Herne Hill, December, 1873.
The laws of Florence in the fourteenth century, for us in the
nineteenth!
Even so, good reader. You have, perhaps, long imagined that the judges
of Israel, and heroes of Greece, the consuls of Rome, and the dukes of
Venice, the powers of Florence, and the kings of England, were all
merely the dim foreshadowings and obscure prophecyings of the advent of
the Jones and Robinson of the future: demi-gods revealed in your own
day, whose demi-divine votes, if luckily coincident upon any subject,
become totally divine, and establish the ordinances thereof, for ever.
You will find it entirely otherwise, gentlemen, whether of the suburb,
or centre. Laws small and great, for ever unchangeable;—irresistible by
all the force of Robinson, and unimprovable by finest jurisprudence of
Jones, have long since been known, and, by wise nations, obeyed. Out of
the statute books of one of these I begin with an apparently
unimportant order, but the sway of it cuts deep.
“No person whatsoever shall buy fish, to sell it again, either in the
market of Florence, or in any markets in the state of Florence.”
It is one of many such laws, entirely abolishing the profession of
middleman, or costermonger of perishable articles of food, in the city
of the Lily.
“Entirely abolishing!—nonsense!” thinks your modern commercial worship.
“Who was to prevent private contract?”
Nobody, my good sir;—there is, as you very justly feel, no power in law
whatever to prevent private contract. No quantity of laws, penalties,
or constitutions, can be of the slightest use to a public inherently
licentious and deceitful. There is no legislation for liars and
traitors. They cannot be prevented from the pit; the earth finally
swallows them. They find their level against all embankment—soak their
way down, irrestrainably, to the gutter grating;—happiest the nation
that most rapidly so gets rid of their stench. There is no law, I
repeat, for these, but gravitation. Organic laws can only be
serviceable to, and in general will only be written by, a public of
honourable citizens, loyal to their state, and faithful to each other.
The profession of middleman was then, by civic consent, and formal law,
rendered impossible in Florence with respect to fish. What advantage
the modern blessed possibility of such mediatorial function brings to
our hungry multitudes; and how the miraculous draught of fishes, which
living St. Peter discerns, and often dextrously catches—“the shoals of
them like shining continents,” (said Carlyle to me, only
yesterday,)—are by such apostolic succession miraculously diminished,
instead of multiplied; and, instead of baskets full of fragments taken
up from the ground, baskets full of whole fish laid down on it, lest
perchance any hungry person should cheaply eat of the same,—here is a
pleasant little account for you, by my good and simple clergyman’s
wife. It would have been better still, if I had not been forced to warn
her that I wanted it for Fors, which of course took the sparkle out of
her directly. Here is one little naughty bit of private preface, which
really must go with the rest. “I have written my little letter about
the fish trade, and L. says it is all right. I am afraid you won’t
think there is anything in it worth putting in Fors, as I really know
very little about it, and absolutely nothing that every one else does
not know, except ladies, who generally never trouble about anything,
but scold their cooks, and abuse the fishmongers—when they cannot pay
the weekly bills easily.” (After this we are quite proper.)
“The poor fishermen who toil all through these bitter nights, and the
retail dealer who carries heavy baskets, or drags a truck so many weary
miles along the roads, get but a poor living out of their labour; but
what are called ‘fish salesmen,’ who by reason of their command of
capital keep entire command of the London markets are making enormous
fortunes.
