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Fors Clavigera, Volume 1 by John Ruskin.
First published in 1871.
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Contents
Letter I
Letter II
Letter III
Letter IV
Letter V
Letter VI
Letter VII
Letter VIII
Letter IX
Letter X
Letter XI
Letter XII
1
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
2
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
3
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 0F
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.
1
Communicated to me by my friend Mr. Rawdon Brown, of Venice, from his yet unpublished work, ‘The
English in Italy in the 14th Century.’
4
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
5
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
6
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
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7
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.
8
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.
9
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
1F
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
2
See Carey’s translation of the ninth book of Dante’s ‘Purgatory,’ line 105.
10
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
11
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
2F
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
3
I assume the Cambridge quotation to be correct: in my old edition (1848), the distinction is between ‘weavers
and lace-makers’ and ‘journeymen bricklayers;’ and making velvet is considered to be the production of a
‘commodity,’ but building a house only doing a ‘service.’
12
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,—
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
13
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
3F
4
I do not mean that there are no other kinds, nor that well-paid labour must necessarily be unproductive. I hope
to see much done, some day, for just pay, and wholly productive. But these, named in the text, are the two
opposite extremes; and, in actual life, hitherto, the largest means have been usually spent in mischief, and the
most useful work done for the worst pay.
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