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FORS CLAVIGERA.
LETTERS
TO THE WORKMEN AND LABOURERS
OF GREAT BRITAIN.
BY
JOHN RUSKIN, LL.D.,
HONORARY STUDENT OF CHRIST CHURCH, AND SLADE PROFESSOR OF FINE ART.
Vol. I.
GEORGE ALLEN,
SUNNYSIDE, ORPINGTON, KENT.
1871.
FORS CLAVIGERA.
LETTER I.
Denmark Hill,
1st January, 1871.
Friends,
We begin to-day another group of ten years, not in happy
circumstances. Although, for the time, exempted from the direct
calamities which have fallen on neighbouring states, believe me,
we have not escaped them because of our better deservings, nor by
our better wisdom; but only for one or two bad reasons, or for both:
either that we have not sense enough to determine in a great national
quarrel which side is right, or that we have not courage to defend
the right, when we have discerned it.
I believe that both these bad reasons exist in full force; that our
own political divisions prevent us from understanding the laws of
international justice; and that, even if we did, we should not dare
to defend, perhaps not even to assert them, being on this first of
January, 1871, in much bodily fear; that is to say, afraid of the
Russians; afraid of the Prussians; afraid of the Americans; afraid of
the Hindoos; afraid of the Chinese; afraid of the Japanese; afraid of
the New Zealanders; and afraid of the Caffres: and very justly so,
being conscious that our only real desire respecting any of these
nations has been to get as much out of them as we could.
They have no right to complain of us, notwithstanding, since we have
all, lately, lived ourselves in the daily endeavour to get as much
out of our neighbours and friends as we could; and having by this
means, indeed, got a good deal out of each other, and put nothing
into each other, the actually obtained result, this day, is a state
of emptiness in purse and stomach, for the solace of which our boasted
"insular position" is ineffectual.
I have listened to many ingenious persons, who say we are better
off now than ever we were before. I do not know how well off we were
before; but I know positively that many very deserving persons of my
acquaintance have great difficulty in living under these improved
circumstances: also, that my desk is full of begging letters,
eloquently written either by distressed or dishonest people; and that
we cannot be called, as a nation, well off, while so many of us are
either living in honest or in villanous beggary.
For my own part, I will put up with this state of things, passively,
not an hour longer. I am not an unselfish person, nor an Evangelical
one; I have no particular pleasure in doing good; neither do I
dislike doing it so much as to expect to be rewarded for it in another
world. But I simply cannot paint, nor read, nor look at minerals, nor
do anything else that I like, and the very light of the morning sky,
when there is any--which is seldom, now-a-days, near London--has become
hateful to me, because of the misery that I know of, and see signs of,
where I know it not, which no imagination can interpret too bitterly.
Therefore, as I have said, I will endure it no longer quietly;
but henceforward, with any few or many who will help, do my poor
best to abate this misery. But that I may do my best, I must not be
miserable myself any longer; for no man who is wretched in his own
heart, and feeble in his own work, can rightly help others.
Now my own special pleasure has lately been connected with a given
duty. I have been ordered to endeavour to make our English youth
care somewhat for the arts; and must put my uttermost strength into
that business. To which end I must clear myself from all sense of
responsibility for the material distress around me, by explaining to
you, once for all, in the shortest English I can, what I know of its
causes; by pointing out to you some of the methods by which it might
be relieved; and by setting aside regularly some small percentage of
my income, to assist, as one of yourselves, in what one and all we
shall have to do; each of us laying by something, according to our
means, for the common service; and having amongst us, at last, be
it ever so small, a national Store instead of a National Debt. Store
which, once securely founded, will fast increase, provided only you
take the pains to understand, and have perseverance to maintain,
the elementary principles of Human Economy, which have, of late,
not only been lost sight of, but wilfully and formally entombed under
pyramids of falsehood.
And first I beg you most solemnly to convince yourselves of the partly
comfortable, partly formidable fact, that your prosperity is in your
own hands. That only in a remote degree does it depend on external
matters, and least of all on forms of government. In all times of
trouble the first thing to be done is to make the most of whatever
forms of government you have got, by setting honest men to work them;
(the trouble, in all probability, having arisen only from the want
of such;) and for the rest, you must in no wise concern yourselves
about them; more particularly it would be lost time to do so at this
moment, when whatever is popularly said about governments cannot but
be absurd, for want of definition of terms. Consider, for instance,
the ridiculousness of the division of parties into "Liberal" and
"Conservative." There is no opposition whatever between those two
kinds of men. There is opposition between Liberals and Illiberals;
that is to say, between people who desire liberty, and who dislike
it. I am a violent Illiberal; but it does not follow that I must be a
Conservative. A Conservative is a person who wishes to keep things as
they are; and he is opposed to a Destructive, who wishes to destroy
them, or to an Innovator, who wishes to alter them. Now, though I
am an Illiberal, there are many things I should like to destroy. I
should like to destroy most of the railroads in England, and all the
railroads in Wales. I should like to destroy and rebuild the Houses
of Parliament, the National Gallery, and the East end of London;
and to destroy, without rebuilding, the new town of Edinburgh, the
north suburb of Geneva, and the city of New York. Thus in many things
I am the reverse of Conservative; nay, there are some long-established
things which I hope to see changed before I die; but I want still to
keep the fields of England green, and her cheeks red; and that girls
should be taught to curtsey, and boys to take their hats off, when
a Professor or otherwise dignified person passes by; and that Kings
should keep their crowns on their heads, and Bishops their crosiers in
their hands; and should duly recognise the significance of the crown,
and the use of the crook.
