I say, then:

‹Every effort, capable of satisfying, on condition of a return,

the wants of a person other than the man who makes the effort, and

consequently the wants and satisfactions relative to this species of

effort, constitute the domain of Political Economy.›

Thus, to give an example: the act of breathing, although it includes

the three terms which constitute the Economic phenomenon, does not

pertain to that science, and we see the reason. What we have here to

do with is a series of facts, of which not only the two extremes—want

and satisfaction—are incapable of transmission (they are always so);

but the mean term, ‹Effort›, is also incapable of transmission. To

enable us to respire we invoke the assistance of no one; in that

there is neither a service to be received nor a service to render.

The fact is in its nature individual, not ‹social›, and consequently

cannot enter into a science which is essentially one of relation, as

its very name indicates.

But if, in peculiar circumstances, people were to render each other

assistance to enable them to breathe, as when a workman descends

in a diving-bell, when a physician treats a patient for pulmonary

complaints, or when the police take measures for purifying the air,

in such cases there is a want satisfied by a person other than the

person who experiences the want; there is a service rendered; and

respiration itself, as far at least as concerns assistance and

remuneration, is brought within the sphere of Political Economy.

It is not necessary that the transaction should be completed, it is

sufficient that it is possible, in order to impart to the ‹labour›

employed an ‹economic› character. The labourer who raises corn

[p073] for his own use accomplishes an economic fact in this respect

that the corn is capable of being exchanged.

To make an effort in order to satisfy another’s wants is to render

him a ‹service›. If a service is stipulated in return, there is

an exchange of ‹services›; and as this is the most ordinary case,

Political Economy may be defined ‹the theory of Exchange›.

Whatever may be for one of the contracting parties the urgency of

the want, or for the other the intensity of the effort, if the

exchange is free, the two services exchanged are ‹worth each other›.

Value, then, consists in the comparative appreciation of reciprocal

‹services›, and Political Economy again may be defined ‹the theory of

Value›.

I have just defined Political Economy, and marked out its domain,

without mentioning an essential element, ‹gratuitous Utility›.

All authors have remarked that we derive a multitude of satisfactions

from this source. They denominate these utilities, such as

air, water, the light of the sun, etc., ‹natural wealth›, in

contradistinction to ‹social wealth›, and having done so, they take

no more notice of them; and in fact it would seem that, as they give

rise to no effort, to no exchange, to no service, as (being destitute

of value) they figure in no inventory of goods, they should not be

admitted into the domain of Political Economy.

This exclusion would be rational if ‹gratuitous› utility were a

fixed invariable quantity, always separated from ‹onerous› utility;

but they are constantly mixed up, and in inverse proportions. Man’s

constant endeavour is to substitute the one for the other, that

is to say, to arrive, by means of natural and gratuitous agents,

at the same results as by efforts. He accomplishes by the wind,

by gravitation, by heat, by the elasticity of the air, what he

accomplished at first only by muscular exertion.

Now what happens? Although the effect is equally useful, the effort

is less. Less effort implies less service, and less service implies

less value. Each step of progress, then, annihilates value; but how?

Not by suppressing the useful effect, but by substituting gratuitous

for onerous utility, natural for social wealth. In one sense the

portion of value thus annihilated is excluded from the domain of

Political Economy, just as it is excluded from our inventories. It is

no longer exchanged, bought, or sold, and mankind enjoy it without

effort and almost without consciousness. It is no longer accounted

relative wealth, but is ranked among the gifts of God.

But, on the other hand, if science takes it no longer into account,

the error is assuredly committed of losing sight of what [p074]

under all circumstances is the main, the essential thing—the

result, the ‹useful effect›. In that case we overlook the strongest

tendencies towards community and equality, and discover much

less of harmony in the social order. If this book is destined to

advance Political Economy a single step, it will be by keeping

constantly before the eyes of the reader that portion of ‹value›

which is successively annihilated, and recovered, under the form of

‹gratuitous utility›, by mankind at large.

I shall here make an observation which will prove how frequently the

sciences unite and nearly run into each other.

I have just defined ‹service›. It is the ‹effort› in one man,

while the ‹want› and the ‹satisfaction› are in another. Sometimes

the service is rendered gratuitously, without remuneration,

without any service being exacted in return. It proceeds, then,

from the principle of sympathy rather than from the principle of

self-interest. It constitutes gift, not exchange. Consequently it

would seem to appertain not to Political Economy (which is the theory

of exchange), but to morals. In fact, acts of that nature, by reason

of their motive, are rather moral than economical. We shall see,

however, that, by reason of their effects, they concern the science

which now engages us. On the other hand, services rendered for an

onerous consideration, on condition of a return, and, by reason of

that motive (essentially economic), do not on that account remain

excluded from the domain of morals, in so far as their effects are

concerned.

Thus these two branches of knowledge have an infinite number of

points of contact; and as two truths cannot be antagonistic, when the

economist ascribes to a phenomenon injurious consequences, and the

moralist ascribes to it beneficial effects, we may affirm that one or

other of them is mistaken. It is thus that the sciences verify and

fortify one another. [p075]

III.

WANTS OF MAN.

It is perhaps impossible, and, at any rate, it would not be of much

use, to present a complete and methodical catalogue of human wants.

Nearly all those which are of real importance are comprised in the

following enumeration:—

Respiration (I retain here that want, as marking the boundary

where the transmission of labour or exchange of services

begins)—Food—Clothing—Lodging—Preservation or re-establishment

of Health—Locomotion—Security—Instruction—Diversion—Sense of the

beautiful.

Wants exist. This is a fact. It would be puerile to inquire whether

we should have been better without wants, and why God has made us

subject to them.

It is certain that man ‹suffers›, and even dies, when he cannot

satisfy the wants which belong to his organization. It is certain

that he ‹suffers›, and may even die, when in satisfying certain of

his wants he indulges to excess.

We cannot satisfy the greater part of our wants without pain or

trouble, which may be considered as ‹suffering›. The same may be said

of the act by which, exercising a noble control over our appetites,

we impose on ourselves a privation.

Thus, ‹suffering› is inevitable, and there remains to us only a

choice of evils. Nothing comes more home to us than suffering, and

hence ‹personal interest›—the sentiment which is branded now-a-days

with the names of egotism and individualism—is indestructible. Nature

has placed ‹sensibility› at the extremity of our nerves, and at all

the avenues to the heart and mind, as an advanced guard, to give us

notice when our satisfactions are either defective or in excess. Pain

has, then, a purpose, a mission. We are asked frequently, whether the

existence of evil can be reconciled with the infinite goodness of

the Creator—a formidable [p076] problem that philosophy will always

discuss, and never probably be able to solve. As far as Political

Economy is concerned, we must take man as he is, inasmuch as it is

not given to imagination to figure to itself—far less can the reason

conceive—a sentient and mortal being exempt from pain. We should

try in vain to comprehend sensibility without pain, or man without

sensibility.

In our days, certain sentimentalist schools reject as false all

social science which does not go the length of establishing a system

by means of which suffering may be banished from the world. They pass

a severe judgment on Political Economy because it admits, what it is

impossible to deny, the existence of suffering. They go farther—they

make Political Economy responsible for it. It is as if they were to

attribute the frailty of our organs to the physiologist who makes

them the object of his study.

Undoubtedly we may acquire a temporary popularity, attract the

regards of suffering classes, and irritate them against the natural

order of society, by telling them that we have in our head a plan of

artificial social arrangement which excludes pain in every form. We

may even pretend to appropriate God’s secret, and to interpret His

presumed will, by banishing evil from the world. And there will not

be wanting those who will treat as ‹impious› a science which exposes

such pretensions, and who will accuse it of overlooking or denying

the foresight of the Author of things.

These schools, at the same time, give us a frightful picture of the

actual state of society, not perceiving that if it be ‹impious› to

foresee suffering in the future, it is equally so to expose its

existence in the past or in the present. For the infinite admits

of no limits; and if a single human being has since the creation

experienced suffering, that fact would entitle us to admit, without

‹impiety›, that suffering has entered into the plan of Providence.

Surely it is more philosophical and more manly to acknowledge at once

great natural facts which not only exist, but apart from which we can

form no just or adequate conception of human nature.

Man, then, is subject to suffering, and consequently society is also

subject to it.

Suffering discharges a function in the individual, and consequently

in society.

An accurate investigation of the social laws discloses to us that

the mission of suffering is gradually to destroy its own causes, to

circumscribe suffering itself within narrower limits, and finally to

assure the preponderance of the Good and the Fair, by enabling us to

purchase or merit that preponderance. [p077]

The nomenclature we have proposed places material wants in the

foreground.

The times in which we live force me to put the reader on his guard

against a species of sentimental affectation which is now much in

vogue.

There are people who hold very cheap what they disdainfully term

‹material wants›, ‹material satisfactions›: they will say, as Belise

says to Chrysale,

“Le corps, cette guenille, est-il d’une importance,

D’un prix à mériter seulement qu’on y pense?”

And although, in general, pretty well off themselves, they will blame

me for having indicated as one of our most pressing wants, that of

‹food›, for example.

I acknowledge undoubtedly that moral advancement is a higher thing

than physical sustenance. But are we so stuffed with declamatory

affectation that we can no longer venture to say, that before we can

set about moral culture, we must have the means of living. Let us

guard ourselves against these puerilities, which obstruct science.

In wishing to pass for philanthropical we cease to be truthful;

for it is contrary both to reason and to fact to represent moral

development, self-respect, the cultivation of refined sentiments,

as preceding the requirements of simple preservation. This sort of

prudery is quite modern. Rousseau, that enthusiastic panegyrist of

the ‹State of Nature›, steered clear of it; and a man endued with

exquisite delicacy, of a tenderness of heart full of unction, a

spiritualist even to quietism, and, towards himself, a stoic—I mean

Fénélon—has said that, “After all, solidity of mind consists in the

desire to be exactly instructed as to how those things are managed

which lie at the foundation of human life—all great affairs turn upon

that.”

Without pretending, then, to classify our wants in a rigorously

exact order, we may say, that man cannot direct his efforts to the

satisfaction of moral wants of the highest and most elevated kind

until after he has provided for those which concern his preservation

and sustenance. Whence, without going farther, we may conclude that

every legislative measure which tells against the material well-being

of communities injures the moral life of nations,—a ‹harmony› which I

commend, in passing, to the attention of the reader.

And since the occasion presents itself, I will here mark another.

Since the inexorable necessities of material life are an obstacle to

moral and intellectual culture, it follows that we ought to find more

virtue among wealthy than among poor nations and classes. [p078]

Good Heaven! what have I just said, and with what clamour shall I

be assailed! But the truth is, it is a perfect mania of our times

to attribute all disinterestedness, all self-sacrifice, all which

constitutes the greatness and moral beauty of man, to the poorer

classes, and this mania has of late been still more developed by a

revolution, which, bringing these classes to the surface of society,

has not failed to surround them with a crowd of flatterers.

I don’t deny that wealth, opulence, especially where it is very

unequally spread, tends to develop certain special vices.

But is it possible to admit as a general proposition that virtue

is the privilege of poverty, and vice the unhappy and unfailing

companion of ease? This would be to affirm that moral and

intellectual improvement, which is only compatible with a certain

amount of leisure and comfort, is detrimental to intelligence and

morality.

