idea which is, I think, rather at the back of it, if not with him
at least with others; and which concerns this matter of the true story of
England.  For the true story is so entirely different from the false
official story that the official classes tell that by this time the
working class itself has largely forgotten its own experience.  Either
story can be quite logically linked up with Female Suffrage, which,
therefore, I leave where it is for the moment; merely confessing that, so
long as we get hold of the right story and not the wrong story, it seems
to me a matter of secondary importance whether we link it up with Female
Suffrage or not.

Now the ordinary version of recent English history that most moderately
educated people have absorbed from childhood is something like this.  That
we emerged slowly from a semi-barbarism in which all the power and wealth
were in the hands of Kings and a few nobles; that the King's power was
broken first and then in due time that of the nobles, that this piece-meal
improvement was brought about by one class after another waking up to a
sense of citizenship and demanding a place in the national councils,
frequently by riot or violence; and that in consequence of such menacing
popular action, the franchise was granted to one class after another and
used more and more to improve the social conditions of those classes,
until we practically became a democracy, save for such exceptions as that
of the women.  I do not think anyone will deny that something like that is
the general idea of the educated man who reads a newspaper and of the
newspaper that he reads.  That is the view current at public schools and
colleges; it is part of the culture of all the classes that count for much
in government; and there is not one word of truth in it from beginning to
end.


That Great Reform Bill

Wealth and political power were very much more popularly distributed in
the Middle Ages than they are now; but we will pass all that and consider
recent history.  The franchise has never been largely and liberally
granted in England; half the males have no vote and are not likely to get
one.  It was _never_ granted in reply to pressure from awakened sections
of the democracy; in every case there was a perfectly clear motive for
granting it solely for the convenience of the aristocrats.  The Great
Reform Bill was not passed in response to such riots as that which
destroyed a Castle; nor did the men who destroyed the Castle get any
advantage whatever out of the Great Reform Bill.  The Great Reform Bill
was passed in order to seal an alliance between the landed aristocrats and
the rich manufacturers of the north (an alliance that rules us still); and
the chief object of that alliance was to _prevent_ the English populace
getting any political power in the general excitement after the French
Revolution.  No one can read Macaulay's speech on the Chartists, for
instance, and not see that this is so.  Disraeli's further extension of
the suffrage was not effected by the intellectual vivacity and pure
republican theory of the mid-Victorian agricultural labourer; it was
effected by a politician who saw an opportunity to dish the Whigs, and
guessed that certain orthodoxies in the more prosperous artisan might yet
give him a balance against the commercial Radicals.  And while this very
thin game of wire-pulling with the mere abstraction of the vote was being
worked entirely by the oligarchs and entirely in their interests, the
solid and real thing that was going on was the steady despoiling of the
poor of all power or wealth, until they find themselves to-day upon the
threshold of slavery.  That is The Working Man's History of England.

Now, as I have said, I care comparatively little what is done with the
mere voting part of the matter, so long as it is not claimed in such a way
as to allow the plutocrat to escape his responsibility for his crimes, by
pretending to be much more progressive, or much more susceptible to
popular protest, than he ever has been.  And there is this danger in many
of those who have answered me.  One of them, for instance, says that women
have been forced into their present industrial situations by the same iron
economic laws that have compelled men.  I say that men have not been
compelled by iron economic laws, but in the main by the coarse and
Christless cynicism of other men.  But, of course, this way of talking is
exactly in accordance with the fashionable and official version of English
history.  Thus, you will read that the monasteries, places where men of
the poorest origin could be powerful, grew corrupt and gradually decayed.
Or you will read that the mediaeval guilds of free workmen yielded at last
to an inevitable economic law.  You will read this; and you will be
reading lies.  They might as well say that Julius Caesar gradually
decayed at the foot of Pompey's statue.  You might as well say that
Abraham Lincoln yielded at last to an inevitable economic law.  The free
mediaeval guilds did not decay; they were murdered.  Solid men with solid
guns and halberds, armed with lawful warrants from living statesmen broke
up their corporations and took away their hard cash from them.  In the
same way the people in Cradley Heath are no more victims of a necessary
economic law than the people in Putumayo.  They are victims of a very
terrible creature, of whose sins much has been said since the beginning of
the world; and of whom it was said of old, "Let us fall into the hands of
God, for His mercies are great; but let us not fall into the hands of Man."


The Capitalist Is in the Dock

Now it is this offering of a false economic excuse for the sweater that is
the danger in perpetually saying that the poor woman will use the vote and
that the poor man has not used it.  The poor man is prevented from using
it; prevented by the rich man, and the poor woman would be prevented in
exactly the same gross and stringent style.  I do not deny, of course,
that there is something in the English temperament, and in the heritage of
the last few centuries that makes the English workman more tolerant of
wrong than most foreign workmen would be.  But this only slightly modifies
the main fact of the moral responsibility.  To take an imperfect parallel,
if we said that negro slaves would have rebelled if negroes had been more
intelligent, we should be saying what is reasonable.  But if we were to
say that it could by any possibility be represented as being the negro's
fault that he was at that moment in America and not in Africa, we should
be saying what is frankly unreasonable.  It is every bit as unreasonable
to say the mere supineness of the English workmen has put them in the
capitalist slave-yard.  The capitalist has put them in the capitalist
slaveyard; and very cunning smiths have hammered the chains.  It is just
this creative criminality in the authors of the system that we must not
allow to be slurred over.  The capitalist is in the dock to-day; and so
far as I at least can prevent him, he shall not get out of it.



THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AND THE IRISH

It will be long before the poison of the Party System is worked out of the
body politic.  Some of its most indirect effects are the most dangerous.
One that is very dangerous just now is this: that for most Englishmen the
Party System falsifies history, and especially the history of revolutions.
It falsifies history because it simplifies history.  It paints everything
either Blue or Buff in the style of its own silly circus politics: while a
real revolution has as many colours as the sunrise--or the end of the
world.  And if we do not get rid of this error we shall make very bad
blunders about the real revolution which seems to grow more and more
probable, especially among the Irish.  And any human familiarity with
history will teach a man this first of all: that Party practically does
not exist in a real revolution.  It is a game for quiet times.

If you take a boy who has been to one of those big private schools which
are falsely called the Public Schools, and another boy who has been to one
of those large public schools which are falsely called the Board Schools,
you will find some differences between the two, chiefly a difference in
the management of the voice.  But you will find they are both English in a
special way, and that their education has been essentially the same.  They
are ignorant on the same subjects.  They have never heard of the same
plain facts.  They have been taught the wrong answer to the same confusing
question.  There is one fundamental element in the attitude of the Eton
master talking about "playing the game," and the elementary teacher
training gutter-snipes to sing, "What is the Meaning of Empire Day?"  And
the name of that element is "unhistoric."  It knows nothing really about
England, still less about Ireland or France, and, least of all, of course,
about anything like the French Revolution.


Revolution by Snap Division

Now what general notion does the ordinary English boy, thus taught to
utter one ignorance in one of two accents, get and keep through life about
the French Revolution?  It is the notion of the English House of Commons
with an enormous Radical majority on one side of the table and a small
Tory minority on the other; the majority voting solid for a Republic, the
minority voting solid for a Monarchy; two teams tramping through two
lobbies with no difference between their methods and ours, except that
(owing to some habit peculiar to Gaul) the brief intervals were brightened
by a riot or a massacre, instead of by a whisky and soda and a Marconi tip.
Novels are much more reliable than histories in such matters.  For
though an English novel about France does not tell the truth about France,
it does tell the truth about England; and more than half the histories
never tell the truth about anything.  And popular fiction, I think, bears
witness to the general English impression.  The French Revolution is a
snap division with an unusual turnover of votes.  On the one side stand a
king and queen who are good but weak, surrounded by nobles with rapiers
drawn; some of whom are good, many of whom are wicked, all of whom are
good-looking.  Against these there is a formless mob of human beings,
wearing red caps and seemingly insane, who all blindly follow ruffians who
are also rhetoricians; some of whom die repentant and others unrepentant
towards the end of the fourth act.  The leaders of this boiling mass of
all men melted into one are called Mirabeau, Robespierre, Danton, Marat,
and so on.  And it is conceded that their united frenzy may have been
forced on them by the evils of the old regime.

That, I think, is the commonest English view of the French Revolution; and
it will not survive the reading of two pages of any real speech or letter
of the period.  These human beings were human; varied, complex and
inconsistent.  But the rich Englishman, ignorant of revolutions, would
hardly believe you if you told him some of the common human subtleties of
the case.  Tell him that Robespierre threw the red cap in the dirt in
disgust, while the king had worn it with a broad grin, so to speak; tell
him that Danton, the fierce founder of the Republic of the Terror, said
quite sincerely to a noble, "I am more monarchist than you;" tell him that
the Terror really seems to have been brought to an end chiefly by the
efforts of people who particularly wanted to go on with it--and he will
not believe these things.  He will not believe them because he has no
humility, and therefore no realism.  He has never been inside himself; and
so could never be inside another man.  The truth is that in the French
affair everybody occupied an individual position.  Every man talked
sincerely, if not because he was sincere, then because he was angry.
Robespierre talked even more about God than about the Republic because he
cared even more about God than about the Republic.  Danton talked even
more about France than about the Republic because he cared even more about
France than about the Republic.  Marat talked more about Humanity than
either, because that physician (though himself somewhat needing a
physician) really cared about it.  The nobles were divided, each man from
the next.  The attitude of the king was quite different from the attitude
of the queen; certainly much more different than any differences between
our Liberals and Tories for the last twenty years.  And it will sadden
_some_ of my friends to remember that it was the king who was the Liberal
and the queen who was the Tory.  There were not two people, I think, in
that most practical crisis who stood in precisely the same attitude
towards the situation.  And that is why, between them, they saved Europe.
It is when you really perceive the unity of mankind that you really
perceive its variety.  It is not a flippancy, it is a very sacred truth,
to say that when men really understand that they are brothers they
instantly begin to fight.


The Revival of Reality

Now these things are repeating themselves with an enormous reality in the
Irish Revolution.  You will not be able to make a Party System out of the
matter.  Everybody is in revolt; therefore everybody is telling the truth.
The Nationalists will go on caring most for the nation, as Danton and
the defenders of the frontier went on caring most for the nation.  The
priests will go on caring most for religion, as Robespierre went on caring
most for religion.  The Socialists will go on caring most for the cure of
physical suffering, as Marat went on caring most for it.  It is out of
these real differences that real things can be made, such as the modern
French democracy.  For by such tenacity everyone sees at last that there
is something in the other person's position.  And those drilled in party
discipline see nothing either past or present.  And where there is nothing
there is Satan.

For a long time past in our politics there has not only been no real
battle, but no real bargain.  No two men have bargained as Gladstone and
Parnell bargained--each knowing the other to be a power.  But in real
revolutions men discover that no one man can really agree with another man
until he has disagreed with him.