As you would find it thus impossible to class me justly in either
party, so you would find it impossible to class any person whatever,
who had clear and developed political opinions, and who could define
them accurately. Men only associate in parties by sacrificing their
opinions, or by having none worth sacrificing; and the effect of
party government is always to develope hostilities and hypocrisies,
and to extinguish ideas.
Thus the so-called Monarchic and Republican parties have thrown Europe
into conflagration and shame, merely for want of clear conception of
the things they imagine themselves to fight for. The moment a Republic
was proclaimed in France, Garibaldi came to fight for it as a "Holy
Republic." But Garibaldi could not know,--no mortal creature could
know,--whether it was going to be a Holy or Profane Republic. You
cannot evoke any form of government by beat of drum. The proclamation
of a government implies the considerate acceptance of a code of laws,
and the appointment of means for their execution, neither of which
things can be done in an instant. You may overthrow a government,
and announce yourselves lawless, in the twinkling of an eye, as you
can blow up a ship, or upset and sink one. But you can no more create
a government with a word, than an ironclad.
No; nor can you even define its character in few words; the measure of
sanctity in it depending on degrees of justice in the administration
of law, which are often independent of form altogether. Generally
speaking, the community of thieves in London or Paris have
adopted Republican Institutions, and live at this day without any
acknowledged Captain or Head; but under Robin Hood, brigandage in
England, and under Sir John Hawkwood, brigandage in Italy, became
strictly monarchical. Theft could not, merely by that dignified form
of government, be made a holy manner of life; but it was made both
dexterous and decorous. The pages of the English knights under Sir
John Hawkwood spent nearly all their spare time in burnishing the
knight's armour, and made it always so bright, that they were called
"the White Company." And the Notary of Tortona, Azario, tells us of
them, that these foragers (furatores) "were more expert than any
plunderers in Lombardy. They for the most part sleep by day, and
watch by night, and have such plans and artifices for taking towns,
that never were the like or equal of them witnessed" [1]
The actual Prussian expedition into France merely differs from Sir
John's in Italy by being more generally savage, much less enjoyable,
and by its clumsier devices for taking towns; for Sir John had no
occasion to burn their libraries. In neither case does the monarchical
form of government bestow any Divine right of theft; but it puts
the available forces into a convenient form. Even with respect to
convenience only, it is not yet determinable by the evidence of
history, what is absolutely the best form of government to live
under. There are indeed said to be republican villages (towns?) in
America, where everybody is civil, honest, and substantially
comfortable; but these villages have several unfair advantages--there
are no lawyers in them, no town councils, and no parliaments. Such
republicanism, if possible on a large scale, would be worth fighting
for; though, in my own private mind, I confess I should like to
keep a few lawyers, for the sake of their wigs, and the faces under
them--generally very grand when they are really good lawyers--and for
their (unprofessional) talk. Also I should like to have a Parliament,
into which people might be elected on condition of their never saying
anything about politics, that one might still feel sometimes that one
was acquainted with an M.P. In the meantime Parliament is a luxury
to the British squire, and an honour to the British manufacturer,
which you may leave them to enjoy in their own way; provided only you
make them always clearly explain, when they tax you, what they want
with your money; and that you understand yourselves, what money is,
and how it is got, and what it is good for, and bad for.
These matters I hope to explain to you in this and some following
letters; which, among various other reasons, it is necessary that
I should write in order that you may make no mistake as to the real
economical results of Art teaching, whether in the Universities or
elsewhere. I will begin by directing your attention particularly to
that point.
The first object of all work--not the principal one, but the first
and necessary one--is to get food, clothes, lodging, and fuel.
It is quite possible to have too much of all these things. I know a
great many gentlemen, who eat too large dinners; a great many ladies,
who have too many clothes. I know there is lodging to spare in London,
for I have several houses there myself, which I can't let. And I know
there is fuel to spare everywhere, since we get up steam to pound the
roads with, while our men stand idle; or drink till they can't stand,
idle, or any otherwise.