I appeal to the candour of the suffering classes themselves. To what

horrible ‹dissonances› would such a paradox conduct us!

We must then conclude, that human nature has the frightful

alternative presented to it, either to remain eternally wretched,

or advance gradually on the road to vice and immorality. Then all

the forces which conduct us to wealth—such as activity, economy,

skill, honesty—are the seeds of vice; while those which tie us to

poverty—improvidence, idleness, dissipation, carelessness—are the

precious germs of virtue. Could we conceive in the moral world a

dissonance more discouraging? Or, were it really so, who would dare

to address or counsel the people? You complain of your sufferings

(we must say to them), and you are impatient to see an end of these

sufferings. You groan at finding yourselves under the yoke of the

most imperious material wants, and you sigh for the hour of your

deliverance, for you desire leisure to make your voice heard in the

political world and to protect your interests. You know not what you

desire, or how fatal success would prove to you. Ease, competence,

riches, develop only vice. Guard, then, religiously your poverty and

your virtue.

The flatterers of the people, then, fall into a manifest

contradiction when they point to the region of opulence as an impure

sink of egotism and vice, and, at the same time, urge them on—and

frequently in their eagerness by the most illegitimate means—to a

region which they deem so unfortunate.

Such discordances are never encountered in the natural order of

society. It is impossible to suppose that all men should aspire

to competence, that the natural way to attain it should be by the

exercise of the strictest virtue, and that they should reach it

[p079] nevertheless only to be caught in the snares of vice. Such

declamations are calculated only to light up and keep alive the

hatred of classes. If true, they place human nature in a dilemma

between poverty and immorality. If untrue, they make falsehood the

minister of disorder, and set to loggerheads classes who should

mutually love and assist each other.

Factitious inequality—inequality generated by law, by disturbing the

natural order of development of the different classes of society—is,

for all, a prolific source of irritation, jealousy, and crime. This

is the reason why it is necessary to satisfy ourselves whether this

natural order leads to the progressive amelioration and progressive

equalization of all classes; and we should be arrested in this

inquiry by what lawyers term a ‹fin de non-recevoir›, a peremptory

exception, if this double material progress implied necessarily a

double moral degradation.

Upon the subject of human wants I have to make an important

observation,—and one which, in Political Economy, may even be

regarded as fundamental,—it is, that wants are not a fixed immutable

quantity. They are not in their nature stationary, but progressive.

We remark this characteristic even in our strictly physical wants;

but it becomes more apparent as we rise to those desires and

intellectual tastes which distinguish man from the inferior animals.

It would seem that if there be anything in which men should resemble

each other, it is in the want of food, for, unless in exceptional

cases, men’s stomachs are very much alike.

And yet aliments which are ‹recherchés› at one period become vulgar

at another, and the regimen which suits a Lazzarone would subject a

Dutchman to torture. Thus the want which is the most immediate, the

grossest of all, and consequently the most uniform of all, still

varies according to age, sex, temperament, climate, custom.

The same may be said of all our other wants. Scarcely has a man found

shelter than he desires to be lodged, scarcely is he clothed than he

wishes to be decorated, scarcely has he satisfied his bodily cravings

than study, science, art, open to his desires an unlimited field.

It is a phenomenon well worthy of remark, how quickly, by continuous

satisfaction, what was at first only a vague desire becomes a taste,

and what was only a taste is transformed into a want, and even a want

of the most imperious kind.

Look at that rude artizan. Accustomed to poor fare, plain [p080]

clothing, indifferent lodging, he imagines he would be the happiest

of men, and would have no farther desires, if he could but reach the

step of the ladder immediately above him. He is astonished that those

who have already reached it should still torment themselves as they

do. At length comes the modest fortune he has dreamt of, and then he

is happy, very happy—for a few days.

For soon he becomes familiar with his new situation, and by degrees

he ceases to feel his fancied happiness. With indifference he puts

on the fine clothing after which he sighed. He has got into a new

circle, he associates with other companions, he drinks of another

cup, he aspires to mount another step, and if he ever turns his

reflections at all upon himself, he feels that if his fortune has

changed, his soul remains the same, and is still an inexhaustible

spring of new desires.

It would seem that nature has attached this singular power to

‹habit›, in order that it should be in us what a rochet-wheel is in

mechanics, and that humanity, urged on continually to higher and

higher regions, should not be able to rest content, whatever degree

of civilisation it attains to.

The ‹sense of dignity›, the feeling of self-respect, acts with

perhaps still more force in the same direction. The stoic philosophy

has frequently blamed men for desiring rather to ‹appear› than to

‹be›. But, taking a broader view of things, is it certain that to

‹appear› is not for man one of the modes of ‹being›?

When, by exertion, order, and economy, a family rises by degrees

towards those social regions where tastes become nicer and more

delicate, relations more polished, sentiments more refined,

intelligence more cultivated, who can describe the acute suffering

which accompanies a forced return to their former low estate? The

body does not alone suffer. The sad reverse interferes with habits

which have become as it were a second nature; it clashes with the

sense of dignity, and all the feelings of the soul. It is by no means

uncommon in such a case to see the victim sink all at once into

degrading sottishness, or perish in despair. It is with the social

medium as with the atmosphere. The mountaineer, accustomed to the

pure air of his native hills, pines and moulders away in the narrow

streets of our cities.

But I hear some one exclaim, Economist, you stumble already. You have

just told us that your science is in accord with morals, and here you

are justifying luxury and effeminacy. Philosopher, I say in my turn,

lay aside these fine clothes, which were not those of primitive man,

break your furniture, burn your books, dine on raw flesh, and I shall

then reply to your objection. It is too much [p081] to quarrel with

this power of habit, of which you are yourself the living example.

We may find fault with this disposition which Nature has given to

our organs; but our censure will not make it the less universal.

We find it existing among all nations, ancient and modern, savage

and civilized, at the antipodes as at home. We cannot explain

civilisation without it; and when a disposition of the human heart is

thus proved to be universal and indestructible, social science cannot

put it aside, or refuse to take it into account.

This objection will be made by publicists who pride themselves on

being the disciples of Rousseau; but Rousseau has never denied the

existence of the phenomenon. He establishes undeniably the indefinite

elasticity of human wants, and the power of habit, and admits even

the part which I assign to them in preventing the human race from

retrograding; only, that which I admire is what he deplores, and he

does so consistently. Rousseau fancied there was a time when men

had neither rights, nor duties, nor relations, nor affections, nor

language; and it was then, according to him, that they were happy and

perfect. He was bound, therefore, to abhor the social machinery which

is constantly removing mankind from ideal perfection. Those, on the

contrary, who are of opinion that perfection is not at the beginning,

but at the end, of the human evolution, will admire the spring and

motive of action which I place in the foreground. But as to the

existence and play of the spring itself we are at one.

“Men of leisure,” he says, “employed themselves in procuring

all sorts of conveniences and accommodations unknown to their

forefathers, and that was the first yoke which, without intending

it, they imposed upon themselves, and the prime source of the

inconveniences which they prepared for their descendants. For,

not only did they thus continue to emasculate both mind and body,

but these luxuries having ‹by habit› lost all their relish, and

degenerated into ‹true wants›, their being deprived of them caused

more pain than the possession of them had given pleasure: they were

unhappy at losing what they had no enjoyment in possessing.”

Rousseau was convinced that God, nature, and humanity were wrong.

That is still the opinion of many; but it is not mine.

After all, God forbid that I should desire to set myself against the

noblest attribute, the most beautiful virtue of man, self-control,

command over his passions, moderation in his desires, contempt of

show. I don’t say that he is to make himself a slave to this or that

factitious want. I say that wants (taking a broad and general [p082]

view of them as resulting from man’s mental and bodily constitution),

combined with the power of habit, and the sense of dignity, are

indefinitely expansible, because they spring from an inexhaustible

source—namely, desire. Who should blame a rich man for being sober,

for despising finery, for avoiding pomp and effeminacy? But are there

not more elevated desires to which he may yield? Has the desire for

instruction, for instance, any limits? To render service to his

country, to encourage the arts, to disseminate useful ideas, to

succour the distressed,—is there anything in these incompatible with

the right use of riches?

For the rest, whatever philosophers may think of it, human wants

do not constitute a fixed immutable quantity. That is a certain, a

universal fact, liable to no exception. The wants of the fourteenth

century, whether with reference to food, or lodging, or instruction,

were not at all the wants of ours, and we may safely predict that

ours will not be the wants of our descendants.

The same observation applies to all the elements of Political

Economy—Wealth, Labour, Value, Services, etc.,—all participate in

the extreme versatility of the principal subject, Man. Political

Economy has not, like geometry or physics, the advantage of dealing

with objects which can be weighed or measured. This is one of its

difficulties to begin with, and it is a perpetual source of errors

throughout; for when the human mind applies itself to a certain order

of phenomena, it is naturally on the outlook for a ‹criterion›, a

common measure, to which everything can be referred, in order to give

to that particular branch of knowledge the character of an ‹exact

science›. Thus we observe some authors seeking for fixity in ‹value›,

others in ‹money›, others in ‹corn›, others in ‹labour›, that is to

say, in things which are themselves all liable to fluctuation.

Many errors in Political Economy proceed from authors thus regarding

human wants as a fixed determinate quantity; and it is for this

reason that I have deemed it my duty to enlarge on this subject.

At the risk of anticipating, it is worth while to notice briefly

this mode of reasoning. Economists take generally the enjoyments

which satisfy men of the present day, and they assume that human

nature admits of no other. Hence, if the bounty of nature, or the

power of machinery, or habits of temperance and moderation, succeed

in rendering disposable for a time a portion of human labour,

this progress disquiets them, they consider it as a disaster, and

they retreat behind absurd but specious formulas, such as these:

‹Production is superabundant›,—‹we suffer from plethora›,—‹the power

of producing outruns the power of consuming›, etc. [p083]

It is not possible to discover a solution of the question of

‹machinery›, or that of ‹external competition›, or that of ‹luxury›,

if we persist in considering our ‹wants› as a fixed invariable

quantity, and do not take into account their indefinite expansibility.

But if human ‹wants› are indefinite, progressive, capable of

increase, like desire, which is their never failing source, we must

admit, under pain of introducing discordance and contradiction

into the economical laws of society, that nature has placed

in man and around him indefinite and progressive means of

‹satisfaction›;—equilibrium between the means and the end being the

primary condition of all harmony. This is what we shall now examine.

I said at the outset of this work that the object of Political

Economy is ‹man›, considered with reference to his wants, and his

means of satisfying these wants.

We must then begin with the study of man and his organization.

But we have also seen that he is not a solitary being. If his ‹wants›

and his ‹satisfactions› are, from the very nature of sensibility,

inseparable from his being, the same thing cannot be said of his

‹efforts›, which spring from the active principle. The latter are

susceptible of transmission. In a word, men work for one another.

Now a very strange thing takes place.

If we take a general, or, if I may be allowed the expression,

abstract view, of man, his wants, his efforts, his satisfactions, his

constitution, his inclinations, his tendencies, we fall into a train

of observation which appears free from doubt and self-evident,—so

much so, that the writer finds a difficulty in submitting to the

public judgment truths so vulgar and so palpable. He is afraid

of provoking ridicule; and thinks, not without reason, that the

impatient reader will throw away his book, exclaiming, “I shall not

waste time on such trivialities.”