“When you ask the fishermen why they do not manage better for
themselves at the present demand for fish, they explain how helpless
they are in the hands of what they call ‘the big men.’ Some fishermen
at Aldborough, who have a boat of their own, told my brother that one
season, when the sea seemed full of herrings, they saw in the
newspapers how dear they were in London, and resolved to make a venture
on their own account; so they spent all their available money in the
purchase of a quantity of the right sort of baskets, and, going out to
sea, filled them all,—putting the usual five hundred lovely fresh fish
in each,—sent them straight up to London by train, to the charge of a
salesman they knew of, begging him to send them into the market and do
the best he could for them. But he was very angry with the fishermen;
and wrote them word that the market was quite sufficiently stocked;
that if more fish were sent in, the prices would go down; that he
should not allow their fish to be sold at all; and, if they made a fuss
about it, he would not send their baskets back, and would make them pay
the carriage. As it was, he returned them, after a time; but the poor
men never received one farthing for their thousands of nice fish, and
only got a scolding for having dared to try and do without the agents,
who buy the fish from the boats at whatever price they choose to settle
amongst themselves.
“When we were at Yarmouth this autumn, the enormous abundance of
herrings on the fish quay was perfectly wonderful; it must be, (I
should think,) two hundred yards long, and is capable of accommodating
the unloading of a perfect fleet of boats. The ‘swills,’ as they call
the baskets, each containing five hundred fish, were side by side,
touching each other, all over this immense space, and men were
shovelling salt about, with spades, over heaps of fish, previous to
packing at once in boxes. I said, ‘How surprised our poor people would
be to see such a sight, after constantly being obliged to pay
three-halfpence for every herring they buy.’ An old fisherman answered
me, saying, ‘No one need pay that, ma’am, if we could get the fish to
them; we could have plenty more boats, and plenty more fish, if we
could have them taken where the poor people could get them.’ We brought
home a hundred dried herrings, for which we paid ten shillings; when we
asked if we might buy some lovely mackerel on the Fish Quay, they said,
(the fishermen,) that they were not allowed to sell them there, except
all at once. Since then, I have read an account of a Royal Commission
having been investigating the subject of the fishery for some time
past, and the result of its inquiries seems to prove that it is
inexhaustible, and that in the North Sea it is always harvest-time. [4]
“When I told our fishmonger all about it, he said I was quite right
about the ‘big men’ in London, and added, ‘They will not let us have
the fish under their own prices; and if it is so plentiful that they
cannot sell it all at that, they have it thrown away, or carted off for
manure; sometimes sunk in the river. If we could only get it here, my
trade would be twice what it is, for, except sprats, the poor can
seldom buy fish now.’
“I asked him if the new Columbia Market was of no use in making things
easier, but he said, ‘No;’ that these salesmen had got that into their
hands also; and were so rich that they would keep any number of markets
in their own hands. A few hundred pounds sacrificed any day to keep up
the prices they think well worth their while.”
What do you think of that, by way of Free-trade?—my
British-never-never-never-will-be-slaves,—hey? Free-trade; and the
Divine Law of Supply and Demand; and the Sacred Necessity of
Competition, and what not;—and here’s a meek little English housewife
who can’t get leave, on her bended knees, from Sultan Costermonger, to
eat a fresh herring at Yarmouth! and must pay three-halfpence apiece,
for his leave to eat them anywhere;—and you, you simpletons—Fishermen,
indeed!—Cod’s heads and shoulders, say rather,—meekly receiving back
your empty baskets; your miracle of loaves and fishes executed for you
by the Costermongering Father of the Faithful, in that thimblerig
manner!
“But haven’t you yourself been hard against competition, till now? and
haven’t you always wanted to regulate prices?”
Yes, my good SS. Peter and Andrew!—very certainly I want to regulate
prices; and very certainly I will, as to such things as I sell, or have
the selling of. I should like to hear of anybody’s getting this letter
for less than tenpence!—and if you will send me some fish to sell for
you, perhaps I may even resolve that they shall be sold at twopence
each, or else made manure of,—like these very costermongers; but the
twopence shall go into your pockets—not mine; which you will find a
very pleasant and complete difference in principle between his Grace
the Costermonger and me; and, secondly, if I raise the price of a
herring to twopence, it will be because I know that people have been in
some way misusing them, or wasting them; and need to get fewer for a
time; or will eat twopenny herrings at fashionable tables, (when they
wouldn’t touch halfpenny ones,) and so give the servants no reason to
turn up their noses at them. [5] I may have twenty such good reasons
for fixing the price of your fish; but not one of them will be his
Grace the Costermonger’s. All that I want you to see is, not only the
possibility of regulating prices, but the fact that they are now
regulated, and regulated by rascals, while all the world is bleating
out its folly about Supply and Demand.
