The Factors of Civilization.
WHAT are the factors of civilization? What causes one community to grow and prosper materially and mentally, while another declines in population, wealth, all the real elements of greatness? The question is immensely practical. Scotland is bleeding white. Since the war over 300,000 of some of the best of her people have emigrated for good. In 1926 four times as many emigrants left Glasgow as went from all the English ports together. Scotland has some of the admittedly worst slums in the world. But for the wholesale invasion of Irish immigrants, the population would have shown a decline, It is said that every fifth child born in Scotland is Irish. In Glasgow in 1924 the figure was 284 per cent. They may be healthy babies—the Irish are of good physique—the point is that they were not the native population of the country, and that they were born to parents accustomed to a lower standard of life who came to Scotland, not to better her condition, but to better their own.
Our land goes back to pasture. Our grave social problems are relatively neglected. If there is no wealth but life, then we are losing the best part of our wealth—our people. Scotland's railways and banks are affiliated to English banks and English railways. The head offices of her great businesses are more and more situated in England. Her education only helps to swell the number of persons who seek careers in England and abroad; and as regards the education itself, it is said to sacrifice quality to quantity. She has no literary class. Her books are written and published in England. Her music, dramatic art, politics, machinery, newspapers, magazines, films are all made in England or abroad. Even her food is largely grown abroad. Her politics and public life are a disgraceful wrangle with Yahoos who can only bark and boo at their public servants.
Are these things beyond hope of remedy? Is it desirable that they should be remedied? Or is it right and inevitable that we should be absorbed, body, soul, and land, in the predominant partner, the American millionaire taking over the Highland wildernesses, and the Irish Catholic the Lowland slums?
The Nightmare City.
Do you recall the horrible cities of Wellsian fiction—piled up in story above story like American skyscrapers, roofed over with glass to keep off the rain and the cleansing, health-giving winds? Their people are serfs speaking a jargon of which "I seen it " and “He done it" are the beginnings. They wear a uniform, the mark of the beast being apparently insufficiently indicated by their degraded speech, accent, and faces. The news is no longer printed, but is galumphed out by mechanical loud speakers at the airless street corners, The country is for the most part a wilderness all round these huge Bastilles of the wretched. The women look you coolly and wantonly in the face, the relationship of the sexes being a matter on which no ethic has been promulgated. From these nightmare cities of the future the last pretence of religion or morals seems to have been stripped.
Make what discounts you please from this as an imaginary picture, it is impossible to deny that we are in several respects tending towards such conditions; and I say no man or woman of goodwill—the goodwill backed by some intellect —can view such a prospect with any feelings save those of dread and abhorrence.
Our forefathers fought to drive out the English conqueror, though he came with a superior civilization, and in our own day we have fought to keep out the German would-be invader. It seems an anti-climax not only to allow ourselves to be invaded by Irish and Americans, but to shake from our feet the dust of the country for which we fought, or, remaining in it, make no effort to develop its civilization.
I am not concerned for the preservation of the Doric; still less for the revival of Gaelic. The tongue that Shakespeare and Milton wrote, that Pitt and Bright spoke, the language in which the Bible is printed, is abundantly good enough for me. Lowland Scots in its various dialects is mostly just English corrupted, and I am not concerned about the preservation of corruption. I am not even concerned about the Anglicising of our institutions. We have learned most of our civilised habits from England, and we cannot do better than go on learning more. One of the chief English habits I should wish to see adopted in Scotland is the English habit of staying at home and working to make the land better worth living in. The cult of the dialect is fostered chiefly by Scotsmen in England. Your Scot abroad develops a tremendous amount of sentiment for his native land; but he will not live in it. When one hears the supposedly exiled Scot sing "0 why left I my hame?" the natural question is: Well, why did you? Was it just for more money? Or had you to run for it? The greatest service a man can do his native land is clearly to live in it, increasing its wealth and developing whatever is best in its life.
Nobody makes such outcry about patriotism as the Scot, and nobody shows less of the sincere patriotism which consists in living and working in and for one's own land. When we read that four times as many Scots as English left their country in a given year we do not pause to consider that it means 3o Scots emigrating for one Englishman, the population of South Britain being as eight to one of the northern land.
Let us consider the question in the light of broad principle, beginning with a definition.
Civilization is the progressive development and diffusion of intelligence and morals and the progress and diffusion of those arts and appurtenances of life that render morals, manners, and religion possible.
The first factor of civilization is population. The second is industry. The third is fair dealing between man and man. Race, climate, geographical position, natural resources, as will be seen, have very little to do with social progress. The human factor is all.
Ethnography affords no certain key; for the character of a race is not homogeneous. The Japs are of the same Mongolian race as the Koreans whom they dominate and the Chinese whom they beat in war, as they beat the Russians, both by land and sea. Latitude and climate give us no definite clue; for alert and agressive Japan is in much the same latitude as lethargic Turkey and stagnant Morocco. An insular position in a temperate zone is probably a helpful factor in the furtherance of civilization, Britain and Japan are both island kingdoms. But so are Madagascar and Ceylon, where every prospect pleases, and man alone is vile.
Whatever the factors of civilization may be, none of them has the permanence of situation or of race. The centres of population and the seats of power and prosperity change; and new peoples every now and again come to the front among the nations. Egypt and Persia are succeeded on the world-stage by Greece and Rome, who in turn give way to the Turk and the Moor. Spain has her glorious day, and ceases to be. In population, in the arts, and in science France has yielded place to Germany, as Britain in some respects does to America,
The composite character of a people is often credited with the honour of its achievements; but, while the British people are highly composite, the Japs, so far as we know, are not.