And yet these truths which, when presented to us in an abstract

shape, we regard as so incontrovertible that we can scarce summon

patience to listen to them, are considered only as ridiculous

errors and absurd theories the moment they are applied to man in

his social state. Regarding man as an isolated being, who ever took

it into his head to say, “Production is superabundant—the power of

consumption cannot keep pace with the power of production—luxury and

factitious tastes are the source of wealth—the invention of machinery

annihilates labour,” and other apophthegms of the same sort,—which,

nevertheless, when applied to mankind in the aggregate, we receive

as axioms so well established that they are actually made the basis

of our commercial and industrial legislation? ‹Exchange› produces in

this respect an illusion of which [p084] even men of penetration

and solid judgment find it impossible to disabuse themselves, and

I affirm that Political Economy will have attained its design, and

fulfilled its mission, when it shall have conclusively demonstrated

this:—that what is true of an individual man is true of society at

large. Man in an isolated state is at once producer and consumer,

inventor and projector, capitalist and workman. All the economic

phenomena are accomplished in his person—he is, as it were, society

in miniature. In like manner, humanity, viewed in the aggregate, may

be regarded as a great, collective, complex individual, to whom you

may apply exactly the same truths as to man in a state of isolation.

I have felt it necessary to make this remark, which I hope will be

justified in the sequel, before continuing what I had to say upon

man. I should have been afraid, otherwise, that the reader might

reject, as superfluous, the following developments, which in fact are

nothing else than veritable ‹truisms›.

I have just spoken of the ‹wants› of man, and after presenting an

approximate enumeration of them, I observed that they were not of a

stationary, but of a progressive nature; and this holds true, whether

we consider these wants each singly, or all together, in their

physical, intellectual, and moral order. How could it be otherwise?

There are wants the satisfaction of which is exacted by our

organization under pain of death, and up to a certain point we may

represent these as fixed quantities, although that is not rigorously

exact, for however little we may desire to neglect an essential

element—namely, the ‹force of habit›—however little we may condescend

to subject ourselves to honest self-examination, we shall be forced

to allow that wants, even of the plainest and most homely kind (the

desire for food, for example), undergo, under the influence of

habit, undoubted transformations. The man who declaims against this

observation as materialist and epicurean, would think himself very

unfortunate, if, taking him at his word, we should reduce him to the

black broth of the Spartans, or the scanty pittance of an anchorite.

At all events, when wants of this kind have been satisfied in an

assured and permanent way, there are others which take their rise

in the most expansible of our faculties, desire. Can we conceive a

time when man can no longer form even reasonable desires? Let us not

forget that a desire which might be unreasonable in a former state

of civilisation—at a time when all the human faculties were absorbed

in providing for low material wants—ceases to be so when improvement

opens to these faculties a more extended field. A desire to travel at

the rate of thirty miles an hour would have been unreasonable [p085]

two centuries ago—it is not so at the present day. To pretend that

the wants and desires of man are fixed and stationary quantities, is

to mistake the nature of the human soul, to deny facts, and to render

civilisation inexplicable.

It would still be inexplicable if, side by side with the indefinite

development of wants, there had not been placed, as possible, the

indefinite development of the means of providing for these wants.

How could the expansible nature of our wants have contributed to the

realization of progress, if, at a certain point, our faculties could

advance no farther, and should encounter an impassable barrier?

Our wants being indefinite, the presumption is that the means of

satisfying these wants should be indefinite also, unless we are to

suppose Nature, Providence, or the Power which presides over our

destinies, to have fallen into a cruel and shocking contradiction.

I say indefinite, not infinite, for nothing connected with man is

infinite. It is precisely because our faculties go on developing

themselves ‹ad infinitum›, that they have no assignable limits,

although they may have absolute limits. There are many points

above the present range of humanity, which we may never succeed in

attaining, and yet for all that, the time may never come when we

shall cease to approach nearer them.[22]

I don’t at all mean to say that ‹desire›, and the ‹means› of

satisfying desire, march in parallel lines and with equal rapidity.

The former runs—the latter limps after it.

The prompt and adventurous nature of desire, compared with the

slowness of our faculties, shews us very clearly that in every

stage of civilisation, at every step of our progress, suffering to

a certain extent is, and ever must be, the lot of man. But it shews

us likewise that this suffering has a mission, for desire could no

longer be an incentive to our faculties if it followed, in place of

preceding, their exercise. Let us not, however, accuse nature of

cruelty in the construction of this mechanism, for we cannot fail

to remark that desire is never transformed into want, strictly so

called, that is, into ‹painful desire›, until it has been made such

by ‹habit›; in other words, until the ‹means› of satisfying the

desire have been found and placed irrevocably within our reach.[23]

[p086]

We have now to examine the question,—What means have we of

providing for our wants?

It seems evident to me that there are two—namely, Nature and Labour,

the gifts of God, and the fruits of our efforts—or, if you will, the

application of our faculties to the things which Nature has placed at

our service.

No school that I know of has attributed the satisfaction of our wants

to Nature ‹alone›. Such an assertion is clearly contradicted by

experience, and we need not learn Political Economy to perceive that

the intervention of our ‹faculties› is necessary.

But there are schools who have attributed this privilege to Labour

alone. Their axiom is, “All wealth comes from labour—labour is

wealth.”

I cannot help anticipating, so far as to remark, that these formulas,

taken literally, have led to monstrous errors of doctrine, and,

consequently, to deplorable legislative blunders. I shall return to

this subject. I confine myself here to establishing, as a fact, that

‹Nature› and ‹Labour› co-operate for the satisfaction of our wants

and desires.

Let us examine the facts.

The first want which we have placed at the head of our list is that

of ‹breathing›. As regards respiration, we have already shown that

‹nature› in general is at the whole cost, and that human ‹labour›

intervenes only in certain exceptional cases, as where it becomes

necessary to purify the atmosphere.

Another want is that of quenching our ‹thirst›, and it is more or

less satisfied by Nature, in as far as she furnishes us with water,

more or less pure, abundant, and within reach; and Labour concurs

in as far as it becomes necessary to bring water from a greater

distance, to filter it, or to obviate its scarcity by constructing

wells and cisterns.

The liberality of Nature towards us in regard to ‹food› is by no

means uniform; for who will maintain, that the labour to be furnished

is the same when the land is fertile, or when it is sterile, when the

forest abounds with game, the river with fish, or in the opposite

cases?

As regards ‹lighting›, human labour has certainly less to do when the

night is short than when it is long.

I dare not lay it down as an absolute rule, but it appears to me that

in proportion as we rise in the scale of wants, the co-operation

of Nature is lessened, and leaves us more room for the exercise of

our faculties. The painter, the sculptor, and the author even, are

forced to avail themselves of materials and instruments which Nature

alone [p087] furnishes, but from their own genius is derived all

that makes the charm, the merit, the utility, and the value of their

works. ‹To learn› is a want which the well-directed exercise of

our faculties almost alone can satisfy. Yet here ‹Nature› assists,

by presenting to us in divers degrees objects of observation and

comparison. With an equal amount of application, may not botany,

geology, or natural history, make everywhere equal progress?

It would be superfluous to cite other examples. We have already

shown undeniably that Nature gives us the means of satisfaction, in

placing at our disposal things possessed of higher or lower degrees

of ‹utility› (I use the word in its etymological sense, as indicating

the ‹property of serving›, of being ‹useful›). In many cases, in

almost every case, labour must contribute, to a certain extent, in

rendering this ‹utility› complete; and we can easily comprehend that

the part which labour has to perform is greater or less in proportion

as Nature had previously advanced the operation in a less or greater

degree.

We may then lay down these two formulas:

1. ‹Utility is communicated sometimes by Nature alone, sometimes by

Labour alone, but almost always by the co-operation of both›.

2. ‹To bring anything to its highest degree of› «UTILITY», ‹the

action of Labour is in an inverse ratio to the action of Nature›.

From these two propositions, combined with what I have said of the

indefinite expansibility of our wants, I may be permitted to deduce

a conclusion, the importance of which will be demonstrated in the

sequel. Suppose two men, having no connexion with each other, to be

unequally situated in this respect, that Nature had been liberal to

the one, and niggardly to the other; the first would evidently obtain

a given amount of satisfaction at a less expense of labour. Would it

follow that the part of his forces thus left ‹disposable›, if I may

use the expression, would be abandoned to inaction? and that this

man, on account of the liberality of Nature, would be reduced to

compulsory idleness? Not at all. It would follow that he could, if

he wished it, dispose of these forces to enlarge the circle of his

enjoyments; that with an equal amount of labour he could procure two

satisfactions in place of one; in a word, that his progress would

become more easy.

I may be mistaken, but it appears to me that no science, not even

geometry, is founded on truths more unassailable. Were any one to

prove to me that all these truths were so many errors, I should not

only lose confidence in them, but all faith in evidence itself;

for what reasoning could one employ which should better deserve

the acquiescence of our judgment than the evidence thus [p088]

overturned? The moment an axiom is discovered which shall contradict

this other axiom—that a straight line is the shortest road from one

point to another—that instant the human mind has no other refuge, if

it be a refuge, than absolute scepticism.

I positively feel ashamed thus to insist upon first principles which

are so plain as to seem puerile. And yet we must confess that, amid

the complications of human transactions, such simple truths have been

overlooked; and in order to justify myself for detaining the reader

so long upon what the English call ‹truisms›, I shall notice here a

singular error by which excellent minds have allowed themselves to

be misled. Setting aside, neglecting entirely, the ‹co-operation of

Nature› in relation to the satisfaction of our wants, they have laid

down the absolute principle that ‹all wealth comes from labour›. On

this foundation they have reared the following erroneous syllogism:

“All wealth comes from labour:

“Wealth, then, is in proportion to labour.

“But labour is in an inverse ratio to the liberality of Nature:

“‹Ergo›, wealth is inversely as the liberality of Nature.”

Right or wrong, many economical laws owe their origin to this

singular reasoning. Such laws cannot be otherwise than subversive of

every sound principle in relation to the development and distribution

of wealth; and this it is which justifies me in preparing beforehand,

by the explanation of truths very trivial in appearance, for the

refutation of the deplorable errors and prejudices under which

society is now labouring.

Let us analyze the co-operation of Nature of which I have spoken.

Nature places two things at our disposal—‹materials› and ‹forces›.

Most of the material objects which contribute to the satisfaction of

our wants and desires are brought into the state of ‹utility› which

renders them fit for our use only by the intervention of labour, by

the application of the human faculties. But the elements, the atoms,

if you will, of which these objects are composed, are the gifts, I

will add the ‹gratuitous› gifts, of Nature. This observation is of

the very highest importance, and will, I believe, throw a new light

upon the theory of wealth.

The reader will have the goodness to bear in mind that I am inquiring

at present in a general way into the moral and physical constitution

of man, his wants, his faculties, his relations with Nature—apart

from the consideration of Exchange, which I shall enter upon in the

next chapter. We shall then see in what respect, and in what manner,

social transactions modify the phenomena. [p089]

It is very evident, that if man in an isolated state must, so to

speak, ‹purchase› the greater part of his satisfactions by an

exertion, by an effort, it is rigorously exact to say that prior to

the intervention of any such exertion, any such effort, the materials

which he finds at his disposal are the ‹gratuitous› gifts of Nature.