LIBERALISM: A SAMPLE

There is a certain daily paper in England towards which I feel very much
as Tom Pinch felt towards Mr. Pecksniff immediately after he had found him
out.  The war upon Dickens was part of the general war on all democrats,
about the eighties and nineties, which ushered in the brazen plutocracy of
to-day.  And one of the things that it was fashionable to say of Dickens
in drawing-rooms was that he had no subtlety, and could not describe a
complex frame of mind.  Like most other things that are said in
drawing-rooms, it was a lie.  Dickens was a very unequal writer, and his
successes alternate with his failures; but his successes are subtle quite
as often as they are simple.  Thus, to take "Martin Chuzzlewit" alone, I
should call the joke about the Lord No-zoo a simple joke: but I should
call the joke about Mrs. Todgers's vision of a wooden leg a subtle joke.
And no frame of mind was ever so selfcontradictory and yet so realistic as
that which Dickens describes when he says, in effect, that, though Pinch
knew now that there had never been such a person as Pecksniff, in his
ideal sense, he could not bring himself to insult the very face and form
that had contained the legend.  The parallel with Liberal journalism is
not perfect; because it was once honest; and Pecksniff presumably never
was.  And even when I come to feel a final incompatibility of temper,
Pecksniff was not so Pecksniffian as he has since become.  But the
comparison is complete in so far as I share all the reluctance of Mr.
Pinch.  Some old heathen king was advised by one of the Celtic saints, I
think, to burn what he had adored and adore what he had burnt.  I am quite
ready, if anyone will prove I was wrong, to adore what I have burnt; but I
do really feel an unwillingness verging upon weakness to burning what I
have adored.  I think it is a weakness to be overcome in times as bad as
these, when (as Mr. Orage wrote with something like splendid common sense
the other day) there is such a lot to do and so few people who will do it.
So I will devote this article to considering one case of the astounding
baseness to which Liberal journalism has sunk.


Mental Breakdown in Fleet Street

One of the two or three streaks of light on our horizon can be perceived
in this: that the moral breakdown of these papers has been accompanied by
a mental breakdown also.  The contemporary official paper, like the "Daily
News" or the "Daily Chronicle" (I mean in so far as it deals with
politics), simply cannot argue; and simply does not pretend to argue.  It
considers the solution which it imagines that wealthy people want, and it
signifies the same in the usual manner; which is not by holding up its
hand, but by falling on its face.  But there is no more curious quality in
its degradation than a sort of carelessness, at once of hurry and fatigue,
with which it flings down its argument--or rather its refusal to argue.
It does not even write sophistry: it writes anything.  It does not so much
poison the reader's mind as simply assume that the reader hasn't got one.
For instance, one of these papers printed an article on Sir Stuart Samuel,
who, having broken the great Liberal statute against corruption, will
actually, perhaps, be asked to pay his own fine--in spite of the fact that
he can well afford to do so.  The article says, if I remember aright, that
the decision will cause general surprise and some indignation.  That any
modern Government making a very rich capitalist obey the law will cause
general surprise, may be true.  Whether it will cause general indignation
rather depends on whether our social intercourse is entirely confined to
Park Lane, or any such pigsties built of gold.  But the journalist
proceeds to say, his neck rising higher and higher out of his collar, and
his hair rising higher and higher on his head, in short, his resemblance
to the Dickens' original increasing every instant, that he does not mean
that the law against corruption should be less stringent, but that the
burden should be borne by the whole community.  This may mean that
whenever a rich man breaks the law, all the poor men ought to be made to
pay his fine.  But I will suppose a slightly less insane meaning.  I will
suppose it means that the whole power of the commonwealth should be used
to prosecute an offender of this kind.  That, of course, can only mean
that the matter will be decided by that instrument which still pretends to
represent the whole power of the commonwealth.  In other words, the
Government will judge the Government.

Now this is a perfectly plain piece of brute logic.  We need not go into
the other delicious things in the article, as when it says that "in old
times Parliament had to be protected against Royal invasion by the man in
the street."  Parliament has to be protected now against the man in the
street.  Parliament is simply the most detested and the most detestable of
all our national institutions: all that is evident enough.  What is
interesting is the blank and staring fallacy of the attempted reply.


When the Journalist Is Ruined

A long while ago, before all the Liberals died, a Liberal introduced a
Bill to prevent Parliament being merely packed with the slaves of
financial interests.  For that purpose he established the excellent
democratic principle that the private citizen, as such, might protest
against public corruption.  He was called the Common Informer.  I believe
the miserable party papers are really reduced to playing on the
degradation of the two words in modern language.  Now the word "comnon" in
"Common Informer" means exactly what it means in "common sense" or "Book
of Common Prayer," or (above all) in "House of Commons."  It does not mean
anything low or vulgar; any more than they do.  The only difference is
that the House of Commons really is low and vulgar; and the Common
Informer isn't.  It is just the same with the word "Informer."  It does
not mean spy or sneak.  It means one who gives information.  It means what
"journalist" ought to mean.  The only difference is that the Common
Informer may be paid if he tells the truth.  The common journalist will be
ruined if he does.

Now the quite plain point before the party journalist is this: If he
really means that a corrupt bargain between a Government and a contractor
ought to be judged by public opinion, he must (nowadays) mean Parliament;
that is, the caucus that controls Parliament.  And he must decide between
one of two views.  Either he means that there can be no such thing as a
corrupt Government.  Or he means that it is one of the characteristic
qualities of a corrupt Government to denounce its own corruption.  I laugh;
and I leave him his choice.



THE FATIGUE OF FLEET STREET

Why is the modern party political journalism so bad?  It is worse even
than it intends to be.  It praises its preposterous party leaders through
thick and thin; but it somehow succeeds in making them look greater fools
than they are.  This clumsiness clings even to the photographs of public
men, as they are snapshotted at public meetings.  A sensitive politician
(if there is such a thing) would, I should think, want to murder the man
who snapshots him at those moments.  For our general impression of a man's
gesture or play of feature is made up of a series of vanishing instants,
at any one of which he may look worse than our general impression records.
Mr. Augustine Birrell may have made quite a sensible and amusing speech,
in the course of which his audience would hardly have noticed that he
resettled his necktie.  Snapshot him, and he appears as convulsively
clutching his throat in the agonies of strangulation, and with his head
twisted on one side as if he had been hanged.  Sir Edward Carson might
make a perfectly good speech, which no one thought wearisome, but might
himself be just tired enough to shift from one leg to the other.  Snapshot
him, and he appears as holding one leg stiffly in the air and yawning
enough to swallow the audience.  But it is in the prose narratives of the
Press that we find most manifestations of this strange ineptitude; this
knack of exhibiting your own favourites in an unlucky light.  It is not so
much that the party journalists do not tell the truth as that they tell
just enough of it to make it clear that they are telling lies.  One of
their favourite blunders is an amazing sort of bathos.  They begin by
telling you that some statesman said something brilliant in style or
biting in wit, at which his hearers thrilled with terror or thundered with
applause.  And then they tell you what it was that he said.  Silly asses!


Insane Exaggeration

Here is an example from a leading Liberal paper touching the debates on
Home Rule.  I am a Home Ruler; so my sympathies would be, if anything, on
the side of the Liberal paper upon that point.  I merely quote it as an
example of this ridiculous way of writing, which, by insane exaggeration,
actually makes its hero look smaller than he is.

This was strange language to use about the "hypocritical sham," and Mr.
Asquith, knowing that the biggest battle of his career was upon him, hit
back without mercy.  "I should like first to know," said he, with a glance
at his supporters, "whether my proposals are accepted?"

That's all.  And I really do not see why poor Mr. Asquith should be
represented as having violated the Christian virtue of mercy by saying
that.  I myself could compose a great many paragraphs upon the same model,
each containing its stinging and perhaps unscrupulous epigram.  As, for
example:--"The Archbishop of Canterbury, realising that his choice now lay
between denying God and earning the crown of martyrdom by dying in
torments, spoke with a frenzy of religious passion that might have seemed
fanatical under circumstances less intense.  'The Children's Service,' he
said firmly, with his face to the congregation, 'will be held at half-past
four this afternoon as usual.'"

Or, we might have:--"Lord Roberts, recognising that he had now to face
Armageddon, and that if he lost this last battle against overwhelming odds
the independence of England would be extinguished forever, addressed to
his soldiers (looking at them and not falling off his horse) a speech
which brought their national passions to boiling point, and might well
have seemed blood-thirsty in quieter times.  It ended with the celebrated
declaration that it was a fine day."

Or we might have the much greater excitement of reading something like
this:--"The Astronomer Royal, having realised that the earth would
certainly be smashed to pieces by a comet unless his requests in
connection with wireless telegraphy were seriously considered, gave an
address at the Royal Society which, under other circumstances, would have
seemed unduly dogmatic and emotional and deficient in scientific
agnosticism.  This address (which he delivered without any attempt to
stand on his head) included a fierce and even ferocious declaration that
it is generally easier to see the stars by night than by day."

Now, I cannot see, on my conscience and reason, that any one of my
imaginary paragraphs is more ridiculous than the real one.  Nobody can
believe that Mr. Asquith regards these belated and careful compromises
about Home Rule as "the biggest battle of his career."  It is only justice
to him to say that he has had bigger battles than that.  Nobody can
believe that any body of men, bodily present, either thundered or thrilled
at a man merely saying that he would like to know whether his proposals
were accepted.  No; it would be far better for Parliament if its doors
were shut again, and reporters were excluded.  In that case, the outer
public did hear genuine rumours of almost gigantic eloquence; such as that
which has perpetuated Pitt's reply against the charge of youth, or Fox's
bludgeoning of the idea of war as a compromise.  It would be much better
to follow the old fashion and let in no reporters at all than to follow
the new fashion and select the stupidest reporters you can find.


Their Load of Lies

Now, why do people in Fleet-street talk such tosh?  People in Fleet-street
are not fools.  Most of them have realised reality through work; some
through starvation; some through damnation, or something damnably like it.
I think it is simply and seriously true that they are tired of their job.
As the general said in M. Rostand's play, "la fatigue!"

I do really believe that this is one of the ways in which God (don't get
flurried, Nature if you like) is unexpectedly avenged on things infamous
and unreasonable.  And this method is that men's moral and even physical
tenacity actually give out under such a load of lies.  They go on writing
their leading articles and their Parliamentary reports.  They go on doing
it as a convict goes on picking oakum.  But the point is not that we are
bored with their articles; the point is that they are.  The work is done
worse because it is done weakly and without human enthusiasm.  And it is
done weakly because of the truth we have told so many times in this book:
that it is not done for monarchy, for which men will die; or for democracy,
for which men will die; or even for aristocracy, for which many men have
died.  It is done for a thing called Capitalism: which stands out quite
clearly in history in many curious ways.  But the most curious thing about
it is that no man has loved it; and no man died for it.