Notwithstanding, there is agonizing distress even in this highly
favoured England, in some classes, for want of food, clothes, lodging,
and fuel. And it has become a popular idea among the benevolent
and ingenious, that you may in great part remedy these deficiencies
by teaching, to these starving and shivering persons, Science and
Art. In their way--as I do not doubt you will believe--I am very fond
of both; and I am sure it will be beneficial for the British nation
to be lectured upon the merits of Michael Angelo, and the nodes of
the moon. But I should strongly object myself to being lectured on
either, while I was hungry and cold; and I suppose the same view of
the matter would be taken by the greater number of British citizens in
those predicaments. So that, I am convinced, their present eagerness
for instruction in painting and astronomy proceeds from an impression
in their minds that, somehow, they may paint or star-gaze themselves
into clothes and victuals. Now it is perfectly true that you may
sometimes sell a picture for a thousand pounds; but the chances
are greatly against your doing so--much more than the chances of a
lottery. In the first place, you must paint a very clever picture;
and the chances are greatly against your doing that. In the second
place, you must meet with an amiable picture-dealer; and the chances
are somewhat against your doing that. In the third place, the amiable
picture-dealer must meet with a fool; and the chances are not always
in favour even of his doing that--though, as I gave exactly the sum
in question for a picture myself, only the other day, it is not for me
to say so. Assume, however, to put the case most favourably, that what
with the practical results of the energies of Mr. Cole, at Kensington,
and the æsthetic impressions produced by various lectures at Cambridge
and Oxford, the profits of art employment might be counted on as a
rateable income. Suppose even that the ladies of the richer classes
should come to delight no less in new pictures than in new dresses;
and that picture-making should thus become as constant and lucrative an
occupation as dress-making. Still, you know, they can't buy pictures
and dresses too. If they buy two pictures a day, they can't buy two
dresses a day; or if they do, they must save in something else. They
have but a certain income, be it never so large. They spend that,
now; and you can't get more out of them. Even if they lay by money,
the time comes when somebody must spend it. You will find that they do
verily spend now all they have, neither more nor less. If ever they
seem to spend more, it is only by running in debt, and not paying;
if they for a time spend less, some day the overplus must come into
circulation. All they have, they spend; more than that, they cannot
at any time; less than that, they can only for a short time.
Whenever, therefore, any new industry, such as this of picture-making,
is invented, of which the profits depend on patronage, it merely means
that you have effected a diversion of the current of money in your
own favour, and to somebody else's loss. Nothing, really, has been
gained by the nation, though probably much time and wit, as well as
sundry people's senses, have been lost. Before such a diversion can
be effected, a great many kind things must have been done; a great
deal of excellent advice given; and an immense quantity of ingenious
trouble taken: the arithmetical course of the business throughout
being, that for every penny you are yourself better, somebody else
is a penny the worse; and the net result of the whole, precisely zero.
Zero, of course, I mean, so far as money is concerned. It may be
more dignified for working women to paint than to embroider; and
it may be a very charming piece of self-denial, in a young lady,
to order a high art fresco instead of a ball-dress; but as far as
cakes and ale are concerned, it is all the same,--there is but so
much money to be got by you, or spent by her, and not one farthing
more, usually a great deal less, by high art than by low. Zero,
also, observe, I mean partly in a complimentary sense to the work
executed. If you have done no good by painting, at least you have
done no serious mischief. A bad picture is indeed a dull thing to
have in a house, and in a certain sense a mischievous thing; but it
won't blow the roof off. Whereas, of most things which the English,
French, and Germans are paid for making now-a-days,--cartridges,
cannon, and the like,--you know the best thing we can possibly hope
is that they may be useless, and the net result of them, zero.
The thing, therefore, that you have to ascertain approximately, in
order to determine on some consistent organization, is the maximum
of wages-fund you have to depend on to start with, that is to say,
virtually, the sum of the income of the gentleman of England. Do
not trouble yourselves at first about France or Germany, or any
other foreign country. The principle of free trade is, that French
gentlemen should employ English workmen, for whatever the English
can do better than the French; and that English gentlemen should
employ French workmen, for whatever the French can do better than
the English. It is a very right principle, but merely extends the
question to a wider field. Suppose, for the present, that France,
and every other country but your own, were--what I suppose you would,
if you had your way, like them to be--sunk under water, and that
England were the only country in the world. Then, how would you live
in it most comfortably? Find out that, and you will then easily find
how two countries can exist together; or more, not only without need
for fighting, but to each other's advantage.