After the first effort on his part, however slight it may be, they

cease to be ‹gratuitous›; and if the language of Political Economy

had been always exact, it would have been to material objects in

this state, and before human labour had been bestowed upon them,

that the term ‹raw materials› (‹matières premières›) would have been

exclusively applied.

I repeat that this ‹gratuitous› quality of the gifts of Nature,

anterior to the intervention of labour, is of the very highest

importance. I said in my second chapter that Political Economy

was the ‹theory of value›; I add now, and by anticipation, that

things begin to possess ‹value› only when it is given to them by

labour. I intend to demonstrate afterwards that everything which

is ‹gratuitous› for man in an isolated state is gratuitous for man

in his social condition, and that the gratuitous gifts of Nature,

‹whatever be their› «UTILITY», have no value. I say that a man who

receives a benefit from Nature, directly and without any effort on

his part, cannot be considered as rendering himself an ‹onerous

service›, and, consequently, that he cannot render to another any

service with reference to things which are common to all. Now, where

there are no services rendered and received there is no ‹value›.

All that I have said of ‹materials› is equally applicable to the

‹forces› which Nature places at our disposal. Gravitation, the

elasticity of air, the power of the winds, the laws of equilibrium,

vegetable life, animal life, are so many forces which we learn to

turn to account. The pains and intelligence which we bestow in this

way always admit of remuneration, for we are not bound to devote our

efforts to the advantage of others gratuitously. But these natural

forces, in themselves, and apart from all intellectual or bodily

exertion, are ‹gratuitous› gifts of Providence, and in this respect

they remain destitute of ‹value› through all the complications of

human transactions. This is the leading idea of the present work.

This observation would be of little importance, I allow, if the

co-operation of Nature were constantly uniform, if each man, at all

times, in all places, in all circumstances, received from Nature

equal and invariable assistance. In that case, science would be

justified in not taking into account an element which, remaining

always and everywhere the same, would affect the services [p090]

exchanged in equal proportions on both sides. As in geometry we

eliminate portions of lines common to two figures which we compare

with each other, we might neglect a co-operation which is invariably

present, and content ourselves with saying, as we have done

hitherto, “There is such a thing as natural wealth—Political Economy

acknowledges it, and has no more concern with it.”

But this is not the true state of the matter. The irresistible

tendency of the human mind, stimulated by self-interest and assisted

by a series of discoveries, is to substitute natural and gratuitous

co-operation for human and onerous concurrence; so that a given

utility, although remaining the same as far as the result and the

satisfactions which it procures us are concerned, represents a

smaller and smaller amount of labour. In fact, it is impossible not

to perceive the immense influence of this marvellous phenomenon on

our notion of value. For what is the result of it? This, that in

every product the ‹gratuitous› element tends to take the place of the

‹onerous›; that ‹utility›, being the result of two ‹collaborations›,

of which one is remunerated and the other is not, Value, which has

relation only to the first of these united forces, is diminished,

and makes room for a ‹utility› which is identically the same, and

this in proportion as we succeed in constraining Nature to a more

efficacious co-operation. So that we may say that mankind have as

many more ‹satisfactions›, as much more ‹wealth›, as they have less

‹value›. Now, the majority of authors having employed these three

terms, ‹utility›, ‹wealth›, ‹value›, as synonymous, the result has

been a theory which is not only not true, but the reverse of true. I

believe sincerely that a more exact description of this combination

of natural forces and human forces in the business of production,

in other words, a juster definition of Value, would put an end to

inextricable theoretical confusion, and would reconcile schools

which are now divergent; and if I am now anticipating somewhat in

entering on this subject here, my justification with the reader is

the necessity of explaining in the outset certain ideas of which

otherwise he would have difficulty in perceiving the importance.

Returning from this digression, I resume what I had to say upon man

considered exclusively in an economical point of view.

Another observation, which we owe to J. B. Say, and which is almost

self-evident, although too much neglected by many authors, is, that

man ‹creates› neither the ‹materials› nor the ‹forces› of nature,

if we take the word ‹create› in its exact signification. These

materials, these forces, have an independent existence. Man can only

combine them or displace them, for his own benefit or that [p091]

of others. If for his own, ‹he renders a service to himself›,—if for

the benefit of others, ‹he renders service to his fellows›, and has

the right to exact an ‹equivalent› service. Whence it also follows

that ‹value› is proportional to the service rendered, and not at all

to the absolute ‹utility› of the thing. For this ‹utility› may be

in great part the result of the ‹gratuitous› action of Nature, in

which case the human service, the onerous service, the service to be

remunerated, is of little value. This results from the axiom above

established—namely, that ‹to bring a thing to the highest degree of

utility, the action of man is inversely as the action of Nature›.

This observation overturns the doctrine which places value in the

‹materiality› of things. The contrary is the truth. The materiality

is a quality given by Nature, and consequently ‹gratuitous›, and

devoid of ‹value›, although of incontestable utility. Human action,

which can never succeed in ‹creating› matter, constitutes alone the

service which man in a state of isolation renders to himself, or that

men in society render to each other; and it is the free appreciation

of these ‹services› which is the foundation of ‹value›. Far, then,

from concluding with Adam Smith that it is impossible to conceive of

value otherwise than as residing in material substance, we conclude

that between Matter and Value there is no possible relation.

This erroneous doctrine Smith deduced logically from his principle,

that those classes alone are ‹productive› who operate on material

substances. He thus prepared the way for the modern error of the

‹socialists›, who have never done representing as ‹unproductive›

parasites those whom they term ‹intermediaries› between the producer

and consumer—the merchant, the retail dealer, etc. Do they render

services? Do they save us trouble by taking trouble for us? In that

case they create ‹value›, although they do not create matter; and

as no one can create matter, and we all confine our exertions to

rendering reciprocal services, we pronounce with justice that all,

including agriculturists and manufacturers, are ‹intermediaries› in

relation one to another.

This is what I had to say at present upon the co-operation of

Nature. Nature places at our disposal, in various degrees, depending

on climate, seasons, and the advance of knowledge, but ‹always

gratuitously›, materials and forces. Then these materials and

forces are devoid of ‹value›; it would be strange if they had any.

According to what rule should we estimate them? In what way could

Nature be paid, remunerated, compensated? We shall see afterwards

that ‹exchange› is necessary in order to determine ‹value›. We don’t

purchase the goods of Nature—we gather them; and if, in order to

appropriate them, a certain amount of effort is [p092] necessary, it

is in this ‹effort›, not in the gifts of Nature, that the principle

of ‹value› resides.

Let us now consider that action of man which we designate, in a

general way, by the term ‹labour›.

The word ‹labour›, like almost all the terms of Political Economy,

is very vague. Different authors use it in a sense more or less

extended. Political Economy has not had, like most other sciences,

Chemistry for example, the advantage of constructing her own

vocabulary. Treating of subjects which have been familiar to men’s

thoughts since the beginning of the world, and the constant subject

of their daily talk, she has found a nomenclature ready made, and has

been forced to adopt it.

The meaning of the word ‹labour› is often limited exclusively to the

muscular action of man upon materials. Hence those who execute the

mechanical part of production are called the ‹working classes›.

The reader will comprehend that I give to this word a more extended

sense. I understand by ‹labour› the application of our faculties to

the satisfaction of our wants. ‹Wants›, ‹efforts›, ‹satisfactions›,

this is the circle of Political Economy. ‹Effort› may be physical,

intellectual, or even moral, as we shall immediately see.

It is not necessary to demonstrate in this place that all our organs,

all or nearly all our faculties, may concur, and, in point of

fact, do concur, in production. Attention, sagacity, intelligence,

imagination, have assuredly their part in it.

M. Dunoyer, in his excellent work, ‹Sur la Liberté du Travail›, has

included, and with scientific exactness, our moral faculties among

the elements to which we are indebted for our wealth—an idea as

original and suggestive as it is just. It is destined to enlarge and

ennoble the field of Political Economy.

I shall not dwell here upon that idea farther than as it may enable

me to throw a faint light upon the origin of a powerful agent of

production, of which I shall have occasion to speak hereafter—I mean

‹Capital›.

If we examine in succession the material objects which contribute to

the satisfaction of our wants, we shall discover without difficulty

that all or nearly all require, in order to their being brought to

perfection, more time, a larger portion of our life, than a man can

expend without recruiting his strength, that is to say, without

satisfying his wants. This supposes that those who had made those

things had previously reserved, set aside, accumulated, provisions,

to enable them to subsist during the operation. [p093]

The same observation applies to satisfactions which have nothing

material belonging to them.

A clergyman cannot devote himself to preaching, a professor to

teaching, a magistrate to the maintenance of order, unless, by

themselves, or by others, they are put in possession of means of

subsistence previously created.

Let us go a little higher. Suppose a man isolated and forced to

live by the chase. It is easy to comprehend that if every night he

consumed the whole game which his day’s hunting had furnished, he

could never set himself to any other work, to build a cottage, for

example, or repair his arms or implements. All progress would be

interdicted in his case.

This is not the proper place to define the nature and functions

of Capital. My sole object at present is to show that certain

moral virtues co-operate very directly in the amelioration of

our condition, even when viewed exclusively with reference to

wealth,—among other virtues, order, foresight, self-control, economy.

To ‹foresee› is one of our noblest privileges, and it is scarcely

necessary to say that, in all situations of life, the man who

most clearly foresees the probable consequences of his acts and

determinations has the best chance of success.

To ‹control his appetites›, to govern his passions, to sacrifice

the present to the future, to submit to privations for the sake of

greater but more distant advantages—such are the conditions essential

to the formation of capital; and capital, as we have already

partially seen, is itself the essential condition of all labour that

is in any degree complicated or prolonged. It is quite evident that

if we suppose two men placed in identically the same position, and

possessed of the same amount of intelligence and activity, that man

would make the most progress who, having accumulated provisions,

had placed himself in a situation to undertake protracted works,

to improve his implements, and thus to make the forces of nature

co-operate in the realization of his designs.

I shall not dwell longer on this. We have only to look around us to

be convinced that all our forces, all our faculties, all our virtues,

concur in furthering the advancement of man and of society.

For the same reason, there are none of our vices which are not

directly or indirectly the causes of poverty. Idleness paralyzes

efforts, which are the sinews of production. Ignorance and error

give our efforts a false direction. Improvidence lays us open to

deceptions. Indulgence in the appetites of the hour prevents the

accumulation of capital. Vanity leads us to devote our efforts to

factitious enjoyments, in place of such as are real. Violence and

[p094] fraud provoke reprisals, oblige us to surround ourselves with

troublesome precautions, and entail a great waste and destruction of

power.