THE AMNESTY FOR AGGRESSION

If there is to rise out of all this red ruin something like a republic of
justice, it is essential that our views should be real views; that is,
glimpses of lives and landscapes outside ourselves.  It is essential that
they should not be mere opium visions that begin and end in smoke--and so
often in cannon smoke.  I make no apology, therefore, for returning to the
purely practical and realistic point I urged last week: the fact that we
shall lose everything we might have gained if we lose the idea that the
responsible person is responsible.

For instance, it is almost specially so with the one or two things in
which the British Government, or the British public, really are behaving
badly.  The first, and worst of them, is the non-extension of the
Moratorium, or truce of debtor and creditor, to the very world where there
are the poorest debtors and thc cruellest creditors.  This is infamous:
and should be, if possible, more infamous to those who think the war right
than to those who think it wrong.  Everyone knows that the people who can
least pay their debts are the people who are always trying to.  Among the
poor a payment may be as rash as a speculation.  Among the rich a
bankruptcy may be as safe as a bank.  Considering the class from which
private soldiers are taken, there is an atrocious meanness in the idea of
buying their blood abroad, while we sell their sticks at home.  The
English language, by the way, is full of delicate paradoxes.  We talk of
the private soldiers because they are really public soldiers; and we talk
of the public schools because they are really private schools.  Anyhow,
the wrong is of the sort that ought to be resisted, as much in war as in
peace.


Ought to Be Hammered

But as long as we speak of it as a cloudy conclusion, come to by an
anonymous club called Parliament, or a masked tribunal called the Cabinet,
we shall never get such a wrong righted.  Somebody is officially
responsible for the unfairness; and that somebody ought to be hammered.
The other example, less important but more ludicrous, is the silly boycott
of Germans in England, extending even to German music.  I do not believe
for a moment that the English people feel any such insane fastidiousness.
Are the English artists who practise the particularly English art of
water-colour to be forbidden to use Prussian blue?  Are all old ladies to
shoot their Pomeranian dogs?  But though England would laugh at this, she
will get the credit of it, and will continue: until we ask who the actual
persons are who feel sure that we should shudder at a ballad of the Rhine.
It is certain that we should find they are capitalists.  It is very
probable that we should find they are foreigners.

Some days ago the Official Council of the Independent Labour Party, or the
Independent Council of the Official Labour Party, or the Independent and
Official Council of the Labour Party (I have got quite nervous about these
names and distinctions; but they all seem to say the same thing) began
their manifesto by saying it would be difficult to assign the degrees of
responsibility which each nation had for the outbreak of the war.
Afterwards, a writer in the "Christian Commonwealth," lamenting war in the
name of Labour, but in the language of my own romantic middle-class, said
that all the nations must share the responsibility for this great calamity
of war.  Now exactly as long as we go on talking like that we shall have
war after war, and calamity after calamity, until the crack of doom.  It
simply amounts to a promise of pardon to any person who will start a
quarrel.  It is an amnesty for assassins.  The moment any man assaults any
other man he makes all the other men as bad as himself.  He has only to
stab, and to vanish in a fog of forgetfulness.  The real eagles of iron,
the predatory Empires, will be delighted with this doctrine.  They will
applaud the Labour Concert or Committee, or whatever it is called.  They
will willingly take all the crime, with only a quarter of the conscience:
they will be as ready to share the memory as they are to share the spoil.
The Powers will divide responsibility as calmly as they divided Poland.


The Whole Loathsome Load

But I still stubbornly and meekly submit my point: that you cannot end war
without asking who began it.  If you think somebody else, not Germany,
began it, then blame that somebody else: do not blame everybody and nobody.
Perhaps you think that a small sovereign people, fresh from two
triumphant wars, ought to discrown itself before sunrise; because the
nephew of a neighbouring Emperor has been shot by his own subjects.  Very
well.  Then blame Servia; and, to the extent of your influence, you may be
preventing small kingdoms being obstinate or even princes being shot.
Perhaps you think the whole thing was a huge conspiracy of Russia, with
France as a dupe and Servia as a pretext.  Very well.  Then blame Russia;
and, to the extent of your influence, you may be preventing great Empires
from making racial excuses for a raid.  Perhaps you think France wrong
for feeling what you call "revenge," and I should call recovery of stolen
goods.  Perhaps you blame Belgium for being sentimental about her frontier;
or England for being sentimental about her word.  If so, blame them; or
whichever of them you think is to blame.  Or again, it is barely possible
that you may think, as I do, that the whole loathsome load has been laid
upon us by the monarchy which I have not named; still less wasted time in
abusing.  But if there be in Europe a military State which has not the
religion of Russia, yet has helped Russia to tyrannise over the Poles,
that State cares not for religion, but for tyranny.  If there be a State
in Europe which has not the religion of the Austrians, but has helped
Austria to bully the Servians, that State cares not for belief, but for
bullying.  If there be in Europe any people or principality which respects
neither republics nor religions, to which the political ideal of Paris is
as much a myth as the mystical ideal of Moscow, then blame that: and do
more than blame.  In the healthy and highly theological words of Robert
Blatchford, drive it back to the Hell from which it came.


Crying Over Spilt Blood

But whatever you do, do not blame everybody for what was certainly done by
somebody.  It may be it is no good crying over spilt blood, any more than
over spilt milk.  But we do not find the culprit any more by spilling the
milk over everybody; or by daubing everybody with blood.  Still less do we
improve matters by watering the milk with our tears, nor the blood either.
To say that everybody is responsible means that nobody is responsible.
If in the future we see Russia annexing Rutland (as part of the old
Kingdom of Muscovy), if we see Bavaria taking a sudden fancy to the Bank
of England, or the King of the Cannibal Islands suddenly demanding a
tribute of edible boys and girls from England and America, we may be quite
certain also that the Leader of the Labour Party will rise, with a slight
cough, and say: "It would be a difficult task to apportion the blame
between the various claims which..."



REVIVE THE COURT JESTER

I hope the Government will not think just now about appointing a Poet
Laureate.  I hardly think they can be altogether in the right mood.  The
business just now before the country makes a very good detective story;
but as a national epic it is a little depressing.  Jingo literature always
weakens a nation; but even healthy patriotic literature has its proper
time and occasion.  For instance, Mr. Newbolt (who has been suggested for
the post) is a very fine poet; but I think his patriotic lyrics would just
now rather jar upon a patriot.  We are rather too much concerned about our
practical seamanship to feel quite confident that Drake will return and
"drum them up the Channel as he drummed them long ago."  On the contrary,
we have an uncomfortable feeling that Drake's ship might suddenly go to
the bottom, because the capitalists have made Lloyd George abolish the
Plimsoll Line.  One could not, without being understood ironically, adjure
the two party teams to-day to "play up, play up and play the game," or to
"love the game more than the prize."  And there is no national hero at
this moment in the soldiering line--unless, perhaps, it is Major
Archer-Shee--of whom anyone would be likely to say: "Sed miles; sed pro
patria."  There is, indeed, one beautiful poem of Mr. Newbolt's which may
mingle faintly with one's thoughts in such times, but that, alas, is to a
very different tune.  I mean that one in which he echoes Turner's
conception of the old wooden ship vanishing with all the valiant memories
of the English:


There's a far bell ringing
At the setting of the sun,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of the great days done.
There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of a fame forever clinging
To the great days done.
For the sunset breezes shiver,
Temeraire, Temeraire,
And she's fading down the river....


Well, well, neither you nor I know whether she is fading down the river or
not.  It is quite enough for us to know, as King Alfred did, that a great
many pirates have landed on both banks of the Thames.


Praise and Prophecy Impossible

At this moment that is the only kind of patriotic poem that could satisfy
the emotions of a patriotic person.  But it certainly is not the sort of
poem that is expected from a Poet Laureate, either on the highest or the
lowest theory of his office.  He is either a great minstrel singing the
victories of a great king, or he is a common Court official like the Groom
of the Powder Closet.  In the first case his praises should be true; in
the second case they will nearly always be false; but in either case he
must praise.  And what there is for him to praise just now it would be
precious hard to say.  And if there is no great hope of a real poet, there
is still less hope of a real prophet.  What Newman called, I think, "The
Prophetical Office," that is, the institution of an inspired protest even
against an inspired religion, certainly would not do in modern England.
The Court is not likely to keep a tame prophet in order to encourage him
to be wild.  It is not likely to pay a man to say that wolves shall howl
in Downing-street and vultures build their nests in Buckingham Palace.  So
vast has been the progress of humanity that these two things are quite
impossible.  We cannot have a great poet praising kings.  We cannot have a
great prophet denouncing kings.  So I have to fall back on a third
suggestion.


The Field for a Fool

Instead of reviving the Court Poet, why not revive the Court Fool?  He is
the only person who could do any good at this moment either to the Royal
or the judicial Courts.  The present political situation is utterly
unsuitable for the purposes of a great poet.  But it is particularly
suitable for the purposes of a great buffoon.  The old jester was under
certain privileges: you could not resent the jokes of a fool, just as you
cannot resent the sermons of a curate.  Now, what the present Government
of England wants is neither serious praise nor serious denunciation; what
it wants is satire.  What it wants, in other words, is realism given with
gusto.  When King Louis the Eleventh unexpectedly visited his enemy, the
Duke of Burgundy, with a small escort, the Duke's jester said he would
give the King his fool's cap, for he was the fool now.  And when the Duke
replied with dignity, "And suppose I treat him with all proper respect?"
the fool answered, "Then I will give it to you."  That is the kind of
thing that somebody ought to be free to say now.  But if you say it now
you will be fined a hundred pounds at the least.


Carson's Dilemma

For the things that have been happening lately are not merely things that
one could joke about.  They are themselves, truly and intrinsically, jokes.
I mean that there is a sort of epigram of unreason in the situation
itself, as there was in the situation where there was jam yesterday and
jam to-morrow but never jam to-day.  Take, for instance, the extraordinary
case of Sir Edward Carson.  The point is not whether we regard his
attitude in Belfast as the defiance of a sincere and dogmatic rebel, or as
the bluff of a party hack and mountebank.  The point is not whether we
regard his defence of the Government at the Old Bailey as a chivalrous and
reluctant duty done as an advocate or a friend, or as a mere case of a
lawyer selling his soul for a fat brief.  The point is that whichever of
the two actions we approve, and whichever of the four explanations we
adopt, Sir Edward's position is still raving nonsense.  On any argument,
he cannot escape from his dilemma.  It may be argued that laws and customs
should be obeyed whatever our private feelings; and that it is an
established custom to accept a brief in such a case.  But then it is a
somewhat more established custom to obey an Act of Parliament and to keep
the peace.  It may be argued that extreme misgovernment justifies men in
Ulster or elsewhere in refusing to obey the law.  But then it would
justify them even more in refusing to appear professionally in a law court.
Etiquette cannot be at once so unimportant that Carson may shoot at the
King's uniform, and yet so important that he must always be ready to put
on his own.  The Government cannot be so disreputable that Carson need not
lay down his gun, and yet so respectable that he is bound to put on his
wig.  Carson cannot at once be so fierce that he can kill in what he
considers a good cause, and yet so meek that he must argue in what he
considers a bad cause.  Obedience or disobedience, conventional or
unconventional, a solicitor's letter cannot be more sacred than the King's
writ; a blue bag cannot be more rational than the British flag.  The thing
is rubbish read anyway, and the only difficulty is to get a joke good
enough to express it.  It is a case for the Court Jester.  The phantasy
of it could only be expressed by some huge ceremonial hoax.  Carson ought
to be crowned with the shamrocks and emeralds and followed by green-clad
minstrels of the Clan-na-Gael, playing "The Wearing of the Green."


