PREFACE.
Twenty years ago, there was no lovelier piece of lowland scenery inSouth England, nor any more pathetic in the world, by its expression ofsweet human character and life, than that immediately bordering on thesources of the Wandle, and including the lower moors of Addington, andthe villages of Beddington and Carshalton, with all their pools andstreams. No clearer or diviner waters ever sang with constant lips ofthe hand which 'giveth rain from heaven;' no pastures ever lightened inspring time with more passionate blossoming; no sweeter homes everhallowed the heart of the passer-by with their pride of peacefulgladness--fain-hidden--yet full-confessed. The place remains, or, untila few months ago, remained, nearly unchanged in its larger features;but, with deliberate mind I say, that I have never seen anything soghastly in its inner tragic meaning,--not in Pisan Maremma--not byCampagna tomb,--not by the sand-isles of the Torcellan shore,--as theslow stealing of aspects of reckless, indolent, animal neglect, over thedelicate sweetness of that English scene: nor is any blasphemy orimpiety--any frantic saying or godless thought--more appalling to me,using the best power of judgment I have to discern its sense and scope,than the insolent defilings of those springs by the human herds thatdrink of them. Just where the welling of stainless water, trembling andpure, like a body of light, enters the pool of Carshalton, cuttingitself a radiant channel down to the gravel, through warp of featheryweeds, all waving, which it traverses with its deep threads ofclearness, like the chalcedony in moss-agate, starred here and therewith white grenouillette; just in the very rush and murmur of the firstspreading currents, the human wretches of the place cast their streetand house foulness; heaps of dust and slime, and broken shreds of oldmetal, and rags of putrid clothes; they having neither energy to cart itaway, nor decency enough to dig it into the ground, thus shed into thestream, to diffuse what venom of it will float and melt, far away, inall places where God meant those waters to bring joy and health. And, ina little pool, behind some houses farther in the village, where anotherspring rises, the shattered stones of the well, and of the littlefretted channel which was long ago built and traced for it by gentlerhands, lie scattered, each from each, under a ragged bank of mortar, andscoria; and brick-layers' refuse, on one side, which the clean waternevertheless chastises to purity; but it cannot conquer the dead earthbeyond; and there, circled and coiled under festering scum, the stagnantedge of the pool effaces itself into a slope of black slime, theaccumulation of indolent years. Half-a-dozen men, with one day's work,could cleanse those pools, and trim the flowers about their banks, andmake every breath of summer air above them rich with cool balm; andevery glittering wave medicinal, as if it ran, troubled of angels, fromthe porch of Bethesda. But that day's work is never given, nor will be;nor will any joy be possible to heart of man, for evermore, about thosewells of English waters.
When I last left them, I walked up slowly through the back streets ofCroydon, from the old church to the hospital; and, just on the left,before coming up to the crossing of the High Street, there was a newpublic-house built. And the front of it was built in so wise manner,that a recess of two feet was left below its front windows, between themand the street-pavement--a recess too narrow for any possible use (foreven if it had been occupied by a seat, as in old time it might havebeen, everybody walking along the street would have fallen over the legsof the reposing wayfarers). But, by way of making this two feet depth offreehold land more expressive of the dignity of an establishment for thesale of spirituous liquors, it was fenced from the pavement by animposing iron railing, having four or five spearheads to the yard of it,and six feet high; containing as much iron and iron-work, indeed ascould well be put into the space; and by this stately arrangement, thelittle piece of dead ground within, between wall and street, became aprotective receptacle of refuse; cigar ends, and oyster shells, and thelike, such as an open-handed English street-populace habitually scattersfrom its presence, and was thus left, unsweepable by any ordinarymethods. Now the iron bars which, uselessly (or in great degree worsethan uselessly), enclosed this bit of ground, and made it pestilent,represented a quantity of work which would have cleansed the Carshaltonpools three times over;--of work, partly cramped and deadly, in themine; partly fierce[1] and exhaustive, at the furnace; partly foolishand sedentary, of ill-taught students making bad designs: work from thebeginning to the last fruits of it, and in all the branches of it,venomous, deathful, and miserable. Now, how did it come to pass thatthis work was done instead of the other; that the strength and life ofthe English operative were spent in defiling ground, instead ofredeeming it; and in producing an entirely (in that place) valuelesspiece of metal, which can neither be eaten nor breathed, instead ofmedicinal fresh air, and pure water?