I shall wind up these preliminary observations on man with a remark

which I have already made in relation to his wants. It is this, that

the elements discussed and explained in this chapter, and which enter

into and constitute economical science, are in their nature flexible

and changeable. Wants, desires, materials and powers furnished by

Nature, our muscular force, our organs, our intellectual faculties,

our moral qualities, all vary with the individual, and change with

time and place. No two men, perhaps, are entirely alike in any one

of these respects, certainly not in all—nay more, no man entirely

resembles himself for two hours together. What one knows another is

ignorant of—what one values another despises—here nature is prodigal,

there niggardly—a virtue which it is difficult to practise in one

climate or latitude becomes easy in another. Economical science has

not, then, like the exact sciences, the advantage of possessing a

fixed measure, and absolute unconditional truths—a graduated scale,

a standard, which can be employed in measuring the intensity of

desires, of efforts, and of satisfactions. Were we even to devote

ourselves to solitary labour, like certain animals, we should still

find ourselves placed in circumstances in some degree different;

and were our external circumstances alike, were the medium in which

we act the same for all, we should still differ from each other in

our desires, our wants, our ideas, our sagacity, our energy, our

manner of estimating and appreciating things, our foresight, our

activity—so that a great and inevitable inequality would manifest

itself. In truth, absolute isolation, the absence of all relations

among men, is only an idle fancy coined in the brain of Rousseau. But

supposing that this antisocial state, called the ‹state of nature›,

had ever existed, I cannot help inquiring by what chain of reasoning

Rousseau and his adepts have succeeded in planting Equality there? We

shall afterwards see that Equality, like Wealth, like Liberty, like

Fraternity, like Unity, is the end; it is not the starting point. It

rises out of the natural and regular development of societies. The

tendency of human nature is not away from, but towards, Equality.

This is most consoling and most true.

Having spoken of our ‹wants›, and our ‹means› of providing for them,

it remains to say a word respecting our ‹satisfactions›. They are the

result of the entire mechanism we have described.

It is by the greater or less amount of physical, intellectual,

and moral ‹satisfactions› which mankind enjoy, that we discover

whether [p095] the machine works well or ill. This is the reason

why the word ‹consommation› [‹consumption›[24]], adopted by our

Economists would have a profound meaning if we used it in its

etymological signification as synonymous with ‹end›, or ‹completion›.

Unfortunately, in common, and even in scientific, language, it

presents to the mind a gross and material idea, exact without doubt

when applied to our physical wants, but not at all so when used with

reference to those of a more elevated order. The cultivation of

corn, the manufacture of woollen cloth, terminate in ‹consumption›

[consommation]. But can this be said with equal propriety of the

works of the artist, the songs of the poet, the studies of the

lawyer, the prelections of the professor, the sermons of the

clergyman? It is here that we again experience the inconvenience

of that fundamental error which caused Adam Smith to circumscribe

Political Economy within the limits of a material circle; and

the reader will pardon me for frequently making use of the term

‹satisfaction›, as applicable to all our wants and all our desires,

and as more in accordance with the larger scope which I hope to be

able to give to the science.

Political Economists have been frequently reproached with confining

their attention exclusively to the ‹interests of the consumer›.

“You forget the producer,” we are told. But satisfaction being

the end and design of all our efforts—the grand ‹consummation› or

termination of the economic phenomena—is it not evident that it

is there that the touchstone of progress is to be found? A man’s

happiness and well-being are not measured by his ‹efforts›, but by

his ‹satisfactions›, and this holds equally true of society in the

aggregate. This is one of those truths which are never disputed when

applied to an individual, but which are constantly disputed when

applied to society at large. The phrase to which exception has been

taken only means this, that Political Economy estimates the worth of

what we do, not by the labour which it costs us to do it, but by the

ultimate result, which resolves itself definitively into an increase

or diminution of the general prosperity.

We have said, in reference to our wants and desires, that there

are no two men exactly alike. The same thing may be said of our

‹satisfactions›: they are not held in equal estimation by all, which

verifies the common saying, that ‹tastes differ›. Now it is by the

intensity of our desires, and the variety of our tastes, that the

direction of our efforts is determined. It is here that the influence

of morals upon industry becomes apparent. Man, as an individual, may

be the slave of tastes which are factitious, puerile, and [p096]

immoral. In this case it is self-evident that, his powers being

limited, he can only satisfy his depraved desires at the expense of

those which are laudable and legitimate. But when society comes into

play, this evident axiom is marked down as an error. We are led to

believe that artificial tastes, illusory satisfactions, which we

acknowledge as the source of individual poverty, are nevertheless

the cause of national wealth, as opening a vent to manufactures.

If it were so, we should arrive at the miserable conclusion, that

the social state places man between poverty and vice. Once more,

Political Economy reconciles, in the most rigorous and satisfactory

manner, these apparent contradictions. [p097]

IV.

EXCHANGE.

Exchange is Political Economy—it is Society itself—for it is

impossible to conceive Society as existing without Exchange, or

Exchange without Society. I shall not pretend in this chapter to

exhaust so vast a subject. To present even an outline of it would

require the entire volume.

If men, like snails, lived in complete isolation, if they did

not exchange their ideas and exertions, and had no bargain or

transactions with each other, we might have multitudes, indeed—human

units—individuals living in juxtaposition—but we could not have

‹Society›.

Nay, we should not even have individuals. To man isolation is death.

But then, if he cannot live out of society, the legitimate conclusion

is that the social state is his natural state.

All the sciences tend to establish this truth, which was so little

understood by the men of the eighteenth century that they founded

morals and politics on the contrary assertion. They were not content

with placing the state of nature in opposition to the social

state—they gave the first a decided preference. “Men were blessed,”

said Montaigne, “when they lived without bonds, without laws, without

language, without religion.” And we know that the system of Rousseau,

which exercised, and still exercises, so powerful an influence over

opinions and facts, rests altogether on this hypothesis—that men,

unhappily, ‹agreed› one fine morning to abandon the innocent ‹state

of nature› for the stormy ‹state of society›.

It is not the design of this chapter to bring together all possible

refutations of this fundamental error, the most fatal which has

ever infested the political sciences; for if society is the fruit

of invention and convention, it follows that every one may propose

a new model, and this, since Rousseau’s time, has in fact been the

[p098] direction in which men’s minds have tended. I could easily

demonstrate, I believe, that isolation excludes language, as the

absence of language excludes thought; and man, deprived of thought,

instead of being a child of nature, ceases to be man at all.

But a peremptory refutation of the idea upon which Rousseau’s

doctrine reposes, flows naturally from some considerations on

Exchange.

‹Want›, ‹Effort›, ‹Satisfaction›,—such is man in an economical point

of view.

We have seen that the two extreme terms are essentially

intransmissible, for they terminate in sensation, they are sensation,

which is the most personal thing in the world, as well the sensation

which precedes the effort and determines it, as the sensation which

follows the effort and rewards it.

It is then the ‹Effort› which is exchanged; indeed, it cannot be

otherwise, since exchange implies action, and Effort alone manifests

the principle of activity. We cannot suffer or enjoy for one another,

unless we could experience personally the pains and pleasures of

others. But we can assist each other, work for one another, render

reciprocal ‹services›, and place our faculties, or the results of

their exercise, at the disposal of others, in consideration of a

return. This is society. The causes, the effects, the laws, of these

exchanges constitute the subject of political and social economy.

We not only can exchange efforts and render reciprocal services, but

we do so necessarily. What I affirm is this, that our organization is

such that we are obliged to work for one another under pain of death,

of instant death. If it be so, society is our state of nature, since

it is the only state in which we can live at all.

There is one observation which I have to make upon the equilibrium

between our wants and our faculties, an observation which has always

led me to admire the providential plan which regulates our destinies:—

‹In the state of isolation our wants exceed our powers;›

‹In the social state our powers exceed our wants.›

Hence it follows that man in an isolated state cannot subsist, whilst

in the social state his most imperious wants give place to desires

of a higher order, and continue to do so in an ascending career of

progress and improvement to which it is impossible to set limits.

This is not declamation, but an assertion capable of being [p099]

rigorously demonstrated by reasoning and analogy, if not by

experience. And why can it not be demonstrated by experience, by

direct observation? Precisely because it is true—precisely because,

man not being able to exist in a state of isolation, it becomes

impossible to exhibit in actual nature the effects of absolute

solitude. You cannot lay hold of a nonentity. You can prove to me

that a triangle never has four sides, but you cannot, in support of

your demonstration, place before my eyes a tetragonal triangle. If

you could, the exhibition of such a triangle would disprove your

assertion. In the same way, to ask me for experimental proof, to ask

me to study the effects of isolation in actual nature, is to palm a

contradiction upon me; for life and isolation being incompatible, we

have never seen, and never shall see, men without social relations.

If there are animals (of which I am ignorant) destined by their

organization to make the round of their existence in absolute

isolation, it is very clear that nature must exactly proportion

their wants and their powers. It is possible to conceive that their

powers have the superiority, in which case these animals would be

progressive and capable of improvement. An equilibrium of wants and

powers would render them stationary beings; but the superiority of

their wants to their powers it is impossible to conceive. From their

birth, from their first appearance in life, their faculties must be

complete—relatively to the wants for which they have to provide,

or at least both must be developed in just proportion. Otherwise

the species would die the moment they came into existence, and,

consequently, could not be the subject of our observation.

Of all the species of living beings which surround us, undoubtedly

none have so many wants as man. In none is infancy so long, so

feeble, and so helpless—in none is maturity loaded with so much

responsibility—in none is old age so frail and so liable to

suffering. And, as if we had not enough of wants, man has tastes

also, the satisfaction of which exercises his faculties quite as much

as his wants. Scarcely has he appeased his hunger than he begins

to pamper himself with dainties—no sooner has he clothed himself

than he sighs for finery—no sooner has he obtained shelter than he

proceeds to embellish and decorate his residence. His mind is as

restless as his body is exacting. He seeks to fathom the secrets

of nature, to tame animals, to control the elements, to dive into

the bowels of the earth, to traverse broad seas, to soar above the

clouds, to annihilate time and space. He desires to know the motions,

the springs, the laws, of his mind and heart—to [p100] control his

passions—to conquer immortality—to become a god—to bring all things

into subjection; nature, his fellow-men, himself. In a word, his

desires and aspirations expand continually, and tend towards the

infinite.

Thus, in no other species are the faculties so susceptible of vast

development as in man. It is his alone to compare and to judge, to

reason and to speak, to foresee, to sacrifice the present to the

future. He alone can transmit, from generation to generation, his

works, his thoughts, the treasures of his experience. He alone is

capable of a perfectibility which is indefinite, which forms a chain

the countless links of which would seem to stretch beyond the limits

of the present world.

Let me here set down an observation which belongs properly to

Political Economy. However extended may be the domain of our

faculties, they do not reach the length of ‹creating› anything.

Man cannot, in truth, augment or diminish the number of existing

particles of matter. His action is limited to subjecting the

substances which he finds around him to modifications and

combinations which fit them for his use.[25]

To modify substances, so as to increase their utility in relation

to us, is to ‹produce›, or rather it is one mode of producing.

From this I conclude that value (as we shall afterwards more fully

explain) does not reside in these substances themselves, but in the

effort which intervenes in order to modify them, and which exchange

brings into comparison with other analogous efforts. This is the

reason why value is simply the appreciation of services exchanged,

whether a material commodity does or does not intervene. As regards

the notion of value, it is a matter of perfect indifference whether

I render to another a direct service, as, for example, in performing

for him a surgical operation, or an indirect service, in preparing

for him a curative substance. In this last case the ‹utility› is in

the substance, but the ‹value› is in the service, in the effort,

intellectual and muscular, made by one man for the benefit of

another. It is by a pure metonymy that we attribute value to the

material substance itself, and here, as on many other occasions,

metaphor leads science astray.