Belated Chattiness by Wireless

But all the recent events are like that.  They are practical jokes.  The
jokes do not need to be made: they only need to be pointed out.  You and
I do not talk and act as the Isaacs brothers talked and acted, by their
own most favourable account of themselves; and even their account of
themselves was by no means favourable.  You and I do not talk of meeting
our own born brother "at a family function" as if he were some infinitely
distant cousin whom we only met at Christmas.  You and I, when we suddenly
feel inclined for a chat with the same brother about his dinner and the
Coal Strike, do not generally select either wireless telegraphy or the
Atlantic Cable as the most obvious and economical channel for that
outburst of belated chattiness.  You and I do not talk, if it is proposed
to start a railway between Catsville and Dogtown, as if the putting up of
a station at Dogtown could have no kind of economic effect on the putting
up of a station at Catsville.  You and I do not think it candid to say
that when we are at one end of a telephone we have no sort of connection
with the other end.  These things have got into the region of farce; and
should be dealt with farcically, not even ferociously.


A Fool Who Shall Be Free

In the Roman Republic there was a Tribune of the People, whose person was
inviolable like an ambassador's.  There was much the same idea in Becket's
attempt to remove the Priest, who was then the popular champion, from the
ordinary courts.  We shall have no Tribune; for we have no republic.  We
shall have no Priest; for we have no religion.  The best we deserve or can
expect is a Fool who shall be free; and who shall deliver us with laughter.




THE ART OF MISSING THE POINT

Missing the point is a very fine art; and has been carried to something
like perfection by politicians and Pressmen to-day.  For the point is
generally a very sharp point; and is, moreover, sharp at both ends.  That
is to say that both parties would probably impale themselves in an
uncomfortable manner if they did not manage to avoid it altogether.  I
have just been looking at the election address of the official Liberal
candidate for the part of the country in which I live; and though it is,
if anything, rather more logical and free from cant than most other
documents of the sort it is an excellent example of missing the point.
The candidate has to go boring on about Free Trade and Land Reform and
Education; and nobody reading it could possibly imagine that in the town
of Wycombe, where the poll will be declared, the capital of the Wycombe
division of Bucks which the candidate is contesting, centre of the
important and vital trade on which it has thriven, a savage struggle about
justice has been raging for months past between the poor and rich, as real
as the French Revolution.  The man offering himself at Wycombe as
representative of the Wycombe division simply says nothing about it at all.
It is as if a man at the crisis of the French Terror had offered himself
as a deputy for the town of Paris, and had said nothing about the Monarchy,
nothing about the Republic, nothing about the massacres, nothing about
the war; but had explained with great clearness his views on the
suppression of the Jansenists, the literary style of Racine, the
suitability of Turenae for the post of commander-in-chief, and the
religious reflections of Madame de Maintenon.  For, at their best, the
candidate's topics are not topical.  Home Rule is a very good thing, and
modern education is a very bad thing; but neither of them are things that
anybody is talking about in High Wycombe.  This is the first and simplest
way of missing the point: deliberately to avoid and ignore it.


The Candid Candidate

It would be an amusing experiment, by the way, to go to the point instead
of avoiding it.  What fun it would be to stand as a strict Party
candidate, but issue a perfectly frank and cynical Election Address.  Mr.
Mosley's address begins, "Gentlemen,--Sir Alfred Cripps having been chosen
for a high judicial position and a seat in the House of Lords, a
by-election now becomes necessary, and the electors of South Bucks are
charged with the responsible duty of electing, etc., etc."  But suppose
there were another candidate whose election address opened in a plain,
manly style, like this: "Gentlemen,--In the sincere hope of being myself
chosen for a high judicial position or a seat in the House of Lords, or
considerably increasing my private fortune by some Government appointment,
or, at least, inside information about the financial prospects, I have
decided that it is worth my while to disburse large sums of money to you
on various pretexts, and, with even more reluctance to endure the bad
speaking and bad ventilation of the Commons' House of Parliament, so help
me God.  I have very pronounced convictions on various political questions;
but I will not trouble my fellow-citizens with them, since I have quite
made up my mind to abandon any or all of them if requested to do so by the
upper classes.  The electors are therefore charged with the entirely
irresponsible duty of electing a Member; or, in other words, I ask my
neighbours round about this part, who know I am not a bad chap in many
ways, to do me a good turn in my business, just as I might ask them to
change a sovereign.  My election will have no conceivable kind of effect
on anything or anybody except myself; so I ask, as man to man, the
Electors of the Southern or Wycombe Division of the County of Buckingham
to accept a ride in one of my motor-cars; and poll early to please a
pal--God Save the King."  I do not know whether you or I would be elected
if we presented ourselves with an election address of that kind; but we
should have had our fun and (comparatively speaking) saved our souls; and
I have a strong suspicion that we should be elected or rejected on a
mechanical majority like anybody else; nobody having dreamed of reading an
election address any more than an advertisement of a hair restorer.


Tyranny and Head-Dress

But there is another and more subtle way in which we may miss the point;
and that is, not by keeping a dead silence about it, but by being just
witty enough to state it wrong.  Thus, some of the Liberal official papers
have almost screwed up their courage to the sticking-point about the
bestial coup d'etat in South Africa.  They have screwed up their courage
to the sticking-point; and it has stuck.  It cannot get any further;
because it has missed the main point.  The modern Liberals make their
feeble attempts to attack the introduction of slavery into South Africa by
the Dutch and the Jews, by a very typical evasion of the vital fact.  The
vital fact is simply slavery.  Most of these Dutchmen have always felt
like slave-owners.  Most of these Jews have always felt like slaves.  Now
that they are on top, they have a particular and curious kind of impudence,
which is only known among slaves.  But the Liberal journalists will do
their best to suggest that the South African wrong consisted in what they
call Martial Law.  That is, that there is something specially wicked about
men doing an act of cruelty in khaki or in vermilion, but not if it is
done in dark blue with pewter buttons.  The tyrant who wears a busby or a
forage cap is abominable; the tyrant who wears a horsehair wig is
excusable.  To be judged by soldiers is hell; but to be judged by lawyers
is paradise.

Now the point must not be missed in this way.  What is wrong with the
tyranny in Africa is not that it is run by soldiers.  It would be quite as
bad, or worse, if it were run by policemen.  What is wrong is that, for
the first time since Pagan times, private men are being forced to work for
a private man.  Men are being punished by imprisonment or exile for
refusing to accept a job.  The fact that Botha can ride on a horse, or
fire off a gun, makes him better rather than worse than any man like
Sidney Webb or Philip Snowden, who attempt the same slavery by much less
manly methods.  The Liberal Party will try to divert the whole discussion
to one about what they call militarism.  But the very terms of modern
politics contradict it.  For when we talk of real rebels against the
present system we call them Militants.  And there will be none in the
Servile State.



THE SERVILE STATE AGAIN

I read the other day, in a quotation from a German newspaper, the highly
characteristic remark that Germany having annexed Belgium would soon
re-establish its commerce and prosperity, and that, in particular,
arrangements were already being made for introducing into the new province
the German laws for the protection of workmen.

I am quite content with that paragraph for the purpose of any controversy
about what is called German atrocity.  If men I know had not told me they
had themselves seen the bayoneting of a baby; if the most respectable
refugees did not bring with them stories of burning cottages--yes, and of
burning cottagers as well; if doctors did not report what they do report
of the condition of girls in the hospitals; if there were no facts; if
there were no photographs, that one phrase I have quoted would be quite
sufficient to satisfy me that the Prussians are tyrants; tyrants in a
peculiar and almost insane sense which makes them pre-eminent among the
evil princes of the earth.  The first and most striking feature is a
stupidity that rises into a sort of ghastly innocence.  The protection of
workmen!  Some workmen, perhaps, might have a fancy for being protected
from shrapnel; some might be glad to put up an umbrella that would ward
off things dropping from the gentle Zeppelin in heaven upon the place
beneath.  Some of these discontented proletarians have taken the same view
as Vandervelde their leader, and are now energetically engaged in
protecting themselves along the line of the Yser; I am glad to say not
altogether without success.  It is probable that nearly all of the Belgian
workers would, on the whole, prefer to be protected against bombs, sabres,
burning cities, starvation, torture, and the treason of wicked kings.  In
short, it is probable--it is at least possible, impious as is the
idea--that they would prefer to be protected against Germans and all they
represent.  But if a Belgian workman is told that he is not to be
protected against Germans, but actually to be protected by Germans, I
think he may be excused for staring.  His first impulse, I imagine, will
be to ask, "Against whom?  Are there any worse people to come along?"

But apart from the hellish irony of this humanitarian idea, the question
it raises is really one of solid importance for people whose politics are
more or less like ours.  There is a very urgent point in that question,
"Against whom would the Belgian workmen be protected by the German laws?"
And if we pursue it, we shall be enabled to analyse something of that
poison--very largely a Prussian poison--which has long been working in our
own commonwealth, to the enslavement of the weak and the secret
strengthening of the strong.  For the Prussian armies are, pre-eminently,
the advance guard of the Servile State.  I say this scientifically, and
quite apart from passion or even from preference.  I have no illusions
about either Belgium or England.  Both have been stained with the soot of
Capitalism and blinded with the smoke of mere Colonial ambition; both have
been caught at a disadvantage in such modern dirt and disorder; both have
come out much better than I should have expected countries so modern and so
industrial to do.  But in England and Belgium there is Capitalism mixed up
with a great many other things, strong things and things that pursue other
aims; Clericalism, for instance, and militant Socialism in Belgium; Trades
Unionism and sport and the remains of real aristocracy in England.  But
Prussia is Capitalism; that is, a gradually solidifying slavery; and that
majestic unity with which she moves, dragging all the dumb Germanies after
her, is due to the fact that her Servile State is complete, while ours is
incomplete.  There are not mutinies; there are not even mockeries; the
voice of national self-criticism has been extinguished forever.  For this
people is already permanently cloven into a higher and a lower class: in
its industry as much as its army.  Its employers are, in the strictest and
most sinister sense, captains of industry.  Its proletariat is, in the
truest and most pitiable sense, an army of labour.  In that atmosphere
masters bear upon them the signs that they are more than men; and to
insult an officer is death.