There is but one reason for it, and at present a conclusive one,--thatthe capitalist can charge per-centage on the work in the one case, andcannot in the other. If, having certain funds for supporting labour atmy disposal, I pay men merely to keep my ground in order, my money is,in that function, spent once for all; but if I pay them to dig iron outof my ground, and work it, and sell it, I can charge rent for theground, and per-centage both on the manufacture and the sale, and makemy capital profitable in these three bye-ways. The greater part of theprofitable investment of capital, in the present day, is in operationsof this kind, in which the public is persuaded to buy something of nouse to it, on production, or sale, of which, the capitalist may chargeper-centage; the said public remaining all the while under thepersuasion that the per-centages thus obtained are real national gains,whereas, they are merely filchings out of partially light pockets, toswell heavy ones.
Thus, the Croydon publican buys the iron railing, to make himself moreconspicuous to drunkards. The public-housekeeper on the other side ofthe way presently buys another railing, to out-rail him with. Both are,as to their _relative_ attractiveness to customers of taste, just wherethey were before; but they have lost the price of the railings; whichthey must either themselves finally lose, or make their aforesaidcustomers of taste pay, by raising the price of their beer, oradulterating it. Either the publicans, or their customers, are thuspoorer by precisely what the capitalist has gained; and the value of thework itself, meantime, has been lost to the nation; the iron bars inthat form and place being wholly useless. It is this mode of taxation ofthe poor by the rich which is referred to in the text (page 31), incomparing the modern acquisitive power of capital with that of the lanceand sword; the only difference being that the levy of black mail in oldtimes was by force, and is now by cozening. The old rider and reiverfrankly quartered himself on the publican for the night; the modern onemerely makes his lance into an iron spike, and persuades his host to buyit. One comes as an open robber, the other as a cheating pedlar; but theresult, to the injured person's pocket, is absolutely the same. Ofcourse many useful industries mingle with, and disguise the uselessones; and in the habits of energy aroused by the struggle, there is acertain direct good. It is far better to spend four thousand pounds inmaking a good gun, and then to blow it to pieces, than to pass life inidleness. Only do not let it be called 'political economy.' There isalso a confused notion in the minds of many persons, that the gatheringof the property of the poor into the hands of the rich does no ultimateharm; since, in whosesoever hands it may be, it must be spent at last,and thus, they think, return to the poor again. This fallacy has beenagain and again exposed; but grant the plea true, and the same apologymay, of course, be made for black mail, or any other form of robbery. Itmight be (though practically it never is) as advantageous for the nationthat the robber should have the spending of the money he extorts, asthat the person robbed should have spent it. But this is no excuse forthe theft. If I were to put a turnpike on the road where it passes myown gate, and endeavour to exact a shilling from every passenger, thepublic would soon do away with my gate, without listening to any plea onmy part that 'it was as advantageous to them, in the end, that I shouldspend their shillings, as that they themselves should.' But if, insteadof out-facing them with a turnpike, I
can only persuade them to come inand buy stones, or old iron, or any other useless thing, out of myground, I may rob them to the same extent, and be, moreover, thanked asa public benefactor, and promoter of commercial prosperity. And thismain question for the poor of England--for the poor of all countries--iswholly omitted in every common treatise on the subject of wealth. Evenby the labourers themselves, the operation of capital is regarded onlyin its effect on their immediate interests; never in the far moreterrific power of its appointment of the kind and the object of labour.It matters little, ultimately, how much a labourer is paid for makinganything; but it matters fearfully what the thing is, which he iscompelled to make. If his labour is so ordered as to produce food, andfresh air, and fresh water, no matter that his wages are low;--the foodand fresh air and water will be at last there; and he will at last getthem. But if he is paid to destroy food and fresh air or to produceiron bars instead of them,--the food and air will finally _not_ bethere, and he will _not_ get them, to his great and final inconvenience.So that, conclusively, in political as in household economy, the greatquestion is, not so much what money you have in your pocket, as what youwill buy with it, and do with it.