I return to the subject of man’s organization. If we adhere to the

preceding notions, he differs from other animals only in the greater

extent of his wants, and the superiority of his powers. All, in

fact, are subject to the one and provided with the other. A bird

undertakes long journeys in search of the temperature which suits

it best—the beaver crosses the river on a bridge of [p101] his own

construction—the hawk pursues his prey openly—the cat watches for it

with patience—the spider prepares a snare—all labour in order to live

and multiply.

But while Nature has established an exact proportion between the

wants of animals and their faculties, if she has treated man with

greater bounty and munificence, if, in order to force him to be

‹sociable›, she has decreed that in a state of isolation his wants

should surpass his faculties, whilst, on the contrary, in the social

state, his powers, superior to his wants, open to him an unlimited

field for nobler enjoyments, we ought to acknowledge that, as in

his relation with the Creator man is elevated above the beasts by

the religious sentiment, in his relations with his fellow-creatures

by his sense of justice, in his relations with himself by the moral

principle—in like manner, in relation to the means of living and

multiplying, he is distinguished by a remarkable phenomenon, namely,

«Exchange».

Shall I essay to paint the state of poverty, of destitution, and

of ignorance, in which, but for the power of exchanging, the human

species would have been sunk, had it not, indeed, as is more likely,

disappeared altogether.

One of the most popular philosophers, in a romance which has been

the charm of the young from generation to generation, has shown us

man surmounting by his energy, his activity, his intelligence, the

difficulties of absolute solitude. For the purpose of setting clearly

before us what are the resources of that noble creature, the author

has exhibited him as accidentally cut off from civilisation. It was

part of Defoe’s plan to throw Robinson Crusoe into the Island of Juan

Fernandez alone, naked, deprived of all that the union of efforts,

the division of employments, exchange, society, add to the human

powers.

And yet, although the fancied obstacles are but imaginary, Defoe

would have taken away from his tale even the shadow of probability

if, too faithful to the thought which he wished to develop, he had

not made forced concessions to the social state, by admitting that

his hero had saved from shipwreck some indispensable things, such

as provisions, gunpowder, a gun, a hatchet, a knife, cords, planks,

iron, etc.; a decisive proof that society is the necessary medium in

which man lives, and out of which not even a romance writer could

figure him as existing.

And, observe, that Robinson Crusoe carried with him into solitude

another ‹social› treasure, a thousand times more precious than all

these, and which the waves could not engulf, I mean his ideas, his

recollections, his experience, above all, his language, [p102]

without which he would not have been able to hold converse with

himself, that is to say, to think.

We have the unfortunate and unreasonable habit of attributing to

the ‹social state› the sufferings which we see around us. We are

right so far, if our object be to compare society with itself in

different degrees of advancement and improvement; but we are wrong

if our object be to compare the social state, however imperfect,

with a state of isolation. To authorize us to assert that society

impairs the condition, I do not say of man in general, but of some

men, and these the poorest and most wretched of the species, we must

begin by proving that the worst provided of our fellow-creatures

have to support in the social state a heavier load of privations

and sufferings than the man whose lot has been cast in solitude.

Now, examine the life of the humblest day-labourer. Pass in review,

in all their details, the articles of his daily consumption. He is

covered with some coarse clothing, he eats a little common bread, he

sleeps under shelter, and on boards, at least, if he has no better

couch. Now, let us ask if man in a state of isolation, deprived of

the resources of Exchange, could by any possibility procure for

himself that coarse clothing, that common bread, that rude bed, that

humble shelter? Rousseau himself, the passionate enthusiast of the

‹state of nature›, avows the utter impossibility of it. Men dispensed

with everything, he says; they went naked, they slept in the open

air. Thus Rousseau, to exalt the state of nature, was led to make

happiness consist in privation. And yet I affirm that this negative

happiness is a chimera, and that man in a state of isolation would

infallibly perish in a very few hours. Perhaps Rousseau would have

gone to the length of saying that that would have been the perfection

of his system; and he would have been consistent, for if privation be

happiness, death is perfection.

I trust the reader will not conclude from what precedes that we are

insensible to the social sufferings of our fellow-men. Because these

sufferings are less even in an imperfect state of society than in a

state of isolation, it does not follow that we should not invoke,

with all earnestness, that progress which constantly diminishes them.

But if isolation is something worse than all that is bad in the

social state, then I am justified in saying that it places our wants,

even the most imperious, far above our faculties and our means of

providing for wants.

In what way does Exchange advantageously reverse all this, and place

our faculties above our wants?

And first this is proved by the very fact of civilisation. If our

[p103] wants surpassed our faculties, we should be beings invincibly

retrograde; if there were an equilibrium between them, we should be

invincibly stationary. But we advance; which shows that at every

stage of social life, as compared with the period that preceded it,

a certain portion of our powers, relatively to a given amount of

satisfactions, is left disposable. We shall endeavour to explain this

marvellous phenomenon.

The explanation which Condillac has given appears to me to be quite

unsatisfactory and empirical—in fact, it explains nothing. “From

the very fact,” he says, “that an exchange is made, it follows that

there must be profit for the two contracting parties, for otherwise

it would not take place. Then each exchange includes two gains for

humanity.”

Holding this proposition as true, we see in it only the statement of

a result. It is in this way that the ‹Malade Imaginaire› explains the

narcotic virtue of opium:—

Quia est in eo

Virtus dormitiva

Quæ facit dormire.

Exchange includes two gains, you say. How? Why? It results from the

fact that it takes place. But why does it take place? What motive has

induced the contracting parties to effect the exchange? Has Exchange

in itself a mysterious virtue, necessarily beneficial, and incapable

of explanation?

Others make the advantage consist in this, that the one gives away

a commodity of which he has too much in order to receive another of

which he has too little. Exchange, they say, is a ‹barter of the

superfluous for the necessary›. This is contradicted by facts which

pass under our own eyes; for who can say that the peasant, in giving

away the corn which he has raised, but which he is never to eat,

gives away a superfluity? I see in this axiom very clearly how two

men may make an accidental arrangement, but I see no explanation of

progress.

Observation gives us a more satisfactory explanation of the power of

Exchange.

Exchange has two manifestations—namely, union of forces, and

separation of occupations.

It is very clear that in many cases the united force of several men

is superior, all things considered, to the sum of their individual

forces. Suppose that what is wanted is to remove a heavy load. Where

a thousand men in succession may fail, it is possible that four men

may succeed by uniting their efforts. Just let us reflect how few

things were ever accomplished in this world without union! [p104]

And yet this is only the concurrence of muscular forces in a common

design. Nature has endued us with very varied physical, intellectual,

and moral faculties. There are in the co-operation of these faculties

endless combinations. Is it wished to accomplish a useful work, like

the construction of a road, or the defence of a country? One gives

the community the benefit of his strength, another of his agility,

another of his courage, another of his experience, foresight,

imagination, even of his reputation. It is easy to comprehend

that the same men acting singly could not have attained, or even

conceived, the same results.

Now, union of forces implies Exchange. To induce men to co-operate,

they have the prospect of participating in the benefit to be

obtained. Each makes the other profit by his Efforts, and he profits

by the other’s Efforts in return, which is Exchange.

We see how Exchange in this way augments our Satisfactions. The

benefit consists in this, that efforts of equal intensity tend, by

the mere fact of their union, to superior results. There is here no

trace of the pretended ‹barter of the superfluous for the necessary›,

any more than of the double and empirical profit alleged by Condillac.

The same remark applies to division of labour. Indeed, if we regard

the matter more closely, we shall be convinced that the separation

of employments is only another and more permanent manner of uniting

our forces—of co-operating, of ‹associating›; and it is quite correct

to say, as we shall afterwards demonstrate, that the present social

organization, provided Exchange is left free and unfettered, is

itself a vast and beautiful association—a marvellous association,

very different, indeed, from that dreamt of by the Socialists,

since, by an admirable mechanism, it is in perfect accordance with

individual independence. Every one can enter and leave it at any

moment which suits his convenience. He contributes to it voluntarily,

and reaps a satisfaction superior to his contribution, and always

increasing—a satisfaction determined by the laws of justice and the

nature of things, not by the arbitrary will of a chief. But this is

anticipating. All we have to do at present is to explain how the

division of labour increases our power.

Without dwelling much on this subject, as it is one of the few which

do not give rise to controversy, a remark or two may not be out

of place. Its importance has perhaps been somewhat disparaged. In

order to demonstrate the powerful effects of the Division of Labour,

it has been usual to describe its marvellous results in certain

manufactures—in the making of pins, for [p105] example. But the

subject admits of being viewed in a more general and philosophical

light. The force of habit has the singular effect of concealing from

us, and rendering us unconscious of, the phenomena in the midst of

which we live and move. No saying is more profoundly true than that

of Rousseau, “Much philosophy is needed for the observation of what

we see every day.” It may not then be without use to recall what we

owe to Exchange, without perceiving it.

In what way has the power of exchanging elevated mankind to the

height of civilisation we have now attained? I answer, by the

influence which it exerts on ‹Labour›, upon the co-operation of

‹natural agents›, upon the ‹powers and faculties› of man, and upon

‹Capital›.

Adam Smith has clearly demonstrated its influence on Labour.

“The great increase in the quantity of work, which, in consequence

of the division of labour, the same number of people are capable of

performing, is owing to three circumstances,” says that celebrated

Economist: “‹First›, to the increase of dexterity in every particular

workman; ‹secondly›, to the saving of time which is commonly lost

in passing from one species of work to another; ‹thirdly›, to this,

that men are much more likely to discover easier and readier methods

of attaining an object when the whole attention of their minds is

directed to that single object, than when it is dissipated among a

great variety of things.”

Those who, like Adam Smith, see in Labour the exclusive source of

wealth, confine themselves to inquiring in what way the division

of labour increases its efficiency. But we have seen in the

preceding chapter that labour is not the sole agent in procuring us

satisfaction. ‹Natural forces› co-operate. That is beyond doubt.

Thus, in agriculture, the action of the sun and of the rain, the

moisture of the earth, and the gases diffused in the atmosphere,

are undoubtedly agents which co-operate with human labour in the

production of vegetable substances.

Manufacturing industry owes analogous services to the chemical

qualities of certain substances, to water-power, to the elasticity of

steam, to gravitation, to electricity.

Commerce has turned to the profit of man the vigour and instincts of

certain races of animals, the force of the winds which fill the sails

of his ships, the laws of magnetism, which, acting on the compass,

direct the course of these ships through the pathless ocean.

There are two verities which are beyond all dispute. The [p106]

first is, that ‹the more man avails himself of the forces of nature,

the better he is provided with everything he requires›.

It is sufficiently evident that, with equal exertion, we obtain more

corn from a rich loamy soil than from sterile rocks or arid sands.

The second is, ‹that natural agents are unequally diffused over the

various countries of the world›.

Who would venture to maintain that all soils are equally well fitted

for all kinds of culture, or all countries for the same description

of manufactures?