If anyone ask how this extreme and unmistakable subordination of the
employed to the employers is brought about, we all know the answer.  It is
brought about by hunger and hardness of heart, accelerated by a certain
kind of legislation, of which we have had a good deal lately in England,
but which was almost invariably borrowed from Prussia.  Mr.  Herbert
Samuel's suggestion that the poor should be able to put their money in
little boxes and not be able to get it out again is a sort of standing
symbol of all the rest.  I have forgotten how the poor were going to
benefit eventually by what is for them indistinguishable from dropping
sixpence down a drain.  Perhaps they were going to get it back some day;
perhaps when they could produce a hundred coupons out of the Daily Citizen;
perhaps when they got their hair cut; perhaps when they consented to be
inoculated, or trepanned, or circumcised, or something.  Germany is full
of this sort of legislation; and if you asked an innocent German, who
honestly believed in it, what it was, he would answer that it was for the
protection of workmen.

And if you asked again "Their protection from what?"  you would have the
whole plan and problem of the Servile State plain in front of you.
Whatever notion there is, there is no notion whatever of protecting the
employed person _from his employer_.  Much less is there any idea of his
ever being anywhere except under an employer.  Whatever the Capitalist
wants he gets.  He may have the sense to want washed and well-fed
labourers rather than dirty and feeble ones, and the restrictions may
happen to exist in the form of laws from the Kaiser or by-laws from the
Krupps.  But the Kaiser will not offend the Krupps, and the Krupps will
not offend the Kaiser.  Laws of this kind, then, do not attempt to protect
workmen against the injustice of the Capitalist as the English Trade
Unions did.  They do not attempt to protect workmen against the injustice
of the State as the mediaeval guilds did.  Obviously they cannot protect
workmen against the foreign invader--especially when (as in the comic case
of Belgium) they are imposed by the foreign invader.  What then are such
laws designed to protect workmen against?  Tigers, rattlesnakes, hyenas?

Oh, my young friends; oh, my Christian brethren, they are designed to
protect this poor person from something which to those of established rank
is more horrid than many hyenas.  They are designed, my friends, to
protect a man from himself--from something that the masters of the earth
fear more than famine or war, and which Prussia especially fears as
everything fears that which would certainly be its end.  They are meant to
protect a man against himself--that is, they are meant to protect a man
against his manhood.

And if anyone reminds me that there is a Socialist Party in Germany, I
reply that there isn't.



THE EMPIRE OF THE IGNORANT

That anarchic future which the more timid Tories professed to fear has
already fallen upon us.  We are ruled by ignorant people.  But the most
ignorant people in modern Britain are to be found in the upper class, the
middle class, and especially the upper middle class.  I do not say it
with the smallest petulance or even distaste; these classes are often
really beneficent in their breeding or their hospitality, or their
humanity to animals.

There is still no better company than the young at the two Universities,
or the best of the old in the Army or some of the other services.  Also,
of course, there are exceptions in the matter of learning; real scholars
like Professor Gilbert Murray or Professor Phillimore are not ignorant,
though they _are_ gentlemen.  But when one looks up at any mass of the
wealthier and more powerful classes, at the Grand Stand at Epsom, at the
windows of Park-lane, at the people at a full-dress debate or a
fashionable wedding, we shall be safe in saying that they are, for the
most part, the most ill-taught, or untaught, creatures in these islands.


Literally Illiterate

It is indeed their feeble boast that they are not literally illiterate.
They are always saying the ancient barons could not sign their own
names--for they know less of history perhaps than of anything else.  The
modern barons, however, can sign their own names--or someone else's for a
change.  They can sign their own names; and that is about all they can do.
They cannot face a fact, or follow an argument, or feel a tradition; but,
least of all, can they, upon any persuasion, read through a plain
impartial book, English or foreign, that is not specially written to
soothe their panic or to please their pride.  Looking up at these seats of
the mighty I can only say, with something of despair, what Robert Lowe
said of the enfranchised workmen: "We must educate our masters."

I do not mean this as paradoxical, or even as symbolical; it is simply
tame and true.  The modern English rich know nothing about things, not
even about the things to which they appeal.  Compared with them, the poor
are pretty sure to get some enlightenment, even if they cannot get liberty;
they must at least be technical.  An old apprentice learnt a trade, even
if his master came like any Turk and banged him most severely.  The old
housewife knew which side her bread was buttered, even if it were so thin
as to be almost imperceptible.  The old sailor knew the ropes; even if he
knew the rope's end.  Consequently, when any of these revolted, they were
concerned with things they knew, pains, practical impossibilities, or the
personal record.


But They Know

The apprentice cried "Clubs?"  and cracked his neighbours' heads with the
precision and fineness of touch which only manual craftsmanship can give.
The housewives who flatly refused to cook the hot dinner knew how much or
how little, cold meat there was in the house.  The sailor who defied
discipline by mutinying at the Nore did not defy discipline in the sense
of falling off the rigging or letting the water into the hold.  Similarly
the modern proletariat, however little it may know, knows what it is
talking about.

But the curious thing about the educated class is that exactly what it
does not know is what it is talking about.  I mean that it is startlingly
ignorant of those special things which it is supposed to invoke and keep
inviolate.  The things that workmen invoke may be uglier, more acrid, more
sordid; but they know all about them.  They know enough arithmetic to know
that prices have risen; the kind Levantine gentleman is always there to
make them fully understand the meaning of an interest sum; and the
landlord will define Rent as rigidly as Ricardo.  The doctors can always
tell them the Latin for an empty stomach; and when the poor man is treated
for the time with some human respect (by the Coronet) it almost seems a
pity he is not alive to hear how legally he died.

Against this bitter shrewdness and bleak realism in the suffering classes
it is commonly supposed that the more leisured classes stand for certain
legitimate ideas which also have their place in life; such as history,
reverence, the love of the land.  Well, it might be no bad thing to have
something, even if it were something narrow, that testified to the truths
of religion or patriotism.  But such narrow things in the past have always
at least known their own history; the bigot knew his catechism; the
patriot knew his way home.  The astonishing thing about the modern rich is
their real and sincere ignorance--especially of the things they like.


No!

Take the most topical case you can find in any drawing-room: Belfast.
Ulster is most assuredly a matter of history; and there is a sense in
which Orange resistance is a matter of religion.  But go and ask any of
the five hundred fluttering ladies at a garden party (who find Carson so
splendid and Belfast so thrilling) what it is all about, when it began,
where it came from, what it really maintains? What was the history of
Ulster?  What is the religion of Belfast?  Do any of them know where
Ulstermen were in Grattan's time; do any of them know what was the
"Protestantism" that came from Scotland to that isle; could any of them
tell what part of the old Catholic system it really denied?

It was generally something that the fluttering ladies find in their own
Anglican churches every Sunday.  It were vain to ask them to state the
doctrines of the Calvinist creed; they could not state the doctrines of
their own creed.  It were vain to tell them to read the history of
Ireland; they have never read the history of England.  It would matter as
little that they do not know these things, as that I do not know German;
but then German is not the only thing I am supposed to know.  History and
ritual are the only things aristocrats are supposed to know; and they
don't know them.


Smile and Smile

I am not fed on turtle soup and Tokay because of my exquisite intimacy
with the style and idiom of Heine and Richter.  The English governing
class is fed on turtle soup and Tokay to represent the past, of which it
is literally ignorant, as I am of German irregular verbs; and to represent
the religious traditions of the State, when it does not know three words
of theology, as I do not know three words of German.

This is the last insult offered by the proud to the humble.  They rule
them by the smiling terror of an ancient secret.  They smile and smile;
but they have forgotten the secret.



THE SYMBOLISM OF KRUPP

The curious position of the Krupp firm in the awful story developing
around us is not quite sufficiently grasped.  There is a kind of academic
clarity of definition which does not see the proportions of things for
which everything falls within a definition, and nothing ever breaks beyond
it.  To this type of mind (which is valuable when set to its special and
narrow work) there is no such thing as an exception that proves the rule.
If I vote for confiscating some usurer's millions I am doing, they say,
precisely what I should be doing if I took pennies out of a blind man's
hat.  They are both denials of the principle of private property, and are
equally right and equally wrong, according to our view of that principle.
I should find a great many distinctions to draw in such a matter.  First,
I should say that taking a usurer's money by proper authority is not
robbery, but recovery of stolen goods.  Second, I should say that even if
there were no such thing as personal property, there would still be such a
thing as personal dignity, and different modes of robbery would diminish
it in very different ways.  Similarly, there is a truth, but only a
half-truth, in the saying that all modern Powers alike rely on the
Capitalist and make war on the lines of Capitalism.  It is true, and it is
disgraceful.  But it is _not_ equally true and equally disgraceful.  It is
not true that Montenegro is as much ruled by financiers as Prussia, just
as it is not true that as many men in the Kaiserstrasse, in Berlin, wear
long knives in their belts as wear them in the neighbourhood of the Black
Mountain.  It is not true that every peasant from one of the old Russian
communes is the immediate servant of a rich man, as is every employee of
Mr.  Rockefeller.  It is as false as the statement that no poor people in
America can read or write.  There is an element of Capitalism in all
modern countries, as there is an element of illiteracy in all modern
countries.  There are some who think that the number of our
fellow-citizens who can sign their names ought to comfort us for the
extreme fewness of those who have anything in the bank to sign it for, but
I am not one of these.

In any case, the position of Krupp has certain interesting aspects.  When
we talk of Army contractors as among the base but active actualities of
war, we commonly mean that while the contractor benefits by the war, the
war, on the whole, rather suffers by the contractor.  We regard this
unsoldierly middleman with disgust, or great anger, or contemptuous
acquiescence, or commercial dread and silence, according to our personal
position and character.  But we nowhere think of him as having anything to
do with fighting in the final sense.  Those worthy and wealthy persons who
employ women's labour at a few shillings a week do not do it to obtain the
best clothes for the soldiers, but to make a sufficient profit on the
worst.  The only argument is whether such clothes are just good enough for
the soldiers, or are too bad for anybody or anything.  We tolerate the
contractor, or we do not tolerate him; but no one admires him especially,
and certainly no one gives him any credit for any success in the war.
Confessedly or unconfessedly we knock his profits, not only off what goes
to the taxpayer, but what goes to the soldier.  We know the Army will not
fight any better, at least, because the clothes they wear were stitched by
wretched women who could hardly see; or because their boots were made by
harassed helots, who never had time to think.  In war-time it is very
widely confessed that Capitalism is not a good way of ruling a patriotic
or self-respecting people, and all sorts of other things, from strict
State organisation to quite casual personal charity, are hastily
substituted for it.  It is recognised that the "great employer," nine
times out of ten, is no more than the schoolboy or the page who pilfers
tarts and sweets from the dishes as they go up and down.  How angry one is
with him depends on temperament, on the stage of the dinner--also on the
number of tarts.