For, indeed, the laws by which two next-door neighbours might live most
happily--the one not being the better for his neighbour's poverty,
but the worse, and the better for his neighbour's prosperity--are
those also by which it is convenient and wise for two parishes, two
provinces, or two kingdoms, to live side by side. And the nature of
every commercial and military operation which takes place in Europe,
or in the world, may always be best investigated by supposing it
limited to the districts of a single country. Kent and Northumberland
exchange hops and coals on precisely the same economical principles as
Italy and England exchange oil for iron; and the essential character
of the war between Germany and France may be best understood by
supposing it a dispute between Lancaster and Yorkshire for the line
of the Ribble. Suppose that Lancashire, having absorbed Cumberland
and Cheshire, and been much insulted and troubled by Yorkshire in
consequence, and at last attacked; and having victoriously repulsed
the attack, and retaining old grudges against Yorkshire, about the
colour of roses, from the fifteenth century, declares that it cannot
possibly be safe against the attacks of Yorkshire any longer, unless it
gets the townships of Giggleswick and Wigglesworth, and a fortress on
Pen-y-gent. Yorkshire replying that this is totally inadmissible, and
that it will eat its last horse, and perish to its last Yorkshireman,
rather than part with a stone of Giggleswick, a crag of Pen-y-gent,
or a ripple of Ribble,--Lancashire with its Cumbrian and Cheshire
contingents invades Yorkshire, and meeting with much Divine assistance,
ravages the West Riding, and besieges York on Christmas day. That is
the actual gist of the whole business; and in the same manner you
may see the downright common-sense--if any is to be seen--of other
human proceedings, by taking them first under narrow and homely
conditions. So, for the present, we will fancy ourselves, what you
tell me you all want to be, independent: we will take no account of
any other country but Britain; and on that condition I will begin to
show you in my next paper how we ought to live, after ascertaining
the utmost limits of the wages-fund, which means the income of our
gentleman; that is to say, essentially, the income of those who have
command of the land, and therefore of all food.
What you call "wages," practically, is the quantity of food which the
possessor of the land gives you, to work for him. There is, finally,
no "capital" but that. If all the money of all the capitalists
in the whole world were destroyed, the notes and bills burnt, the
gold irrecoverably buried, and all the machines and apparatus of
manufactures crushed, by a mistake in signals, in one catastrophe;
and nothing remained but the land, with its animals and vegetables,
and buildings for shelter,--the poorer population would be very little
worse off than they are at this instant; and their labour, instead of
being "limited" by the destruction, would be greatly stimulated. They
would feed themselves from the animals and growing crops; heap here and
there a few tons of ironstone together, build rough walls round them
to get a blast, and in a fortnight, they would have iron tools again,
and be ploughing and fighting, just as usual. It is only we who had the
capital who would suffer; we should not be able to live idle, as we do
now, and many of us--I, for instance--should starve at once: but you,
though little the worse, would none of you be the better eventually,
for our loss--or starvation. The removal of superfluous mouths would
indeed benefit you somewhat, for a time; but you would soon replace
them with hungrier ones; and there are many of us who are quite worth
our meat to you in different ways, which I will explain in due place:
also I will show you that our money is really likely to be useful to
you in its accumulated form, (besides that, in the instances when it
has been won by work, it justly belongs to us,) so only that you are
careful never to let us persuade you into borrowing it, and paying us
interest for it. You will find a very amusing story, explaining your
position in that case, at the 117th page of the 'Manual of Political
Economy,' published this year at Cambridge, for your early instruction,
in an almost devotionally catechetical form, by Messrs. Macmillan.
Perhaps I had better quote it to you entire: it is taken by the author
"from the French."
There was once in a village a poor carpenter, who worked hard
from morning to night. One day James thought to himself, "With
my hatchet, saw, and hammer, I can only make coarse furniture,
and can only get the pay for such. If I had a plane, I should
please my customers more, and they would pay me more. Yes, I am
resolved, I will make myself a plane." At the end of ten days,
James had in his possession an admirable plane which he valued
all the more for having made it himself. Whilst he was reckoning
all the profits which he expected to derive from the use of it,
he was interrupted by William, a carpenter in the neighbouring
village. William, having admired the plane, was struck with the
advantages which might be gained from it. He said to James--
"You must do me a service; lend me the plane for a year." As might
be expected, James cried out, "How can you think of such a thing,
William? Well, if I do you this service, what will you do for me
in return?"
W. Nothing. Don't you know that a loan ought to be gratuitous?
J. I know nothing of the sort; but I do know that if I were to
lend you my plane for a year, it would be giving it to you. To
tell you the truth, that was not what I made it for.
W. Very well, then; I ask you to do me a service; what service
do you ask me in return?
J. First, then, in a year the plane will be done for. You must
therefore give me another exactly like it.
W. That is perfectly just. I submit to these conditions. I think
you must be satisfied with this, and can require nothing further.
J. I think otherwise. I made the plane for myself, and not for
you. I expected to gain some advantage from it. I have made the
plane for the purpose of improving my work and my condition;
if you merely return it to me in a year, it is you who will
gain the profit of it during the whole of that time. I am
not bound to do you such a service without receiving anything
in return. Therefore, if you wish for my plane, besides the
restoration already bargained for, you must give me a new plank
as a compensation for the advantages of which I shall be deprived.
These terms were agreed to, but the singular part of it is that at
the end of the year, when the plane came into James's possession,
he lent it again; recovered it, and lent it a third and fourth
time. It has passed into the hands of his son, who still lends
it. Let us examine this little story. The plane is the symbol of
all capital, and the plank is the symbol of all interest.
If this be an abridgment, what a graceful piece of highly wrought
literature the original story must be! I take the liberty of abridging
it a little more.