Now, if it be true on the one hand that natural forces are unequally

diffused in the different countries of the world, and on the other

that men are richer in proportion as they avail themselves of them,

it follows that the faculty of Exchange immeasurably augments the

useful co-operation of these forces.

And here we recur once more to gratuitous and onerous utility, the

former being substituted for the latter by virtue of Exchange. Is it

not very clear, that if men were deprived of the power of Exchange,

and were obliged to produce ice under the equator, and sugar at the

poles, they must spend much pains in doing what heat and cold do

gratuitously, and that for them an immense proportion of the Forces

of nature would remain inoperative? Thanks to Exchange, these forces

are rendered useful to us wherever we encounter them. Corn land is

sown with wheat—in wine-growing countries the land is planted with

vines—there are fishermen on the coasts, and wood-cutters among the

mountains. In one place a wheel which does the work of ten men is set

in motion by water—in another, by wind. Nature becomes a slave, whom

we have neither to feed, nor to clothe, nor to pay—who costs nothing

either to our purse or our conscience.[26] The same amount of human

efforts, that is to say, the same services, the same value, realizes

a constantly increasing amount of utility. For each given result a

certain portion only of human exertion is absorbed; the remainder, by

means of the intervention of natural Forces, is rendered disposable,

and it sets to work to overcome new obstacles, to minister to new

desires, to realize new utilities.

The effects of Exchange upon our intellectual Faculties are so great,

that we can scarcely even imagine their extent.

“Knowledge,” says M. de Tracy, “is the most precious of all our

acquisition, since it directs and governs the employment of our

forces, and renders them more prolific, in proportion as it is

sounder and more extensive. No man can himself observe [p107]

everything, and it is much easier to learn than to invent. But

when several men communicate with each other, what is observed by

one is soon known to the rest; and if there be among them but one

person of superior ingenuity, precious discoveries speedily become

the property of all. In such circumstances, knowledge is much more

rapidly increased than it could be in a state of isolation, without

taking into account the power of preserving it, and consequently of

accumulating it from one generation to another.”

If the resources which nature has accumulated around man and placed

at his disposal are varied, the human faculties themselves are not

less so. We are not all equally endowed with strength, courage,

intelligence, patience, or with artistic, literary, and industrial

aptitudes. Without exchange, this diversity, far from contributing

to our well-being, would contribute to our misery, each feeling less

the advantage of those Faculties he possessed than the deprivation

of those he wanted. Thanks to exchange, a man possessed of bodily

strength may, up to a certain point, dispense with genius, and a man

of intelligence with bodily strength; for by the admirable community

which the power of exchange establishes among men, each individual

participates in the distinctive qualities of his neighbours.

In order to obtain the satisfactions he desires, it is not enough,

in most cases, to work—to exercise his faculties upon, or by means

of, natural agents. He requires also to have tools, instruments,

machines, provisions—in a word, Capital. Suppose a small tribe,

composed of ten families, each, in working exclusively for itself,

being obliged to engage in ten different employments. In that case

each family must have ten sets of industrial apparatus. The tribe

would require to possess ten ploughs, ten teams of oxen, ten forges,

ten joiner’s and carpenter’s workshops, ten looms, etc.; while, with

the power of exchange, a single plough, a single team, a single

forge, a single loom, would be sufficient. It is impossible to

conceive the economy of Capital which we owe to exchange.

The reader now sees clearly what constitutes the true power of

exchange. It is not, as Condillac says, that it implies ‹two gains›,

because of each of the contracting parties valuing more highly what

he receives than what he gives. Neither is it that each gives away

what is superfluous for what is necessary. It lies simply in this,

that when one man says to another, “Do you only this, and I shall

do only that, and we shall divide,” there is a better and more

advantageous employment of labour, of faculties, of natural agents,

of capital, and consequently there is ‹more› to divide. And these

results take place to a still greater extent when [p108] three, ten,

a hundred, a thousand, or several millions of men enter into the

association.

The two propositions which I have laid down, then, are rigorously

true, viz.:—

‹In isolation our wants exceed our powers;›

‹In society our powers exceed our wants.›

The first is true, seeing that the whole surface of our country would

not maintain one man in a state of absolute isolation.

The second is true, seeing that, in fact, the population which is

spread over that same surface multiplies and grows richer.

‹Progress of Exchange.›—The primitive form of exchange is ‹Barter›.

Two persons, one of whom desires an object, and is possessed of

an object which the other desires, agree to cede these objects

reciprocally, or they agree to work separately, each at one thing,

but for the purpose of dividing the total product of their labour in

arranged proportions. This is ‹Barter›, which is, as the Socialists

would say, Exchange, traffic, commerce ‹in embryo›. We observe here

two Desires as motives—two Efforts as means—two Satisfactions as

results, or as the termination and completion of the entire cycle;

and this evolution is not essentially different from the same

evolution accomplished in a state of isolation, except that the

desires and satisfactions have, as their nature requires, remained

intransmissible, and that Efforts alone have been exchanged. In other

words, the two persons have worked for each other, and have rendered

each other reciprocal ‹services›.

It is at this point that Political Economy truly begins, for it is

here that ‹value› first makes its appearance. Barter takes place

only after an arrangement, a discussion. Each of the contracting

parties is governed by considerations of self-interest. Each of

them makes a calculation, which in effect comes to this, “I shall

barter if the barter procures me the ‹satisfaction› I ‹desire› with

a less ‹Effort›.” It is certainly a marvellous phenomenon that

diminished efforts can yet keep pace with undiminished desires

and satisfactions; and this is explained by the considerations

which I have presented in the first part of this chapter. When two

commodities or two services are ‹bartered›, we may conclude that they

are of ‹equal value›. We shall have to analyze afterwards the notion

of ‹value›, but this vague definition is sufficient for the present.

We may suppose a ‹round-about barter›, including three contracting

parties. ‹Paul› renders a service to ‹Peter›, who renders an

equivalent service to ‹James›, who in turn renders an equivalent

service to ‹Paul›, by means of which all is balanced. I need not say

that this round-about transaction only takes place because it [p109]

suits all the parties, without changing either the nature or the

consequences of barter.

The essence of Barter is discovered in all its purity even when

the number of contracting parties is greater. In my ‹commune› the

vine-dresser pays with wine for the services of the blacksmith, the

barber, the tailor, the beadle, the curate, the grocer; while the

blacksmith, the barber, the tailor, in turn deliver to the grocer,

for the commodities consumed during the year, the wine which they

have received from the vine-dresser.

This round-about Barter, I cannot too often repeat, does not change

in the least degree the primary notions explained in the preceding

chapters. When the evolution is complete, each of those who have had

part in it presents still the triple phenomenon, ‹want›, ‹effort›,

‹satisfaction›. We have but to add, the exchange of efforts, the

transmission of services, the separation of employments, with all

their resulting advantages—advantages to which every one of the

parties has contributed, seeing that isolated individual labour

is a ‹pis aller›, always reserved, and which is only renounced in

consideration of a certain advantage.

It is easy to comprehend that Barter in kind, especially the indirect

and round-about barter which I have described, cannot be much

extended, and it is unnecessary to dwell upon the obstacles which

set limits to it. How could he manage, for example, who wished to

exchange his house against the thousand articles which enter into his

annual consumption? In any case, Barter could never take place but

among the few persons who happen to be acquainted with each other.

Progress and the Division of Labour would soon reach their limits if

mankind had not discovered the means of facilitating exchanges.

This is the reason why men, from the earliest ages of society, have

employed an intermediate commodity to effect their transactions—corn,

wine, animals, and almost always, the precious metals. Such

commodities perform this function of facilitating exchanges more or

less conveniently; still any one of them can perform it, provided

that, in the transaction, Effort is represented by ‹value›, the

transmission of which is the thing to be effected.

When recourse is had to an intermediate commodity, two economic

phenomena make their appearance, which we denominate ‹Sale› and

‹Purchase›. It is evident that the idea of ‹sale› and ‹purchase› is

not included in direct Barter, or even in round-about Barter. When a

man gives another something to drink, in consideration of receiving

from him something to eat, we have a [p110] simple fact which we

cannot analyze farther. Now, what we must remark in the very outset

of the science is, that exchanges which are effected by means of

an intermediate commodity do not lose the nature, the essence, the

quality of barter—only the barter is no longer simple, but compound.

To borrow the very judicious and profound observation of J. B. Say,

it is a barter of ‹two factors› [troc à deux facteurs], of which the

one is called ‹sale› and the other ‹purchase›—factors whose union is

indispensable in order to constitute a complete barter.

In truth, this discovery of a convenient means of effecting exchanges

makes no alteration in the nature either of men or of things. We have

still in every case the ‹want› which determines the ‹effort›, and the

‹satisfaction› which rewards it. The Exchange is complete only when

the man who has made an ‹effort› in favour of another has obtained

from him an equivalent service, that is to say, ‹satisfaction›. To

effect this, he ‹sells› his service for the intermediate commodity,

and then with that intermediate commodity he ‹purchases› equivalent

services, when the two factors bring back the transaction to simple

‹barter›.

Take the case of a physician, for instance. For many years he has

devoted his time and his faculties to the study of diseases and their

remedies. He has visited patients, he has prescribed for them, in a

word, he has rendered ‹services›. Instead of receiving compensation

from his patients in ‹direct services›, which would have constituted

simple barter, he receives from them an intermediate commodity, the

precious metals, wherewith he purchases the satisfactions which were

the ultimate object he had in view. His patients have not furnished

him with bread, wine, or other goods, but they have furnished

him with the value of these. They could not have given him money

unless they had themselves rendered ‹services›. As far as they are

concerned, therefore, there is a balance of ‹services›, and there

is also a balance as regards the physician; and could we in thought

follow this circulation of services out and out, we should see that

Exchange carried on by the intervention of money resolves itself into

a multitude of acts of simple barter.

In the case of simple barter, ‹value› is the appreciation of two

services exchanged and directly compared with each other. In the

case of ‹Compound Exchange› the two services measure each other’s

value, not directly, but by comparison with this mean term, this

intermediate commodity, which is called Money. We shall see by-and-by

what difficulties, what errors, have sprung from this complication.

At present it is sufficient to remark that [p111] the intervention

of this intermediate commodity makes no change whatever in the notion

of ‹value›.

Only admit that exchange is at once the cause and the effect of the

division of labour and the separation of employments; only admit

that the separation of occupations multiplies ‹satisfactions› in

proportion to ‹efforts›, for the reasons explained at the beginning

of this chapter, and you will comprehend at once the services which

Money has rendered to mankind, by the simple fact that it facilitates

Exchanges. By means of Money, Exchange is indefinitely extended

and developed. Each man casts his services into the common fund,

without knowing who is to enjoy the satisfactions which they are

calculated to procure. In the same way he obtains from society, not

immediate services, but money with which he can afterwards purchase

services, where, when, and how it may best suit him. In this way the

ultimate transactions occur at various times and places, between

people totally unacquainted with each other, and in the greater

number of cases no one knows by whose ‹efforts› his ‹wants› will be

‹satisfied›, or to the ‹satisfaction› of whose ‹desires› his own

‹efforts› will contribute. Exchange, by the intervention of Money,

resolves itself into innumerable acts of ‹barter›, of which the

contracting parties themselves are ignorant.