“Still, even in your way, you would be breaking the laws of Florence,
anyhow, and buying to sell again?” Pardon me: I should no more buy your
fish than a butcher’s boy buys his master’s mutton. I should simply
carry your fish for you where I knew it was wanted; being as utterly
your servant in the matter as if I were one of your own lads sent
dripping up to the town with basket on back. And I should be paid, as
your servant, so much wages; (not commission, observe,) making bargains
far away for you, and many another Saunders Mucklebackit, just as your
wife makes them, up the hill at Monkbarns; and no more buying the fish,
to sell again, than she.
“Well, but where could we get anybody to do this?”
Have you no sons then?—or, among them, none whom you can take from the
mercy of the sea, and teach to serve you mercifully on the land?
It is not that way, however, that the thing will be done. It must be
done for you by gentlemen. They may stagger on perhaps a year or two
more in their vain ways; but the day must come when your poor little
honest puppy, whom his people have been wanting to dress up in a
surplice, and call, “The to be Feared,” that he might have pay enough,
by tithe or tax, to marry a pretty girl, and live in a parsonage,—some
poor little honest wretch of a puppy, I say, will eventually get it
into his glossy head that he would be incomparably more reverend to
mortals, and acceptable to St. Peter and all Saints, as a true monger
of sweet fish, than a false fisher for rotten souls; and that his wife
would be incomparably more ‘lady-like’—not to say Madonna-like—marching
beside him in purple stockings and sabots—or even frankly barefoot—with
her creel full of caller herring on her back, than in administering any
quantity of Ecclesiastical scholarship to her Sunday-schools.
“How dreadful—how atrocious!”—thinks the tender clerical lover. “My
wife walk with a fish-basket on her back!”
Yes, you young scamp, your’s. You were going to lie to the Holy Ghost,
then, were you, only that she might wear satin slippers and be called a
‘lady’? Suppose, instead of fish, I were to ask her and you to carry
coals. Have you ever read your Bible carefully enough to wonder where
Christ got them from, to make His fire, (when he was so particular
about St. Peter’s dinner, and St. John’s)? Or if I asked you to be
hewers of wood, and drawers of water;—would that also seem intolerable
to you? My poor clerical friends, God was never more in the burning
bush of Sinai than He would be in every crackling faggot (cut with your
own hands) that you warmed a poor hearth with: nor did that woman of
Samaria ever give Him to drink more surely than you may, from every
stream and well in this your land, that you can keep pure.
20th Dec.—To hew wood—to draw water;—you think these base businesses,
do you? and that you are noble, as well as sanctified, in binding
faggot-burdens on poor men’s backs, which you will not touch with your
own fingers;—and in preaching the efficacy of baptism inside the
church, by yonder stream (under the first bridge of the Seven Bridge
Road here at Oxford,) while the sweet waters of it are choked with dust
and dung, within ten fathoms from your font;—and in giving benediction
with two fingers and your thumb, of a superfine quality, to the Marquis
of B.? Honester benediction, and more efficacious, can be had cheaper,
gentlemen, in the existing market. Under my own system of regulating
prices, I gave an Irishwoman twopence yesterday for two oranges, of
which fruit—under pressure of competition—she was ready to supply me
with three for a penny. “The Lord Almighty take you to eternal glory!”
said she.
You lawyers, also,—distributors, by your own account, of the quite
supreme blessing of Justice,—you are not so busily eloquent in her
cause but that some of your sweet voices might be spared to
Billingsgate, though the river air might take the curl out of your
wigs, and so diminish that æsthetic claim which, as aforesaid, you
still hold on existence. But you will bring yourselves to an end
soon,—wigs and all,—unless you think better of it.
