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Title: Utopia of Usurers and Other Essays
Author: Chesterton, G. K. (Gilbert Keith)
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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By Gilbert Keith Chesterton


     A Song of Swords

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


I. Art and Advertisement

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

The Example of the Arts

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

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

The First Effect

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

II. Letters and the New Laureates

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

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

A Dance of Degradation

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

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

Haloes for Employers

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

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

III. Unbusinesslike Business

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV. The War on Holidays

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

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

The Great Holiday

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

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

The Supreme Adventure

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

The Evolutionists’ Error

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

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

Prisons for All

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

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

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


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

The Sultan and the Sack

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

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

The Barbarous Revival

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

Our Lawless Enemies

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

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

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

Captured Our Standards

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

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


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

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

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

That Great Reform Bill

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

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

The Capitalist Is in the Dock

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


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

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

Revolution by Snap Division

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

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

The Revival of Reality

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

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


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

Mental Breakdown in Fleet Street

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

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

When the Journalist Is Ruined

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

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


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

Insane Exaggeration

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their Load of Lies

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

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


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

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

Ought to Be Hammered

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

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

The Whole Loathsome Load

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

Crying Over Spilt Blood

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


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

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

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

Praise and Prophecy Impossible

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

The Field for a Fool

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

Carson’s Dilemma

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

Belated Chattiness by Wireless

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

A Fool Who Shall Be Free

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


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

The Candid Candidate

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

Tyranny and Head-Dress

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Literally Illiterate

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

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

But They Know

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

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

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


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

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

Smile and Smile

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

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Must Be a Mystery

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

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

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

The Plain Difference

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

The Symbolism of the Badge

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

The Beastly Individualist

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

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

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