Exchange, however, confers so great a benefit on society (is it not

society itself?) that it facilitates and extends it by other means

besides the introduction of money. In logical order, after Want and

Satisfaction united in the same individual with isolated Effort—after

simple barter—after barter ‹à deux facteurs›, or Exchange composed

of ‹sale› and ‹purchase›—come other transactions, extended farther

over time and space by means of credit, mortgages, bills of exchange,

bank notes, etc. By means of this wondrous machinery, the result of

civilisation, the improver of civilisation, and itself becoming more

perfect at the same time, an exertion made at the present hour in

Paris may contribute to the satisfaction and enjoyment of an unknown

stranger, separated from us by oceans and centuries; and he who makes

the exertion will not the less receive for it a present recompense,

through the intervention of persons who advance the remuneration,

and wait to be reimbursed in a distant country or at a future day.

Marvellous and astonishing complication! which, when subjected to

analysis, shows us finally the accomplishment of the entire economic

cycle—‹want›, ‹effort›, ‹satisfaction›, taking place in each

individual, according to a just law.

‹Limits of Exchange.›—The general character of Exchange is ‹to

diminish the proportion which the Effort bears to the satisfaction›.

Between our wants and our satisfactions ‹obstacles› are interposed,

[p112] which we succeed in diminishing by the union of forces or the

division of occupations, that is to say, by ‹Exchange›. But Exchange

itself encounters obstacles and demands efforts. The proof of this

is the immense amount of human labour which it sets in motion.

The precious metals, roads, canals, railways, wheeled carriages,

ships—all these things absorb a considerable portion of human

activity. Observe, besides, how many men are exclusively occupied

in facilitating exchanges—how many bankers, merchants, shopkeepers,

brokers, carriers, sailors! This vast and costly apparatus shows us,

better than any reasoning, how much efficacy there is in the power of

Exchange, for why otherwise should society be encumbered with it?

Since it is the nature of Exchange to ‹save› efforts and to ‹exact›

them, it is easy to understand what are its natural limits. In virtue

of that motive which urges man to choose always the least of two

evils, Exchange will go on extending itself indefinitely as long as

the effort it exacts is less than the effort which it saves. And its

extension will stop naturally when, upon the whole, the aggregate of

satisfactions obtained by the division of labour becomes less, by

reason of the increasing difficulties attending Exchange, than if we

procured them by direct production.

Suppose the case of a small tribe. If they desire to procure

themselves satisfactions they must make an effort. They may address

themselves to another tribe, and say to them, “Make this effort for

us, and we shall make another for you.” The stipulation may suit

all parties, if, for example, the second tribe is in a situation to

obtain greater assistance than the other from natural and gratuitous

forces. In that case it may be able to realize the result with an

effort equal to eight, while the first could only accomplish it by an

effort equal to twelve. There is thus an economy equal to four for

the first. But then come the cost of transport, the remuneration of

intermediate agents, in a word, the effort exacted by the machinery

of Exchange. This cost must, then, clearly be added to the figure

eight. Exchange will continue to take place as long as the Exchange

‹itself› does not cost four. The moment it reaches that figure it

will stop. It is quite unnecessary to make laws on this subject; for

either the law intervenes before this level is attained, and then it

is injurious—it prevents an economy of efforts—or it comes after it,

and then it is useless, like an ordinance forbidding people to light

their lamps at noonday.

When Exchange is thus arrested from ceasing to be advantageous, the

slightest improvement in the ‹commercial apparatus› gives it a new

activity. Between Orleans and Angoulême a certain [p113] number of

transactions take place. These towns effect an Exchange as often

as they can obtain a greater amount of enjoyments by that means

than by direct production. They stop short the moment the cost of

obtaining commodities by means of exchange, aggravated by the cost

of effecting the exchange itself, surpasses, or reaches, that of

obtaining them by means of direct production. In these circumstances,

if we improve the conditions under which Exchanges are effected—if

the merchants’ profits are diminished, or the means of transport

facilitated—if roads and railways are made, mountains levelled, and

bridges thrown over rivers—in a word, if obstacles are removed, the

number of Exchanges will be increased; for men are always desirous

to avail themselves of the great advantages which we have ascribed

to Exchange, and to substitute gratuitous for onerous utility. The

improvement of the ‹commercial apparatus›, then, is equivalent

to bringing two cities locally nearer to each other. Whence it

follows that bringing men physically, locally, nearer each other is

equivalent to improving the conditions of exchange. This is very

important. It is, in fact, the solution of the problem of population;

and this is precisely the element in that great problem that Malthus

has neglected. Where Malthus saw Discordance, attention to this

element enables us to discover ‹Harmony›.

When men effect an exchange, it is because they succeed by that means

in obtaining an equal amount of ‹satisfaction› at a less expense of

‹effort›; and the reason of this is, that on both sides services are

rendered which are the means of procuring a greater proportion of

what we have termed ‹gratuitous utility›.

Now, you have always a greater number of exchanges in proportion as

you remove the ‹obstacles› which impede exchanges, and diminish the

‹efforts› which these exchanges exact.

And Exchange encounters fewer obstacles, and exacts fewer efforts,

just in proportion as you bring men nearer each other, and mass them

more together. A greater density of population, then, is accompanied

by a greater proportion of ‹gratuitous utility›. That density imparts

greater power to the machinery of exchange; it sets free and renders

disposable a portion of human efforts; it is a cause of progress.

Now, if you please, let us leave generalities and look at facts.

Does not a street of equal length render more service in Paris than

in a remote village? Is not a mile of railway of more use in the

Department of the Seine than in the Department of the Landes? Is not

a London merchant content with smaller profits [p114] on account of

the greater amount of business which he transacts? In everything we

shall discover two sets of exchange agencies at work, which although

identical in kind, act very differently, according as they operate in

a densely or a thinly peopled locality.

The density of population not only enables us to reap more advantage

from the machinery of exchange, it permits us to improve that

machinery, and increase its power. Where the population is condensed,

these improvements are advantageous, because they save us more

efforts than they exact; but where the population is scattered and

thin-spread, they exact more efforts than they save.

On leaving the metropolis for a time, and going to reside in a small

provincial town, one is astonished to find that in many instances the

most ordinary ‹services› can only be obtained at great expense, and

with time and difficulty.

It is not the material part of the commercial mechanism only which

is turned to account and improved by the single circumstance of the

density of population, but the moral part also. When men are massed

together, they have more facility in dividing their employments,

in uniting their powers, and in combining to found churches and

schools, to provide for their common security, to establish banks and

insurance companies, in a word, to procure themselves all the common

enjoyments with a much smaller proportion of efforts.

We shall revert to these considerations when we come to enter on the

subject of Population. At present we shall make only this remark:—

Exchange enables men to turn their faculties to better account, to

economize capital, to obtain more assistance from the gratuitous

agencies of nature, to increase the proportion of gratuitous to

onerous utility, to diminish, consequently, the ratio of efforts to

results, and to leave at their disposal a part of their forces, so

that they may withdraw a greater and greater portion of them from the

business of providing for their primary and more imperious wants, and

devote them to procuring enjoyments of a higher and higher order.

If Exchange saves efforts, it also exacts them. It extends, and

spreads, and increases, up to the point at which the effort it

exacts becomes equal to the effort which it saves, and it stops

there until, by the improvement of the commercial apparatus, or by

the circumstance exclusively of the condensation of population, and

bringing men together in masses, it again returns to the conditions

which are essential to its onward and ascending march. [p115] Whence

it follows that laws which limit or hamper Exchanges are always

either hurtful or superfluous.

Governments which persuade themselves that nothing good can be

done but through their instrumentality, refuse to acknowledge this

harmonic law.

‹Exchange develops itself› «NATURALLY» ‹until it becomes more onerous

than useful, and at that point it› «NATURALLY» ‹stops›.

In consequence, we find governments everywhere busying themselves in

favouring or restraining trade.

In order to carry it ‹beyond› its natural limits, they set to

conquering colonies and opening new markets. In order to confine it

‹within› its natural bounds, they invent all sorts of restrictions

and fetters.

This intervention of Force in human transactions is the source of

innumerable evils.

The Increase of this force itself is an evil to begin with; for it

is very evident that the State cannot make conquests, retain distant

countries under its rule, or divert the natural course of trade by

the action of tariffs, without greatly increasing the number of its

agents.

The Diversion of the public Force from its legitimate functions is

an evil still greater than its Increase. Its rational mission was to

protect Liberty and Property; and here you have it violating Liberty

and Property. All just notions and principles are thus effaced from

men’s minds. The moment you admit that Oppression and Spoliation are

legitimate, provided they are legal—provided they interfere only by

means of the Law or public Force, you find by degrees each class of

citizens demanding that the interest of every other class should be

sacrificed to it.

This intervention of Force in the business of Exchanges, whether

it succeeds in promoting or in restraining them, cannot fail to

occasion both the Loss and Displacement of labour and capital, and,

of consequence, a disturbance of the natural distribution of the

population. On one side, natural interests disappear, on the other,

artificial interests are created, and men are forced to follow the

course of these interests. It is thus we see important branches of

industry established where they ought not to be. France makes sugar;

England spins cotton, brought from the plains of India. Centuries

of war, torrents of blood, the dissipation of vast treasures, have

brought about these results, and the effect has been to substitute in

Europe sickly and precarious for sound and healthy enterprises, and

to open the door to commercial crises, to stoppages, to instability,

and finally to Pauperism.

But I find I am anticipating. What we ought first to do is to [p116]

acquaint ourselves with the free and natural development of human

societies, and then investigate the Disturbances.

‹Moral Force of Exchange.›—We must repeat, at the risk of wounding

modern sentimentalism, that Political Economy belongs to the region

of ‹business›, and business is transacted under the influence of

‹personal interest›. In vain the puritans of socialism cry out, “This

is frightful; we shall change all this.” Such declamations involve a

flat contradiction. Do we make purchases on the Quai Voltaire in the

name of Fraternity?

It would be to fall into another kind of declamation to attribute

morality to acts determined and governed by ‹self-interest›. But

a good and wise Providence may so have arranged the social order

that these very acts, destitute of morality in their motives, may

nevertheless tend to moral results. Is it not so in the case of

labour? Now, I maintain that Exchange, whether in the incipient state

of simple barter, or expanded into a vast and complicated commerce,

develops in society tendencies more noble than the motive which gives

rise to it.

I have certainly no wish to attribute to only one of our powers

all that constitutes the grandeur, the glory, and the charm of our

existence. As there are two forces in the material world—one which

goes from the circumference to the centre, the other from the centre

to the circumference—there are also two principles in the social

world, self-interest and sympathy. It were a misfortune indeed did we

fail to recognise the benefits and joys of the sympathetic principle,

as manifested in friendship, love, filial piety, parental tenderness,

charity, patriotism, religion, enthusiasm for the good and the

beautiful. Some have maintained that the sympathetic principle is

only a magnificent form of self-love, that to love others is at

bottom only an intelligent way of loving ourselves. This is not the

place to enter on the solution of that problem. Whether these two

native energies are distinct or confounded, it is enough for us to

know that, far from being antagonistic, as is constantly said, they

act in combination, and concur in the realization of one and the same

result, the general good.