James makes a plane, lends it to William on 1st January for a
year. William gives him a plank for the loan of it, wears it out, and
makes another for James, which he gives him on 31st December. On 1st
January he again borrows the new one; and the arrangement is repeated
continuously. The position of William therefore is, that he makes a
plane every 31st of December; lends it to James till the next day,
and pays James a plank annually for the privilege of lending it to
him on that evening. This, in future investigations of capital and
interest, we will call, if you please, "the Position of William."
You may not at the first glance see where the fallacy lies (the writer
of the story evidently counts on your not seeing it at all).
If James did not lend the plane to William, he could only get his
gain of a plank by working with it himself, and wearing it out
himself. When he had worn it out at the end of the year, he would,
therefore, have to make another for himself. William, working with
it instead, gets the advantage instead, which he must, therefore,
pay James his plank for; and return to James, what James would, if
he had not lent his plane, then have had--not a new plane--but the
worn-out one, James must make a new one for himself, as he would have
had to do if no William had existed; and if William likes to borrow
it again for another plank--all is fair.
That is to say, clearing the story of its nonsense, that James makes a
plane annually, and sells it to William for its proper price, which,
in kind, is a new plank. But this arrangement has nothing whatever
to do with principal or with interest. There are, indeed, many very
subtle conditions involved in any sale; one among which is the value
of ideas; I will explain that value to you in the course of time;
(the article is not one which modern political economists have any
familiarity with dealings in;) and I will tell you somewhat also of the
real nature of interest; but if you will only get, for the present, a
quite clear idea of "the Position of William," it is all I want of you.
I remain, your faithful friend,
JOHN RUSKIN.
FORS CLAVIGERA.
LETTER II.
Denmark Hill,
1st February, 1871.
Friends,--
Before going farther, you may like to know, and ought to know, what
I mean by the title of these Letters; and why it is in Latin. I can
only tell you in part, for the Letters will be on many things, if I am
able to carry out my plan in them; and that title means many things,
and is in Latin, because I could not have given an English one that
meant so many. We, indeed, were not till lately a loquacious people,
nor a useless one; but the Romans did more, and said less, than any
other nation that ever lived; and their language is the most heroic
ever spoken by men.
Therefore I wish you to know, at least, some words of it, and to
recognize what thoughts they stand for.
Some day, I hope you may know--and that European workmen may know--many
words of it; but even a few will be useful.
Do not smile at my saying so. Of Arithmetic, Geometry, and Chemistry,
you can know but little, at the utmost; but that little, well learnt,
serves you well. And a little Latin, well learnt, will serve you also,
and in a higher way than any of these.
'Fors' is the best part of three good English words, Force, Fortitude,
and Fortune. I wish you to know the meaning of those three words
accurately.
'Force' (in humanity), means power of doing good work. A fool, or a
corpse, can do any quantity of mischief; but only a wise and strong
man, or, with what true vital force there is in him, a weak one,
can do good.
'Fortitude' means the power of bearing necessary pain, or trial of
patience, whether by time, or temptation.
'Fortune' means the necessary fate of a man: the ordinance of his
life which cannot be changed. To 'make your Fortune' is to rule that
appointed fate to the best ends of which it is capable.
Fors is a feminine word; and Clavigera, is, therefore, the feminine of
'Claviger.'
Clava means a club. Clavis, a key. Clavus, a nail, or a rudder.
Gero means 'I carry.' It is the root of our word 'gesture' (the way
you carry yourself); and, in a curious bye-way, of 'jest.'
Clavigera may mean, therefore, either Club-bearer, Key-bearer,
or Nail-bearer.
Each of these three possible meanings of Clavigera corresponds to
one of the three meanings of Fors.
Fors, the Club-bearer, means the strength of Hercules, or of Deed.
Fors, the Key-bearer, means the strength of Ulysses, or of Patience.
Fors, the Nail-bearer, means the strength of Lycurgus, or of Law.
I will tell you what you may usefully know of those three Greek
persons in a little time. At present, note only of the three powers:
1. That the strength of Hercules is for deed, not misdeed; and that
his club--the favourite weapon, also, of the Athenian hero Theseus,
whose form is the best inheritance left to us by the greatest of Greek
sculptors, (it is in the Elgin room of the British Museum, and I shall
have much to tell you of him--especially how he helped Hercules in
his utmost need, and how he invented mixed vegetable soup)--was for
subduing monsters and cruel persons, and was of olive-wood. 2. That
the Second Fors Clavigera is portress at a gate which she cannot
open till you have waited long; and that her robe is of the colour of
ashes, or dry earth. [2] 3. That the third Fors Clavigera, the power
of Lycurgus, is Royal as well as Legal; and that the notablest crown
yet existing in Europe of any that have been worn by Christian kings,
was--people say--made of a Nail.
That is enough about my title, for this time; now to our work. I
told you, and you will find it true, that, practically, all wages
mean the food and lodging given you by the possessors of the land.