I have been long accustomed, as all men engaged in work of investigationmust be, to hear my statements laughed at for years, before they areexamined or believed; and I am generally content to wait the public'stime. But it has not been without displeased surprise that I have foundmyself totally unable, as yet, by any repetition, or illustration, toforce this plain thought into my readers' heads,--that the wealth ofnations, as of men, consists in substance, not in ciphers; and that thereal good of all work, and of all commerce, depends on the final worthof the thing you make, or get by it. This is a practical enoughstatement, one would think: but the English public has been so possessedby its modern school of economists with the notion that Business isalways good, whether it be busy in mischief or in benefit; and thatbuying and selling are always salutary, whatever the intrinsic worth ofwhat you buy or sell,--that it seems impossible to gain so much as apatient hearing for any inquiry respecting the substantial result of oureager modern labours. I have never felt more checked by the sense ofthis impossibility than in arranging the heads of the following threelectures, which, though delivered at considerable intervals of time, andin different places, were not prepared without reference to each other.Their connection would, however, have been made far more distinct, if Ihad not been prevented, by what I feel to be another great difficulty inaddressing English audiences, from enforcing, with any decision, thecommon, and to me the most important, part of their subjects. I chieflydesired (as I have just said) to question my hearers--operatives,merchants, and soldiers, as to the ultimate meaning of the _business_they had in hand; and to know from them what they expected or intendedtheir manufacture to come to, their selling to come to, and theirkilling to come to. That appeared the first point needing determinationbefore I could speak to them with any real utility or effect. 'Youcraftsmen--salesmen--swordsmen,--do but tell me clearly what you want,then, if I can say anything to help you, I will; and if not, I willaccount to you as I best may for my inability.' But in order to put thisquestion into any terms, one had first of all to face the difficultyjust spoken of--to me for the present insuperable,--the difficulty ofknowing whether to address one's audience as believing, or notbelieving, in any other world than this. For if you address any averagemodern English company as believing in an Eternal life, and endeavour todraw any conclusions, from this assumed belief, as to their presentbusiness, they will forthwith tell you that what you say is verybeautiful, but it is not practical. If, on the contrary, you franklyaddress them as unbelievers in Eternal life, and try to draw anyconsequences from that unbelief,--they immediately hold you for anaccursed person, and shake off the dust from their feet at you. And themore I thought over what I had got to say, the less I found I could sayit, without some reference to this intangible or intractable part of thesubject. It made all the difference, in asserting any principle of war,whether one assumed that a discharge of artillery would merely kneaddown a certain quantity of red clay into a level line, as in a brickfield; or whether, out of every separately Christian-named portion ofthe ruinous heap, there went out, into the smoke and dead-fallen air ofbattle, some astonished condition of soul, unwillingly released. It madeall the difference, in speaking of the possible range of commerce,whether one assumed that all bargains related only to visibleproperty--or whether property, for the present invisible, butnevertheless real, was elsewhere purchasable on other terms. It made allthe difference, in addressing a body of men subject to considerablehardship, and having to find some way out of it--whether one couldconfidentially say to them, 'My friends,--you have only to die, and allwill be right;' or whether one had any secret misgiving that such advicewas more blessed to him that gave, than to him that took it. Andtherefore the deliberate reader will find, throughout these lectures, ahesitation in driving points home, and a pausing short of conclusionswhich he will feel I would fain have come to; hesitation which ariseswholly from this uncertainty of my hearers' temper. For I do not nowspeak, nor have I ever spoken, since the time of my first forward youth,in any proselyting temper, as desiring to persuade any one of what, insuch matters, I thought myself; but, whomsoever I venture to address, Itake for the time his creed as I find it; and endeavour to push it intosuch vital fruit as it seems capable of. Thus, it is a creed with agreat part of the existing English people, that they are in possessionof a book which tells them, straight from the lips of God all they oughtto do, and need to know. I have read that book, with as much care asmost of them, for some forty years; and am thankful that, on those whotrust it, I can press its pleadings. My endeavour has been uniformly tomake them trust it more deeply than they do; trust it, not in their ownfavourite verses only, but in the sum of all; trust it not as a fetishor talisman, which they are to be saved by daily repetitions of; but asa Captain's order, to be heard and obeyed at their peril. I was alwaysencouraged by supposing my hearers to hold such belief. To these, if toany, I once had hope of addressing, with acceptance, words whichinsisted on the guilt of pride, and the futility of avarice; from these,if from any, I once expected ratification of a political economy, whichasserted that the life was more than the meat, and the body thanraiment; and these, it once seemed to me, I might ask without accusationor fanaticism, not merely in doctrine of the lips, but in the bestowalof their heart's treasure, to separate themselves from the crowd of whomit is written, 'After all these things do the Gentiles seek.'