I will dismiss at once, in this letter, the question of regulation of
prices, and return to it no more, except in setting down detailed law.
Any rational group of persons, large or small, living in war or peace,
will have its commissariat;—its officers for provision of food. Famine
in a fleet, or an army, may sometimes be inevitable; but in the event
of national famine, the officers of the commissariat should be starved
the first. God has given to man corn, wine, cheese, and honey, all
preservable for a number of years;—filled His seas with inexhaustible
salt, and incalculable fish; filled the woods with beasts, the winds
with birds, and the fields with fruit. Under these circumstances, the
stupid human brute stands talking metaphysics, and expects to be fed by
the law of Supply and Demand. I do not say that I shall always succeed
in regulating prices, or quantities, absolutely to my mind; but in the
event of any scarcity of provision, rich tables shall be served like
the poorest, and—we will see.
The price of every other article will be founded on the price of food.
The price of what it takes a day to produce, will be a day’s
maintenance; of what it takes a week to produce, a week’s
maintenance,—such maintenance being calculated according to the
requirements of the occupation, and always with a proportional surplus
for saving.
“How am I to know exactly what a day’s maintenance is?” I don’t want to
know exactly. I don’t know exactly how much dinner I ought to eat; but,
on the whole, I eat enough, and not too much. And I shall not know
‘exactly’ how much a painter ought to have for a picture. It may be a
pound or two under the mark—a pound or two over. On the average it will
be right,—that is to say, his decent keep [6] during the number of
days’ work that are properly accounted for in the production.
“How am I to hinder people from giving more if they like?”
People whom I catch doing as they like will generally have to leave the
estate.
“But how is it to be decided to which of two purchasers, each willing
to give its price, and more, anything is to belong?”
In various ways, according to the nature of the thing sold, and
circumstances of sale. Sometimes by priority; sometimes by privilege;
sometimes by lot; and sometimes by auction, at which whatever excess of
price, above its recorded value, the article brings, shall go to the
national treasury. So that nobody will ever buy anything to make a
profit on it.
11th January, 1874.—Thinking I should be the better of a look at the
sea, I have come down to an old watering-place, where one used to be
able to get into a decent little inn, and possess one’s self of a
parlour with a bow window looking out on the beach, a pretty carpet,
and a print or two of revenue cutters, and the Battle of the Nile. One
could have a chop and some good cheese for dinner; fresh cream and
cresses for breakfast, and a plate of shrimps.
I find myself in the Umfraville Hotel, a quarter of a mile long by a
furlong deep; in a ghastly room, five-and-twenty feet square, and
eighteen high,—that is to say, just four times as big as I want, and
which I can no more light with my candles in the evening than I could
the Peak cavern. A gas apparatus in the middle of it serves me to knock
my head against, but I take good care not to light it, or I should soon
be stopped from my evening’s work by a headache, and be unfit for my
morning’s business besides. The carpet is threadbare, and has the look
of having been spat upon all over. There is only one window, of four
huge panes of glass, through which one commands a view of a plaster
balcony, some ornamental iron railings, an esplanade,—and,—well, I
suppose,—in the distance, that is really the sea, where it used to be.
I am ashamed to ask for shrimps,—not that I suppose I could get any if
I did. There’s no cream, “because, except in the season, we could only
take so small a quanity, sir.” The bread’s stale, because it’s Sunday;
and the cheese, last night, was of the cheapest tallow sort. The bill
will be at least three times my old bill;—I shall get no thanks from
anybody for paying it;—and this is what the modern British public
thinks is “living in style.” But the most comic part of all the
improved arrangements is that I can only have codlings for dinner,
because all the cod goes to London, and none of the large fishing-boats
dare sell a fish, here.
And now but a word or two more, final, as to the fixed price of this
book.