It begins to be asked on many sides how the possessors of the land
became possessed of it, and why they should still possess it, more than
you or I; and Ricardo's 'Theory' of Rent, though, for an economist,
a very creditably ingenious work of fiction, will not much longer be
imagined to explain the 'Practice' of Rent.
The true answer, in this matter, as in all others, is the best. Some
land has been bought; some, won by cultivation: but the greater part,
in Europe, seized originally by force of hand.
You may think, in that case, you would be justified in trying to
seize some yourselves, in the same way.
If you could, you, and your children, would only hold it by the same
title as its present holders. If it is a bad one, you had better not so
hold it; if a good one, you had better let the present holders alone.
And in any case, it is expedient that you should do so, for the present
holders, whom we may generally call 'Squires' (a title having three
meanings, like Fors, and all good; namely, Rider, Shield-bearer,
and Carver), are quite the best men you can now look to for leading:
it is too true that they have much demoralized themselves lately by
horse-racing, bird-shooting, and vermin-hunting; and most of all by
living in London, instead of on their estates; but they are still
(without exception) brave; nearly without exception, good-natured;
honest, so far as they understand honesty; and much to be depended on,
if once you and they understand each other.
Which you are far enough now from doing; and it is imminently
needful that you should: so we will have an accurate talk of them
soon. The needfullest thing of all first is that you should know
the functions of the persons whom you are being taught to think of
as your protectors against the Squires;--your 'Employers,' namely;
or Capitalist Supporters of Labour.
'Employers.' It is a noble title. If, indeed, they have found you
idle, and given you employment, wisely,--let us no more call them mere
'Men' of Business, but rather 'Angels' of Business: quite the best
sort of Guardian Angel.
Yet are you sure it is necessary, absolutely, to look to superior
natures for employment? Is it inconceivable that you should
employ--yourselves? I ask the question, because these Seraphic beings,
undertaking also to be Seraphic Teachers or Doctors, have theories
about employment which may perhaps be true in their own celestial
regions, but are inapplicable under worldly conditions.
To one of these principles, announced by themselves as highly
important, I must call your attention closely, because it has of late
been the cause of much embarrassment among persons in a sub-seraphic
life. I take its statement verbatim, from the 25th page of the
Cambridge catechism before quoted:
"This brings us to a most important proposition respecting
capital, one which it is essential that the student should
thoroughly understand.
"The proposition is this--A demand for commodities is not a demand
for labour.
"The demand for labour depends upon the amount of capital: the
demand for commodities simply determines in what direction labour
shall be employed.
"An example.--The truth of these assertions can best be shown by
examples. Let us suppose that a manufacturer of woollen cloth
is in the habit of spending £50 annually in lace. What does it
matter, say some, whether he spends this £50 in lace or whether
he uses it to employ more labourers in his own business? Does
not the £50 spent in lace maintain the labourers who make the
lace, just the same as it would maintain the labourers who make
cloth, if the manufacturer used the money in extending his own
business? If he ceased buying the lace, for the sake of employing
more cloth-makers, would there not be simply a transfer of the
£50 from the lace-makers to the cloth-makers? In order to find
the right answer to these questions, let us imagine what would
actually take place if the manufacturer ceased buying the lace,
and employed the £50 in paying the wages of an additional number
of cloth-makers. The lace manufacturer, in consequence of the
diminished demand for lace, would diminish the production, and
would withdraw from his business an amount of capital corresponding
to the diminished demand. As there is no reason to suppose that
the lace-maker would, on losing some of his custom, become more
extravagant, or would cease to desire to derive income from the
capital which the diminished demand has caused him to withdraw
from his own business, it may be assumed that he would invest this
capital in some other industry. This capital is not the same as
that which his former customer, the woollen cloth manufacturer,
is now paying his own labourers with; it is a second capital;
and in the place of £50 employed in maintaining labour, there is
now £100 so employed. There is no transfer from lace-makers to
cloth-makers. There is fresh employment for the cloth-makers, and a
transfer from the lace-makers to some other labourers."--Principles
of Political Economy, vol. i., p. 102.
This is very fine; and it is clear that we may carry forward the
improvement in our commercial arrangements by recommending all the
other customers of the lace-maker to treat him as the cloth-maker has
done. Whereupon he of course leaves the lace business entirely, and
uses all his capital in 'some other industry.' Having thus established
the lace-maker with a complete 'second capital' in the other industry,
we will next proceed to develope a capital out of the cloth-maker,
by recommending all his customers to leave him. Whereupon, he will
also invest his capital in 'some other industry,' and we have a Third
capital, employed in the National benefit.
We will now proceed in the round of all possible businesses, developing
a correspondent number of new capitals, till we come back to our
friend the lace-maker again, and find him employed in whatever his
new industry was. By now taking away again all his new customers,
we begin the development of another order of Capitals in a higher
Seraphic circle--and so develope at last an Infinite Capital!