It cannot, however, be assumed, with any semblance of reason, that ageneral audience is now wholly, or even in majority, composed of thesereligious persons. A large portion must always consist of men who admitno such creed; or who, at least, are inaccessible to appeals founded onit. And as, with the so-called Christian, I desired to plead for honestdeclaration and fulfilment of his belief in life,--with the so-calledInfidel, I desired to plead for an honest declaration and fulfilment ofhis belief in death. The dilemma is inevitable. Men must eitherhereafter live, or hereafter die; fate may be bravely met, and conductwisely ordered, on either expectation; but never in hesitation betweenungrasped hope, and unconfronted fear. We usually believe inimmortality, so far as to avoid preparation for death; and in mortality,so far as to avoid preparation for anything after death. Whereas, a wiseman will at least hold himself prepared for one or other of two events,of which one or other is inevitable; and will have all things in order,for his sleep, or in readiness, for his awakening.
Nor have we any right to call it an ignoble judgment, if he determine toput them in order, as for sleep. A brave belief in life is indeed anenviable state of mind, but, as far as I can discern, an unusual one. Iknow few Christians so convinced of the splendour of the rooms in theirFather's house, as to be happier when their friends are called to thosemansions, than they would have been if the Queen had sent for them tolive at Court: nor has the Church's most ardent 'desire to depart, andbe with Christ,' ever cured it of the singular ha
bit of putting onmourning for every person summoned to such departure. On the contrary, abrave belief in death has been assuredly held by many not ignoblepersons, and it is a sign of the last depravity in the Church itself,when it assumes that such a belief is inconsistent with either purity ofcharacter, or energy of hand. The shortness of life is not, to anyrational person, a conclusive reason for wasting the space of it whichmay be granted him; nor does the anticipation of death to-morrowsuggest, to any one but a drunkard, the expediency of drunkennessto-day. To teach that there is no device in the grave, may indeed makethe deviceless person more contented in his dulness; but it will makethe deviser only more earnest in devising, nor is human conduct likely,in every case, to be purer under the conviction that all its evil may ina moment be pardoned, and all its wrong-doing in a moment redeemed; andthat the sigh of repentance, which purges the guilt of the past, willwaft the soul into a felicity which forgets its pain,--than it may beunder the sterner, and to many not unwise minds, more probable,apprehension, that 'what a man soweth that shall he also reap'--orothers reap,--when he, the living seed of pestilence, walketh no more indarkness, but lies down therein.
But to men whose feebleness of sight, or bitterness of soul, or theoffence given by the conduct of those who claim higher hope, may haverendered this painful creed the only possible one, there is an appeal tobe made, more secure in its ground than any which can be addressed tohappier persons. I would fain, if I might offencelessly, have spoken tothem as if none others heard; and have said thus: Hear me, you dyingmen, who will soon be deaf for ever. For these others, at your righthand and your left, who look forward to a state of infinite existence,in which all their errors will be overruled, and all their faultsforgiven; for these, who, stained and blackened in the battle smoke ofmortality, have but to dip themselves for an instant in the font ofdeath, and to rise renewed of plumage, as a dove that is covered withsilver, and her feathers like gold; for these, indeed, it may bepermissible to waste their numbered moments, through faith in a futureof innumerable hours; to these, in their weakness, it may be concededthat they should tamper with sin which can only bring forth fruit ofrighteousness, and profit by the iniquity which, one day, will beremembered no more. In them, it may be no sign of hardness of heart toneglect the poor, over whom they know their Master is watching; and toleave those to perish temporarily, who cannot perish eternally. But, foryou, there is no such hope, and therefore no such excuse. This fate,which you ordain for the wretched, you believe to be all theirinheritance; you may crush them, before the moth, and they will neverrise to rebuke you;--their breath, which fails for lack of food, onceexpiring, will never be recalled to whisper against you a word ofaccusing;--they and you, as you think, shall lie