Now here comes in the real and sinister significance of Krupps.  There are
many capitalists in Europe as rich, as vulgar, as selfish, as rootedly
opposed to any fellowship of the fortunate and unfortunate.  But there is
no other capitalist who claims, or can pretend to claim, that he has very
appreciably _helped_ the activities of his people in war.  I will suppose
that Lipton did not deserve the very severe criticisms made on his firm by
Mr. Justice Darling; but, however blameless he was, nobody can suppose
that British soldiers would charge better with the bayonet because they
had some particular kind of groceries inside them.  But Krupp can make a
plausible claim that the huge infernal machines to which his country owes
nearly all of its successes could only have been produced under the
equally infernal conditions of the modern factory and the urban and
proletarian civilisation.  That is why the victory of Germany would be
simply the victory of Krupp, and the victory of Krupp would be simply the
victory of Capitalism.  There, and there alone, Capitalism would be able
to point to something done successfully for a whole nation--done (as it
would certainly maintain) better than small free States or natural
democracies could have done it.  I confess I think the modern Germans
morally second-rate, and I think that even war, when it is conducted most
successfully by machinery, is second-rate war.  But this second-rate war
will become not only the first but the only brand, if the cannon of Krupp
should conquer; and, what is very much worse, it will be the only
intelligent answer that any capitalist has yet given against our case that
Capitalism is as wasteful and as weak as it is certainly wicked.  I do not
fear any such finality, for I happen to believe in the kind of men who
fight best with bayonets and whose fathers hammered their own pikes for
the French Revolution.



THE TOWER OF BEBEL

Among the cloudy and symbolic stories in the beginning of the Bible there
is one about a tower built with such vertical energy as to take a hold on
heaven, but ruined and resulting only in a confusion of tongues.  The
story might be interpreted in many ways--religiously, as meaning that
spiritual insolence starts all human separations; irreligiously, as
meaning that the inhuman heavens grudge man his magnificent dream; or
merely satirically as suggesting that all attempts to reach a higher
agreement always end in more disagreement than there was before.  It might
be taken by the partially intelligent Kensitite as a judgment on Latin
Christians for talking Latin.  It might be taken by the somewhat less
intelligent Professor Harnack as a final proof that all prehistoric
humanity talked German.  But when all was said, the symbol would remain
that a plain tower, as straight as a sword, as simple as a lily, did
nevertheless produce the deepest divisions that have been known among men.
In any case we of the world in revolt--Syndicalists, Socialists, Guild
Socialists, or whatever we call ourselves--have no need to worry about the
scripture or the allegory.  We have the reality.  For whatever reason,
what is said to have happened to the people of Shinak has precisely and
practically happened to us.

None of us who have known Socialists (or rather, to speak more truthfully,
none of us who have been Socialists) can entertain the faintest doubt that
a fine intellectual sincerity lay behind what was called "L'Internationale."
It was really felt that Socialism was universal like arithmetic.  It
was too true for idiom or turn of phrase.  In the formula of Karl Marx men
could find that frigid fellowship which they find when they agree that two
and two make four.  It was almost as broadminded as a religious dogma.

Yet this universal language has not succeeded, at a moment of crisis, in
imposing itself on the whole world.  Nay, it has not, at the moment of
crisis, succeeded in imposing itself on its own principal champions.
Herve is not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking French.  Bebel is
not talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking German.  Blatchford is not
talking Economic Esperanto; he is talking English, and jolly good English,
too.  I do not know whether French or Flemish was Vandervelde's nursery
speech, but I am quite certain he will know more of it after this struggle
than he knew before.  In short, whether or no there be a new union of
hearts, there has really and truly been a new division of tongues.

How are we to explain this singular truth, even if we deplore it?  I
dismiss with fitting disdain the notion that it is a mere result of
military terrorism or snobbish social pressure.  The Socialist leaders of
modern Europe are among the most sincere men in history; and their
Nationalist note in this affair has had the ring of their sincerity.  I
will not waste time on the speculation that Vandervelde is bullied by
Belgian priests; or that Blatchford is frightened of the horse-guards
outside Whitehall.  These great men support the enthusiasm of their
conventional countrymen because they share it; and they share it because
there is (though perhaps only at certain great moments) such a thing as
pure democracy.

Timour the Tartar, I think, celebrated some victory with a tower built
entirely out of human skulls; perhaps he thought _that_ would reach to
heaven.  But there is no cement in such building; the veins and ligaments
that hold humanity together have long fallen away; the skulls will roll
impotently at a touch; and ten thousand more such trophies could only make
the tower taller and crazier.  I think the modern official apparatus of
"votes" is very like that tottering monument.  I think the Tartar "counted
heads," like an electioneering agent.  Sometimes when I have seen from the
platform of some paltry party meeting the rows and rows of grinning
upturned faces, I have felt inclined to say, as the poet does in the "The
Vision of Sin"--"Welcome fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads."


Not that the people were personally hollow or empty, but they had come on
a hollow and empty business: to help the good Mr. Binks to strengthen the
Insurance Act against the wicked Mr. Jinks who would only promise to
fortify the Insurance Act.  That night it did not blow the democratic gale.
Yet it can blow on these as on others; and when it does blow men learn
many things.  I, for one, am not above learning them.

The Marxian dogma which simplifies all conflicts to the Class War is so
much nobler a thing than the nose-counting of the parliaments that one
must apologise for the comparison.  And yet there is a comparison.  When
we used to say that there were so many thousands of Socialists in Germany,
we were counting by skulls.  When we said that the majority consisting of
Proletarians would be everywhere opposed to the minority, consisting of
Capitalists, we were counting by skulls.  Why, yes; if all men's heads
had been cut off from the rest of them, as they were by the good sense and
foresight of Timour the Tartar; if they had no hearts or bellies to be
moved; no hand that flies up to ward off a weapon, no foot that can feel a
familiar soil--if things were so the Marxian calculation would be not only
complete but correct.  As we know to-day, the Marxian calculation is
complete, but it is not correct.

Now, this is the answer to the questions of some kind critics, whose
actual words I have not within reach at the moment, about whether my
democracy meant the rule of the majority over the minority.  It means the
rule of the rule--the rule of the rule over the exception.  When a nation
finds a soul it clothes it with a body, and does verily act like one
living thing.  There is nothing to be said about those who are out of it,
except that they are out of it.  After talking about it in the abstract
for decades, this is Democracy, and it is marvellous in our eyes.  It is
not the difference between ninetynine persons and a hundred persons; it is
one person--the people.  I do not know or care how many or how few of the
Belgians like or dislike the pictures of Wiertz.  They could not be either
justified or condemned by a mere majority of Belgians.  But I am very
certain that the defiance to Prussia did not come from a majority of
Belgians.  It came from Belgium one and indivisible--atheists, priests,
princes of the blood, Frenchified shopkeepers, Flemish boors, men, women,
and children, and the sooner we understand that this sort of thing can
happen the better for us.  For it is this spontaneous spiritual fellowship
of communities under certain conditions to which the four or five most
independent minds of Europe willingly bear witness to-day.

But is there no exception: is there no one faithful among the unfaithful
found?  Is no great Socialist politician still untouched by the patriotism
of the vulgar?  Why, yes; the rugged Ramsay MacDonald, scarred with a
hundred savage fights against the capitalist parties, still lifts up his
horny hand for peace.  What further need have we of witnesses?  I, for my
part, am quite satisfied, and do not doubt that Mr. MacDonald will be as
industrious in damping down democracy in this form as in every other.


A REAL DANGER

Heaven forbid that I should once more wade in those swamps of logomachy
and tautology in which the old guard of the Determinists still seem to be
floundering.  The question of Fate and Free Will can never attain to a
conclusion, though it may attain to a conviction.  The shortest
philosophic summary is that both cause and choice are ultimate ideas
within us, and that if one man denies choice because it seems contrary to
cause, the other man has quite as much right to deny cause because it
seems contrary to choice.  The shortest ethical summary is that
Determinism either affects conduct or it does not.  If it does not, it is
morally not worth preaching; if it does, it must affect conduct in the
direction of impotence and submission.  A writer in the "Clarion" says
that the reformer cannot help trying to reform, nor the Conservative help
his Conservatism.  But suppose the reformer tries to reform the
Conservative and turn him into another reformer?  Either he can, in which
case Determinism has made no difference at all, or he can't, in which case
it can only have made reformers more hopeless and Conservatives more
obstinate.  And the shortest practical and political summary is that
working men, most probably, will soon be much too busy using their Free
Will to stop to prove that they have got it.  Nevertheless, I like to
watch the Determinist in the "Clarion" Cockpit every week, as busy as a
squirrel--in a cage.  But being myself a squirrel (leaping lightly from
bough to bough) and preferring the form of activity which occasionally
ends in nuts, I should not intervene in the matter even indirectly, except
upon a practical point.  And the point I have in mind is practical to the
extent of deadly peril.  It is another of the numerous new ways in which
the restless rich, now walking the world with an awful insomnia, may
manage to catch us napping.


Must Be a Mystery

There are two letters in the "Clarion" this week which in various ways
interest me very much.  One is concerned to defend Darwin against the
scientific revolt against him that was led by Samuel Butler, and among
other things it calls Bernard Shaw a back number.  Well, most certainly
"The Origin of Species" is a back number, in so far as any honest and
interesting book ever can be; but in pure philosophy nothing can be out of
date, since the universe must be a mystery even to the believer.  There is,
however, one condition of things in which I do call it relevant to
describe somebody as behind the times.  That is when the man in question,
thinking of some state of affairs that has passed away, is really helping
the very things he would like to hinder.  The principles cannot alter, but
the problems can.  Thus, I should call a man behind the times who, in the
year 1872, pleaded for the peaceful German peasants against the triumphant
militarism of Napoleon.  Or I should call a man out of date who, in the
year 1892, wished for a stronger Navy to compete with the Navy of Holland,
because it had once swept the sea and sailed up the Thames.  And I
certainly call a man or a movement out of date that, in the year 1914,
when we few are fighting a giant machine, strengthened with all material
wealth and worked with all the material sciences, thinks that our chief
danger is from an excess of moral and religious responsibility.  He
reminds me of Mr. Snodgrass, who had the presence of mind to call out
"Fire!"  when Mr.  Pickwick fell through the ice.