It would be difficult to match this for simplicity; it is more comic
even than the fable of James and William, though you may find it less
easy to detect the fallacy here; but the obscurity is not because
the error is less gross, but because it is threefold. Fallacy 1st
is the assumption that a cloth-maker may employ any number of men,
whether he has customers or not; while a lace-maker must dismiss
his men if he has not customers. Fallacy 2nd: That when a lace-maker
can no longer find customers for lace, he can always find customers
for something else. Fallacy 3rd (the essential one): That the funds
provided by these new customers, produced seraphically from the
clouds, are a 'second capital.' Those customers, if they exist now,
existed before the lace-maker adopted his new business; and were the
employers of the people in that business. If the lace-maker gets them,
he merely diverts their fifty pounds from the tradesmen they were
before employing, to himself; and that is Mr. Mill's 'second capital.'
Underlying these three fallacies, however, there is, in the mind of
'the greatest thinker in England,' some consciousness of a partial
truth, which he has never yet been able to define for himself--still
less to explain to others. The real root of them is his conviction that
it is beneficial and profitable to make broadcloth; and unbeneficial
and unprofitable to make lace; [3] so that the trade of cloth-making
should be infinitely extended, and that of lace-making infinitely
repressed. Which is, indeed, partially true. Making cloth, if it be
well made, is a good industry; and if you had sense enough to read
your Walter Scott thoroughly, I should invite you to join me in sincere
hope that Glasgow might in that industry long flourish; and the chief
hostelry at Aberfoil be at the sign of the "Nicol Jarvie." Also,
of lace-makers, it is often true that they had better be doing
something else. I admit it, with no goodwill, for I know a most kind
lady, a clergyman's wife, who devotes her life to the benefit of her
country by employing lace-makers; and all her friends make presents
of collars and cuffs to each other, for the sake of charity; and as,
if they did not, the poor girl lace-makers would probably indeed be
'diverted' into some other less diverting industry, in due assertion
of the rights of women, (cartridge-filling, or percussion-cap making,
most likely,) I even go the length, sometimes, of furnishing my friend
with a pattern, and never say a word to disturb her young customers
in their conviction that it is an act of Christian charity to be
married in more than ordinarily expensive veils.
But there is one kind of lace for which I should be glad that the
demand ceased. Iron lace. If we must even doubt whether ornamental
thread-work may be, wisely, made on cushions in the sunshine,
by dexterous fingers for fair shoulders,--how are we to think of
Ornamental Iron-work, made with deadly sweat of men, and steady
waste, all summer through, of the coals that Earth gave us for winter
fuel? What shall we say of labour spent on lace such as that?
Nay, says the Cambridge catechism, "the demand for commodities is
not a demand for labour."
Doubtless, in the economist's new earth, cast iron will be had for
asking: the hapless and brave Parisians find it even rain occasionally
out of the new economical Heavens, without asking. Gold will also
one day, perhaps, be begotten of gold, until the supply of that, as
well as of iron, may be, at least, equal to the demand. But, in this
world, it is not so yet. Neither thread-lace, gold-lace, iron-lace,
nor stone-lace, whether they be commodities or incommodities, can be
had for nothing. How much, think you, did the gilded flourishes cost
round the gas-lamps on Westminster Bridge? or the stone-lace of the
pinnacles of the temple of Parliament at the end of it, (incommodious
enough, as I hear;) or the point-lace of the park-railings which you so
improperly pulled down, when you wanted to be Parliamentary yourselves;
(much good you would have got of that!) or the 'openwork' of iron
railings generally--the special glories of English design? Will you
count the cost, in labour and coals, of the blank bars ranged along
all the melancholy miles of our suburban streets, saying with their
rusty tongues, as plainly as iron tongues can speak, "Thieves outside,
and nothing to steal within." A beautiful wealth they are! and a
productive capital! "Well, but," you answer, "the making them was work
for us." Of course it was; is not that the very thing I am telling
you? Work it was; and too much. But will you be good enough to make
up your minds, once for all, whether it is really work that you want,
or rest? I thought you rather objected to your quantity of work;--that
you were all for having eight hours of it instead of ten? You may
have twelve instead of ten, easily,--sixteen, if you like! If it is
only occupation you want, why do you cast the iron? Forge it in the
fresh air, on a workman's anvil; make iron-lace like this of Verona,--
[Illustration]
every link of it swinging loose like a knight's chain mail: then you
may have some joy of it afterwards, and pride; and say you knew the
cunning of a man's right hand. But I think it is pay that you want,
not work; and it is very true that pretty iron-work like that does not
pay; but it is pretty, and it might even be entertaining, if you made
those leaves at the top of it (which are, as far as I can see, only
artichoke, and not very well done) in the likeness of all the beautiful
leaves you could find, till you knew them all by heart. "Wasted time
and hammer-strokes," say you? "A wise people like the English will
have nothing but spikes; and, besides, the spikes are highly needful,
so many of the wise people being thieves." Yes, that is so; and,
therefore, in calculating the annual cost of keeping your thieves, you
must always reckon, not only the cost of the spikes that keep them in,
but of the spikes that keep them out. But how if, instead of flat rough
spikes, you put triangular polished ones, commonly called bayonets;
and instead of the perpendicular bars, put perpendicular men? What
is the cost to you then, of your railing, of which you must feed the
idle bars daily? Costly enough, if it stays quiet. But how, if it
begin to march and countermarch? and apply its spikes horizontally?