down together in thedust, and the worms cover you;--and for them there shall be noconsolation, and on you no vengeance,--only the question murmured aboveyour grave: 'Who shall repay him what he hath done?' Is it thereforeeasier for you in your heart to inflict the sorrow for which there is noremedy? Will you take, wantonly, this little all of his life from yourpoor brother, and make his brief hours long to him with pain? Will yoube readier to the injustice which can never be redressed; and niggardlyof mercy which you _can_ bestow but once, and which, refusing, yourefuse for ever? I think better of you, even of the most selfish, thanthat you would do this, well understood. And for yourselves, it seems tome, the question becomes not less grave, in these curt limits. If yourlife were but a fever fit,--the madness of a night, whose follies wereall to be forgotten in the dawn, it might matter little how you frettedaway the sickly hours,--what toys you snatched at, or let fall,--whatvisions you followed wistfully with the deceived eyes of sleeplessphrenzy. Is the earth only an hospital? Play, if you care to play, onthe floor of the hospital dens. Knit its straw into what crowns pleaseyou; gather the dust of it for treasure, and die rich in that, clutchingat the black motes in the air with your dying hands;--and yet, it may bewell with you. But if this life be no dream, and the world no hospital;if all the peace and power and joy you can ever win, must be won now;and all fruit of victory gathered here, or never;--will you still,throughout the puny totality of your life, weary yourselves in the firefor vanity? If there is no rest which remaineth for you, is there noneyou might presently take? was this grass of the earth made green foryour shroud only, not for your bed? and can you never lie down _upon_it, but only _under_ it? The heathen, to whose creed you have returned,thought not so. They knew that life brought its contest, but theyexpected from it also the crown of all contest: No proud one! nojewelled circlet flaming through Heaven above the height of theunmerited throne; only some few leaves of wild olive, cool to the tiredbrow, through a few years of peace. It should have been of gold, theythought; but Jupiter was poor; this was the best the god could givethem. Seeking a greater than this, they had known it a mockery. Not inwar, not in wealth, not in tyranny, was there any happiness to be foundfor them--only in kindly peace, fruitful and free. The wreath was to beof _wild_ olive, mark you:--the tree that grows carelessly, tufting therocks with no vivid bloom, no verdure of branch; only with soft snow ofblossom, and scarcely fulfilled fruit, mixed with grey leaf and thornsetstem; no fastening of diadem for you but with such sharp embroidery! Butthis, such as it is, you may win while yet you live; type of grey honourand sweet rest.[2] Free-heartedness, and graciousness, and undisturbedtrust, and requited love, and the sight of the peace of others, and theministry to their pain;--these, and the blue sky above you, and thesweet waters and flowers of the earth beneath; and mysteries andpresences, innumerable, of living things,--these may yet be here yourriches; untormenting and divine: serviceable for the life that now isnor, it may be, without promise of that which is to come.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] 'A fearful occurrence took place a few days since, nearWolverhampton. Thomas Snape, aged nineteen, was on duty as the "keeper"of a blast furnace at Deepfield, assisted by John Gardner, agedeighteen, and Joseph Swift, aged thirty-seven. The furnace containedfour tons of molten iron, and an equal amount of cinders, and ought tohave been run out at 7.30 P.M. But Snape and his mates, engaged intalking and drinking, neglected their duty, and in the meantime, theiron rose in the furnace until it reached a pipe wherein water wascontained. Just as the men had stripped, and were proceeding to tap thefurnace, the water in the pipe, converted into steam, burst down itsfront and let loose on them the molten metal, which instantaneouslyconsumed Gardner; Snape, terribly burnt, and mad with pain, leaped intothe canal and then ran home and fell dead on the threshold, Swiftsurvived to reach the hospital, where he died too.
In further illustration of this matter, I beg the reader to look at thearticle on the 'Decay of the English Race,' in the '_Pall-Mall Gazette_'of April 17, of this year; and at the articles on the 'Report of theThames Commission,' in any journals of the same date.
[2] [Greek: melitoessa, aethlon g' eneken].
THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.