The other letter consists of the usual wiredrawn argument for fatalism.
Man cannot imagine the universe being created, and therefore is "compelled
by his reason" to think the universe without beginning or end, which (I
may remark) he cannot imagine either.  But the letter ends with something
much more ominous than bad metaphysics.  Here, in the middle of the
"Clarion," in the centre of a clean and combative democratic sheet, I meet
again my deplorable old acquaintance, the scientific criminologist.  "The
so-called evil-doer should not be punished for his acts, but restrained."
In forty-eight hours I could probably get a petition to that effect signed
by millionaires.  A short time ago a Bill was introduced to hold
irresponsible and "restrain" a whole new class of people, who were
"incapable of managing their affairs with prudence."  Read the supporters'
names on the back of that Bill, and see what sort of democrats they were.

Now, clearing our heads of what is called popular science (which means
going to sleep to a lullaby of long words), let us use our own brains a
little, and ask ourselves what is the real difference between punishing a
man and restraining him.  The material difference may be any or none; for
punishment may be very mild, and restraint may be very ruthless.  The man,
of course, must dislike one as much as the other, or it would not be
necessary to restrain him at all.  And I assure you he will get no great
glow of comfort out of your calling him irresponsible after you have made
him impotent.  A man does not necessarily feel more free and easy in a
straight waistcoat than in a stone cell.  The moral difference is that a
man can be punished for a crime because he is born a citizen; while he can
be constrained because he is born a slave.  But one arresting and
tremendous difference towers over all these doubtful or arguable
differences.  There is one respect, vital to all our liberties and all our
lives, in which the new restraint would be different from the old
punishment.  It is of this that the plutocrats will take advantage.


The Plain Difference

The perfectly plain difference is this.  All punishment, even the most
horrible, proceeds upon the assumption that the extent of the evil is
known, and that a certain amount of expiation goes with it.  Even if you
hang the man, you cannot hang him twice.  Even if you burn him, you cannot
burn him for a month.  And in the case of all ordinary imprisonments, the
whole aim of free institutions from the beginning of the world has been to
insist that a man shall be convicted of a definite crime and confined for
a definite period.  But the moment you admit this notion of medical
restraint, you must in fairness admit that it may go on as long as the
authorities choose to think (or say) that it ought to go on.  The man's
punishment refers to the past, which is supposed to have been investigated,
and which, in some degree at least, has been investigated.  But his
restraint refers to the future, which his doctors, keepers, and wardens
have yet to investigate.  The simple result will be that, in the
scientific Utopia of the "Clarion," men like Mann or Syme or Larkin will
not be put in prison because of what they have done.  They will be kept in
prison because of what they might do.  Indeed, the builders of the new
tyranny have already come very near to avowing this scientific and
futurist method.  When the lawyers tried to stop the "Suffragette" from
appearing at all, they practically said: "We do not know your next week's
crime, because it isn't committed yet; but we are scientifically certain
you have the criminal type.  And by the sublime and unalterable laws of
heredity, all your poor little papers will inherit it."

This is a purely practical question; and that is why I insist on it, even
in such strenuous times.  The writers on the "Clarion" have a perfect
right to think Christianity is the foe of freedom, or even that the
stupidity and tyranny of the present Government is due to the monkish
mysticism of Lord Morley and Mr. John M. Robertson.  They have a right to
think the theory of Determinism as true as Calvin thought it.  But I do
not like seeing them walk straight into the enormous iron trap set open by
the Capitalists, who find it convenient to make our law even more lawless
than it is.  The rich men want a scientist to write them a _lettre de
cachet_ as a doctor writes a prescription.  And so they wish to seal up in
a public gaol the scandals of a private asylum.  Yes; the writers on the
"Clarion" are indeed claiming irresponsibility for human beings.  But it
is the governments that will be irresponsible, not the governed.

But I will tell them one small secret in conclusion.  There is nothing
whatever wrong in the ancient and universal idea of Punishment--except
that we are not punishing the right people.


THE DREGS OF PURITANISM

One peculiarity of the genuine kind of enemy of the people is that his
slightest phrase is clamorous with all his sins.  Pride, vain-glory, and
hypocrisy seem present in his very grammar; in his very verbs or adverbs
or prepositions, as well as in what he says, which is generally bad enough.
Thus I see that a Nonconformist pastor in Bromley has been talking about
the pathetic little presents of tobacco sent to the common soldiers.  This
is how he talks about it.  He is reported as having said, "By the help of
God, they wanted this cigarette business stopped."  How one could write a
volume on that sentence, a great thick volume called "The Decline of the
English Middle Class."  In taste, in style, in philosophy, in feeling, in
political project, the horrors of it are as unfathomable as hell.

First, to begin with the trifle, note something slipshod and vague in the
mere verbiage, typical of those who prefer a catchword to a creed.  "This
cigarette business" might mean anything.  It might mean Messrs.  Salmon
and Gluckstein's business.  But the pastor at Bromley will not interfere
with that, for the indignation of his school of thought, even when it is
sincere, always instinctively and unconsciously swerves aside from
anything that is rich and powerful like the partners in a big business,
and strikes instead something that is poor and nameless like the soldiers
in a trench.  Nor does the expression make clear who "they" are--whether
the inhabitants of Britain or the inhabitants of Bromley, or the
inhabitants of this one crazy tabernacle in Bromley; nor is it evident how
it is going to be stopped or who is being asked to stop it.  All these
things are trifles compared to the more terrible offences of the phrase;
but they are not without their social and historical interest.  About the
beginning of the nineteenth century the wealthy Puritan class, generally
the class of the employers of labour, took a line of argument which was
narrow, but not nonsensical.  They saw the relation of rich and poor quite
coldly as a contract, but they saw that a contract holds both ways.  The
Puritans of the middle class, in short, did in some sense start talking
and thinking for themselves.  They are still talking.  They have long ago
left off thinking.  They talk about the loyalty of workmen to their
employers, and God knows what rubbish; and the first small certainty about
the reverend gentleman whose sentence I have quoted is that his brain
stopped working as a clock stops, years and years ago.

Second, consider the quality of the religious literature!  These people
are always telling us that the English translated Bible is sufficient
training for anyone in noble and appropriate diction; and so it is.  Why,
then, are they not trained?  They are always telling us that Bunyan, the
rude Midland tinker, is as much worth reading as Chaucer or Spenser; and
so he is.  Why, then, have they not read him?  I cannot believe that
anyone who had seen, even in a nightmare of the nursery, Apollyon
straddling over the whole breadth of the way could really write like that
about a cigarette.  By the help of God, they wanted this cigarette
business stopped.  Therefore, with angels and archangels and the whole
company of Heaven, with St. Michael, smiter of Satan and Captain of the
Chivalry of God, with all the ardour of the seraphs and the flaming
patience of the saints, we will have this cigarette business stopped.
Where has all the tradition of the great religious literatures gone to
that a man should come on such a bathos with such a bump?

Thirdly, of course, there is the lack of imaginative proportion, which
rises into a sort of towering blasphemy.  An enormous number of live young
men are being hurt by shells, hurt by bullets, hurt by fever and hunger
and horror of hope deferred; hurt by lance blades and sword blades and
bayonet blades breaking into the bloody house of life.  But Mr. Price (I
think that's his name) is still anxious that they should not be hurt by
cigarettes.  That is the sort of maniacal isolation that can be found in
the deserts of Bromley.  That cigarettes are bad for the health is a very
tenable opinion to which the minister is quite entitled.  If he happens to
think that the youth of Bromley smoke too many cigarettes, and that he has
any influence in urging on them the unhealthiness of the habit, I should
not blame him if he gave sermons or lectures about it (with magic-lantern
slides), so long as it was in Bromley and about Bromley.  Cigarettes may
be bad for the health: bombs and bayonets and even barbed wire are not
good for the health.  I never met a doctor who recommended any of them.
But the trouble with this sort of man is that he cannot adjust himself to
the scale of things.  He would do very good service if he would go among
the rich aristocratic ladies and tell them not to take drugs in a chronic
sense, as people take opium in China.  But he would be doing very bad
service if he were to go among the doctors and nurses on the field and
tell them not to give drugs, as they give morphia in a hospital.  But it
is the whole hypothesis of war, it is its very nature and first principle,
that the man in the trench is almost as much a suffering and abnormal
person as the man in the hospital.  Hit or unhit, conqueror or conquered,
he is, by nature of the case, having less pleasure than is proper and
natural to a man.

Fourth (for I need not dwell here on the mere diabolical idiocy that can
regard beer or tobacco as in some way evil and unseemly in themselves),
there is the most important element in this strange outbreak; at least,
the most dangerous and the most important for us.  There is that main
feature in the degradation of the old middle class: the utter
disappearance of its old appetite for liberty.  Here there is no question
of whether the men are to smoke cigarettes, or the women choose to send
cigarettes, or even that the officers or doctors choose to allow
cigarettes.  The thing is to cease, and we may note one of the most
recurrent ideas of the servile State: it is mentioned in the passive mood.
It must be stopped, and we must not even ask who has stopped it!



THE TYRANNY OF BAD JOURNALISM

The amazing decision of the Government to employ methods quite alien to
England, and rather belonging to the police of the Continent, probably
arises from the appearance of papers which are lucid and fighting, like
the papers of the Continent.  The business may be put in many ways.  But
one way of putting it is simply to say that a monopoly of bad journalism
is resisting the possibility of good journalism.  Journalism is not the
same thing as literature; but there is good and bad journalism, as there
is good and bad literature, as there is good and bad football.  For the
last twenty years or so the plutocrats who govern England have allowed the
English nothing but bad journalism.  Very bad journalism, simply
considered as journalism.

It always takes a considerable time to see the simple and central fact
about anything.  All sorts of things have been said about the modern Press,
especially the Yellow Press; that it is Jingo or Philistine or
sensational or wrongly inquisitive or vulgar or indecent or trivial; but
none of these have anything really to do with the point.

The point about the Press is that it is not what it is called.  It is not
the "popular Press." It is not the public Press.  It is not an organ of
public opinion.  It is a conspiracy of a very few millionaires, all
sufficiently similar in type to agree on the limits of what this great
nation (to which we belong) may know about itself and its friends and
enemies.  The ring is not quite complete; there are old-fashioned and
honest papers: but it is sufficiently near to completion to produce on the
ordinary purchaser of news the practical effects of a corner and a
monopoly.  He receives all his political information and all his political
marching orders from what is by this time a sort of half-conscious secret
society, with very few members, but a great deal of money.

