utopia of usurers and other essays-第18部分

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Soapsimply　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　itl　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　pricewhen　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　newspapersmen　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　concernand　more　respectfor　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。



THE　POETRY　OF　THE　REVOLUTION

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　break