And now note this that follows; it is of vital importance to you.
There are, practically, two absolutely opposite kinds of labour going
on among men, for ever. [4]
The first, labour supported by Capital, producing nothing.
The second, labour unsupported by Capital, producing all things.
Take two simple and precise instances on a small scale.
A little while since, I was paying a visit in Ireland, and chanced
to hear an account of the pleasures of a picnic party, who had gone
to see a waterfall. There was of course ample lunch, feasting on the
grass, and basketsful of fragments taken up afterwards.
Then the company, feeling themselves dull, gave the fragments that
remained to the attendant ragged boys, on condition that they should
'pull each other's hair.'
Here, you see, is, in the most accurate sense, employment of food,
or capital, in the support of entirely unproductive labour.
Next, for the second kind. I live at the top of a short but rather
steep hill; at the bottom of which, every day, all the year round,
but especially in frost, coal-waggons get stranded, being economically
provided with the smallest number of horses that can get them along
on level ground.
The other day, when the road, frozen after thaw, was at the worst,
my assistant, the engraver of that bit of iron-work on the 11th page,
was coming up here, and found three coal-waggons at a lock, helpless;
the drivers, as usual, explaining Political Economy to the horses,
by beating them over the heads.
There were half a dozen fellows besides, out of work, or not caring
to be in it--standing by, looking on. My engraver put his shoulder
to a wheel, (at least his hand to a spoke,) and called on the idlers
to do as much. They didn't seem to have thought of such a thing,
but were ready enough when called on. "And we went up screaming,"
said Mr. Burgess.
Do you suppose that was one whit less proper human work than going
up a hill against a battery, merely because, in that case, half of
the men would have gone down, screaming, instead of up; and those
who got up would have done no good at the top?
But observe the two opposite kinds of labour. The first lavishly
supported by Capital, and producing Nothing. The second, unsupported by
any Capital whatsoever,--not having so much as a stick for a tool,--but
called, by mere goodwill, out of the vast void of the world's Idleness,
and producing the definitely profitable result of moving a weight of
fuel some distance towards the place where it was wanted, and sparing
the strength of overloaded creatures.
Observe further. The labour producing no useful result was
demoralizing. All such labour is.
The labour producing useful result was educational in its influence
on the temper. All such labour is.
And the first condition of education, the thing you are all crying
out for, is being put to wholesome and useful work. And it is nearly
the last conditions of it, too; you need very little more; but, as
things go, there will yet be difficulty in getting that. As things
have hitherto gone, the difficulty has been to avoid getting the
reverse of that.
For, during the last eight hundred years, the upper classes of Europe
have been one large Picnic Party. Most of them have been religious
also; and in sitting down, by companies, upon the green grass, in
parks, gardens, and the like, have considered themselves commanded into
that position by Divine authority, and fed with bread from Heaven:
of which they duly considered it proper to bestow the fragments in
support, and the tithes in tuition, of the poor.
But, without even such small cost, they might have taught the
poor many beneficial things. In some places they have taught them
manners, which is already much. They might have cheaply taught them
merriment also:--dancing and singing, for instance. The young English
ladies who sit nightly to be instructed, themselves, at some cost,
in melodies illustrative of the consumption of La Traviata, and
the damnation of Don Juan, might have taught every girl peasant
in England to join in costless choirs of innocent song. Here and
there, perhaps, a gentleman might have been found able to teach his
peasantry some science and art. Science and fine art don't pay; but
they cost little. Tithes--not of the income of the country, but of the
income, say, of its brewers--nay, probably the sum devoted annually by
England to provide drugs for the adulteration of its own beer,--would
have founded lovely little museums, and perfect libraries, in every
village. And if here and there an English churchman had been found
(such as Dean Stanley) willing to explain to peasants the sculpture of
his and their own cathedral, and to read its black-letter inscriptions
for them; and, on warm Sundays, when they were too sleepy to attend
to anything more proper--to tell them a story about some of the
people who had built it, or lay buried in it--we perhaps might have
been quite as religious as we are, and yet need not now have been
offering prizes for competition in art schools, nor lecturing with
tender sentiment on the inimitableness of the works of Fra Angelico.
These things the great Picnic Party might have taught without cost,
and with amusement to themselves. One thing, at least, they were
bound to teach, whether it amused them or not;--how, day by day, the
daily bread they expected their village children to pray to God for,
might be earned in accordance with the laws of God. This they might
have taught, not only without cost, but with great gain. One thing
only they have taught, and at considerable cost.