This enormous and essential fact is concealed for us by a number of
legends that have passed into common speech.  There is the notion that the
Press is flashy or trivial _because_ it is popular.  In other words, an
attempt is made to discredit democracy by representing journalism as the
natural literature of democracy.  All this is cold rubbish.  The
democracy has no more to do with the papers than it has with the peerages.
The millionaire newspapers are vulgar and silly because the millionaires
are vulgar and silly.  It is the proprietor, not the editor, not the
sub-editor, least of all the reader, who is pleased with this monotonous
prairie of printed words.  The same slander on democracy can be noticed in
the case of advertisements.  There is many a tender old Tory imagination
that vaguely feels that our streets would be hung with escutcheons and
tapestries, if only the profane vulgar had not hung them with
advertisements of Sapolio and Sunlight Soap.  But advertisement does not
come from the unlettered many.  It comes from the refined few.  Did you
ever hear of a mob rising to placard the Town Hall with proclamations in
favour of Sapolio?  Did you ever see a poor, ragged man laboriously
drawing and painting a picture on the wall in favour of Sunlight
Soap--simply as a labour of love?  It is nonsense; those who hang our
public walls with ugly pictures are the same select few who hang their
private walls with exquisite and expensive pictures.  The vulgarisation of
modern life has come from the governing class; from the highly educated
class.  Most of the people who have posters in Camberwell have peerages at
Westminster.  But the strongest instance of all is that which has been
unbroken until lately, and still largely prevails; the ghastly monotony of
the Press.

Then comes that other legend; the notion that men like the masters of the
Newspaper Trusts "give the people what they want." Why, it is the whole
aim and definition of a Trust that it gives the people what it chooses.
In the old days, when Parliaments were free in England, it was discovered
that one courtier was allowed to sell all the silk, and another to sell
all the sweet wine.  A member of the House of Commons humorously asked who
was allowed to sell all the bread.  I really tremble to think what that
sarcastic legislator would have said if he had been put off with the
modern nonsense about "gauging the public taste." Suppose the first
courtier had said that, by his shrewd, self-made sense, he had detected
that people had a vague desire for silk; and even a deep, dim human desire
to pay so much a yard for it!  Suppose the second courtier said that he
had, by his own rugged intellect, discovered a general desire for wine: and
that people bought his wine at his price--when they could buy no other!
Suppose a third courtier had jumped up and said that people always bought
his bread when they could get none anywhere else.

Well, that is a perfect parallel.  "After bread, the need of the people is
knowledge," said Danton.  Knowledge is now a monopoly, and comes through
to the citizens in thin and selected streams, exactly as bread might come
through to a besieged city.  Men must wish to know what is happening,
whoever has the privilege of telling them.  They must listen to the
messenger, even if he is a liar.  They must listen to the liar, even if he
is a bore.  The official journalist for some time past has been both a
bore and a liar; but it was impossible until lately to neglect his sheets
of news altogether.  Lately the capitalist Press really has begun to be
neglected; because its bad journalism was overpowering and appalling.
Lately we have really begun to find out that capitalism cannot write, just
as it cannot fight, or pray, or marry, or make a joke, or do any other
stricken human thing.  But this discovery has been quite recent.  The
capitalist newspaper was never actually unread until it was actually
unreadable.

If you retain the servile superstition that the Press, as run by the
capitalists, is popular (in any sense except that in which dirty water in
a desert is popular), consider the case of the solemn articles in praise
of the men who own newspapers--men of the type of Cadbury or Harmsworth,
men of the type of the small club of millionaires.  Did you ever hear a
plain man in a tramcar or train talking about Carnegie's bright genial
smile or Rothschild's simple, easy hospitality?  Did you ever hear an
ordinary citizen ask what was the opinion of Sir Joseph Lyons about the
hopes and fears of this, our native land?  These few small-minded men
publish, papers to praise themselves.  You could no more get an
intelligent poor man to praise a millionaire's soul, except for hire, than
you could get him to sell a millionaire's soap, except for hire.  And I
repeat that, though there are other aspects of the matter of the new
plutocratic raid, one of the most important is mere journalistic jealousy.
The Yellow Press is bad journalism: and wishes to stop the appearance of
good journalism.

There is no average member of the public who would not prefer to have
Lloyd George discussed as what he is, a Welshman of genius and ideals,
strangely fascinated by bad fashion and bad finance, rather than discussed
as what neither he nor anyone else ever was, a perfect democrat or an
utterly detestable demagogue.  There is no reader of a daily paper who
would not feel more concern--and more respect--for Sir Rufus Isaacs as a
man who has been a stockbroker, than as a man who happens to be
Attorney-General.  There is no man in the street who is not more
interested in Lloyd George's investments than in his Land Campaign.  There
is no man in the street who could not understand (and like) Rufus Isaacs
as a Jew better than he can possibly like him as a British statesman.
There is no sane journalist alive who would say that the official account
of Marconis would be better "copy" than the true account that such papers
as this have dragged out.  We have committed one crime against the
newspaper proprietor which he will never forgive.  We point out that his
papers are dull.  And we propose to print some papers that are
interesting.



THE POETRY OF THE REVOLUTION

Everyone but a consistent and contented capitalist, who must be something
pretty near to a Satanist, must rejoice at the spirit and success of the
Battle of the Buses.  But one thing about it which happens to please me
particularly was that it was fought, in one aspect at least, on a point
such as the plutocratic fool calls unpractical.  It was fought about a
symbol, a badge, a thing attended with no kind of practical results, like
the flags for which men allow themselves to fall down dead, or the shrines
for which men will walk some hundreds of miles from their homes.  When a
man has an eye for business, all that goes on on this earth in that style
is simply invisible to him.  But let us be charitable to the eye for
business; the eye has been pretty well blacked this time.

But I wish to insist here that it is exactly what is called the
unpractical part of the thing that is really the practical.  The chief
difference between men and the animals is that all men are artists; though
the overwhelming majority of us are bad artists.  As the old fable truly
says, lions do not make statues; even the cunning of the fox can go no
further than the accomplishment of leaving an exact model of the vulpine
paw: and even that is an accomplishment which he wishes he hadn't got.
There are Chryselephantine statues, but no purely elephantine ones.  And,
though we speak in a general way of an elephant trumpeting, it is only by
human blandishments that he can be induced to play the drum.  But man,
savage or civilised, simple or complex always desires to see his own soul
outside himself; in some material embodiment.  He always wishes to point
to a table in a temple, or a cloth on a stick, or a word on a scroll, or a
badge on a coat, and say: "This is the best part of me.  If need be, it
shall be the rest of me that shall perish."  This is the method which
seems so unbusinesslike to the men with an eye to business.  This is also
the method by which battles are won.


The Symbolism of the Badge

The badge on a Trade Unionist's coat is a piece of poetry in the genuine,
lucid, and logical sense in which Milton defined poetry (and he ought to
know) when he said that it was simple, sensuous, and passionate.  It is
simple, because many understand the word "badge," who might not even
understand the word "recognition."  It is sensuous, because it is visible
and tangible; it is incarnate, as all the good Gods have been; and it is
passionate in this perfectly practical sense, which the man with an eye to
business may some day learn more thoroughly than he likes, that there are
men who will allow you to cross a word out in a theoretical document, but
who will not allow you to pull a big button off their bodily clothing,
merely because you have more money than they have.  Now I think it is this
sensuousness, this passion, and, above all, this simplicity that are most
wanted in this promising revolt of our time.  For this simplicity is
perhaps the only thing in which the best type of recent revolutionists
have failed.  It has been our sorrow lately to salute the sunset of one of
the very few clean and incorruptible careers in the most corruptible phase
of Christendom.  The death of Quelch naturally turns one's thoughts to
those extreme Marxian theorists, who, whatever we may hold about their
philosophy, have certainly held their honour like iron.  And yet, even in
this instant of instinctive reverence, I cannot feel that they were
poetical enough, that is childish enough, to make a revolution.  They had
all the audacity needed for speaking to the despot; but not the simplicity
needed for speaking to the democracy.  They were always accused of being
too bitter against the capitalist.  But it always seemed to me that they
were (quite unconsciously, of course) much too kind to him.  They had a
fatal habit of using long words, even on occasions when he might with
propriety have been described in very short words.  They called him a
Capitalist when almost anybody in Christendom would have called him a cad.
And "cad" is a word from the poetic vocabulary indicating rather a
general and powerful reaction of the emotions than a status that could be
defined in a work of economics.  The capitalist, asleep in the sun, let
such long words crawl all over him, like so many long, soft, furry
caterpillars.  Caterpillars cannot sting like wasps.  And, in repeating
that the old Marxians have been, perhaps, the best and bravest men of our
time, I say also that they would have been better and braver still if they
had never used a scientific word, and never read anything but fairy tales.


The Beastly Individualist

Suppose I go on to a ship, and the ship sinks almost immediately; but I
(like the people in the Bab Ballads), by reason of my clinging to a mast,
upon a desert island am eventually cast.  Or rather, suppose I am not cast
on it, but am kept bobbing about in the water, because the only man on the
island is what some call an Individualist, and will not throw me a rope;
though coils of rope of the most annoying elaboration and neatness are
conspicuous beside him as he stands upon the shore.  Now, it seems to me,
that if, in my efforts to shout at this fellow-creature across the
crashing breakers, I call his position the "insularistic position," and my
position "the semi-amphibian position," much valuable time may be lost.  I
am not an amphibian.  I am a drowning man.  He is not an insularist, or
an individualist.  He is a beast.  Or rather, he is worse than any beast
can be.  And if, instead of letting me drown, he makes me promise, while I
am drowning, that if I come on shore it shall be as his bodily slave,
having no human claims henceforward forever, then, by the whole theory and
practice of capitalism, he becomes a capitalist, he also becomes a cad.

Now, the language of poetry is simpler than that of prose; as anyone can
see who has read what the old-fashioned protestant used to call
confidently "his" Bible.  And, being simpler, it is also truer; and, being
truer, it is also fiercer.  And, for most of the infamies of our time,
there is really nothing plain enough, except the plain language of poetry.
Take, let us say, the ease of the recent railway disaster, and the
acquittal of the capitalists' interest.  It is not a scientific problem
for us to investigate.  It is a crime committed before our eyes; committed,
perhaps, by blind men or maniacs, or men hypnotised, or men in some other
ways unconscious; but committed in broad daylight, so that the corpse is
bleeding on our door-step.  Good lives were lost, because good lives do
not pay; and bad coals do pay.  It seems simply impossible to get any
other meaning out of the matter except that.  And, if in human history
there be anything simple and anything horrible, it seems to have been
present in this matter.  If, even after some study and understanding of
the old religious passions which were the resurrection of Europe, we
cannot endure the extreme infamy of witches and heretics literally burned
alive--well, the people in this affair were quite as literally burned
alive.  If, when we have really tried to extend our charity beyond the
borders of personal sympathy, to all the complexities of class and creed,
we still feel something insolent about the triumphant and acquitted man
who is in the wrong, here the men who are in the wrong are triumphant and
acquitted.  It is no subject for science.  It is a subject for poetry.
But for poetry of a terrible sort.







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