A sensible and worthy tradesman writes to me in very earnest terms of
expostulation, blaming me for putting the said book out of the reach of
most of the persons it is meant for, and asking me how I can except,
for instance, the working men round him (in Lancashire),—who have been
in the habit of strictly ascertaining that they have value for their
money,—to buy, for tenpence, what they know might be given them for
twopence-halfpenny.
Answer first:
My book is meant for no one who cannot reach it. If a man with all the
ingenuity of Lancashire in his brains, and breed of Lancashire in his
body; with all the steam and coal power in Lancashire to back his
ingenuity and muscle; all the press of literary England vomiting the
most valuable information at his feet; with all the tenderness of
charitable England aiding him in his efforts, and ministering to his
needs; with all the liberality of republican Europe rejoicing in his
dignities as a man and a brother; and with all the science of
enlightened Europe directing his opinions on the subject of the
materials of the Sun, and the origin of his species; if, I say, a man
so circumstanced, assisted, and informed, living besides in the richest
country of the globe, and, from his youth upwards, having been in the
habit of ‘seeing that he had value for his money,’ cannot, as the
upshot and net result of all, now afford to pay me tenpence a month—or
an annual half-sovereign, for my literary labour,—in Heaven’s name, let
him buy the best reading he can for twopence-halfpenny. For that sum, I
clearly perceive he can at once provide himself with two penny
illustrated newspapers and one halfpenny one,—full of art, sentiment,
and the Tichborne trial. He can buy a quarter of the dramatic works of
Shakspeare, or a whole novel of Sir Walter Scott’s. Good value for his
money, he thinks!—reads one of them through, and in all probability
loses some five years of the eyesight of his old age; which he does
not, with all his Lancashire ingenuity, reckon as part of the price of
his cheap book. But how has he read? There is an act of Midsummer
Night’s Dream printed in a page. Steadily and dutifully, as a student
should, he reads his page. The lines slip past his eyes, and mind, like
sand in an hour-glass; he has some dim idea at the end of the act that
he has been reading about Fairies, and Flowers, and Asses. Does he know
what a Fairy is? Certainly not. Does he know what a flower is? He has
perhaps never seen one wild, or happy, in his life. Does he even
know—quite distinctly, inside and out—what an Ass is?
But, answer second. Whether my Lancashire friends need any aid to their
discernment of what is good or bad in literature, I do not know;—but I
mean to give them the best help I can; and, therefore, not to allow
them to have for twopence what I know to be worth tenpence. For here is
another law of Florence, still concerning fish, which is transferable
at once to literature.
“Eel of the lake shall be sold for three soldi a pound; and eel of the
common sort for a soldo and a half.”
And eel of a bad sort was not allowed to be sold at all.
“Eel of the lake,” I presume, was that of the Lake of Bolsena; Pope
Martin IV. died of eating too many, in spite of their high price. You
observe I do not reckon my Fors Eel to be of Bolsena; I put it at the
modest price of a soldo a pound, or English tenpence. One cannot be
precise in such estimates;—one can only obtain rude approximations.
Suppose, for instance, you read the Times newspaper for a week, from
end to end; your aggregate of resultant useful information will
certainly not be more than you may get out of a single number of Fors.
But your Times for the week will cost you eighteenpence.
You borrow the Times? Borrow this then; till the days come when English
people cease to think they can live by lending, or learn by borrowing.
I finish with copy of a bit of a private letter to the editor of an
honestly managed country newspaper, who asked me to send him Fors.
“I find it—on examining the subject for these last three years very
closely—necessary to defy the entire principle of advertisement; and to
make no concession of any kind whatsoever to the public press—even in
the minutest particular. And this year I cease sending Fors to any
paper whatsoever. It must be bought by every one who has it, editor or
private person.
“If there are ten people in —— willing to subscribe a penny each for
it, you can see it in turn; by no other means can I let it be seen.
From friend to friend, or foe to foe, It must make its own way, or
stand still, abiding its time.”