The Paradox of Environment.
Apart from the well-established fact that progress lies with the people of temperate latitudes, one other apparently universal law emerges from the mass of unrelated facts—the law, namely, that environment exercises a paradoxical influence on the achievements and progress of mankind.
A fine climate, a fertile soil, a favourable situation, instead of stimulating man to energetic and intelligent co-operation with Nature, which has done so much for him, has everywhere and always the opposite effect. It is so as between races, it is so as between nations, it is so as between provinces and towns. Man—combative, resourceful, interested in obstacles, nerved by difficulties—is made or unmade by the presence or absence of natural disadvantages in his surroundings.
There is a stage in the history of all communities when natural disabilities seem to set a final limit to social progress. Doubtless the primitive Cave Man had serious thoughts as to the increase of population, in view of the limited supply of cave dwellings, and for a time either the birth-rate would show a falling-off or else the superfluous children would be knocked on the head from a stern sense of parental duty. Child murder would be one of the virtues of stagnation. At length a genius would conceive the idea of a burrow in the ground, and the Cave Man would be succeeded, or largely accompanied, by the Eird, or Earth, Man. Thus again we see population forcing the pace of civilization.
Holland, low-lying, inundated by the sea from without and by rivers from within, had, over great tracts of it, to be rescued by man from the grasp of Father Neptune, who was walled out by dykes, and is now being steadily expelled, at great and wise expense, from the Zuyder Zee, as he was during age-long strife and effort, from the Polders. By the energy of man an apparently worthless collection of mud-flats has been protected, drained, and practically made into a country, and a garden country at that, whose people have for centuries taught horticulture and floriculture to the world. So far from the natural defects of the "ollant," or marshy, ground having retarded the progress or prejudiced the status of Holland, those very defects have been the making of the people and the salvation of the State. The energy and initiative developed in the struggle with Nature have naturally found expression in other directions. The Dutch were the first to curb the once all-embracing power of Spain. At that great crisis, as in subsequent stages of their history, they set the powerful invader at defiance by opening the dykes and letting in the sea. Rendered resolute and resourceful by difficulties surmounted and dangers over-passed, the people of Holland have been for centuries a free, enlightened, progressive, and commercially and industrially successful nation.
The story of Venice has much in common with that of Holland. The Queen of the Adriatic arose on a small group of salt-crusted islets, largely devoid of fresh water, piles having to be driven to secure foundations for the palaces and ware-houses which in course of time took the place of the fisher-men's huts of early Venice. But while Protestant Holland, under free institutions, waxed, the Catholic City-State of the Doges, under corrupt and despotic rule, waned or stagnated.
The triumph of man over his surroundings, and the gains derived by him from the struggle, have been exemplified nearer home.
Manchester, handicapped by forty miles of overland transit to the sea at Liverpool, spent fifteen millions sterling on a Ship Canal, the corporation coming to the rescue of private enterprise with one-third of the capital (45,000,000) raised on the security of the rates. But already before the making of the Ship Canal Manchester had managed to keep pace with Liverpool, despite Liverpool's seaboard situation at the mouth of the Mersey. And with the Canal opened, another new town has sprung up at its Manchester end. In the ancient demesne* where a few years ago the deer stole in and out among the trees, the bell of the electric car is heard, and the site of sylvan glades is occupied by streets of houses, shops, and factories, with here and there a church, hotel, or school.
In the middle of the eighteenth century Manchester had a population of only 800o. At that time Chester had 30,000 inhabitants within her city walls, which, by the way, are still standing. She had the noble estuary of the Dee at her doors, and fleets and armies came to and went from her across the sea. But Chester stood still ; and Manchester, some thirty miles distant, from being a poor market town, situated in an ill-watered plain, steadily grew till her population stands little short of a million, and, with her libraries, colleges, music, drama, and splendid press, she is not undeserving of the title of Modern Athens, conferred upon her by Gladstone in a complimentary mood; and this despite the smoke and soot.
What has Nature done for Manchester? There is coal at no great distance; but other communities have coal, and fail to turn it to account. Durham has coal, and languishes. Fife has coal, and falls back. Manchester is built up on cotton, and the cotton has to come thousands of miles by sea from the more favoured but stagnant southern States of America. Manchester has been made by man in disregard, if not in despite, of the environment.
[*Trafford Park, the seat of the de Traffords.]
Again, little over a century ago the Clyde was so shallow and innavigable that the story is told of a skipper, stranded for want of water, who threatened with physical chastisement a girl who came to draw a bucketful from the river, and so, as he feared, delay his progress. But the Clyde was deepened by successive generations of patriotic Glaswegians, till today the leviathians of war and of the Atlantic service may swim in ample draught where the shallow skiffs of former days stuck in the mud. And Glasgow, again, has been made by plain, homely men—men, allowing for the difference of nationality, like those early cotton-spinners of Manchester whom John Morley, in the "Life of Richard Cobden," describes as drinking ale and smoking clay pipes at the tavern in the evening: they "thee'd" and "thou'd" each other in the drawling dialect of Lancashire, but made fortunes and had correspondents in the ends of the earth.
So far as the Caucasian race, living in a temperate climate, is concerned, the flow and ebb of population would appear to depend mainly on the superficially adverse influence of natural surroundings. The white man, transplanted to India or the Gold Coast of Africa, wilts in the heat and the malaria. But outside the tropical belt—in Australasia, in South Africa, in North America—he bids fair to attain a material civilisation not inferior to that of Western Europe. The influence of climate shows in a relaxation of energy in very hot or in very cold countries; though heat is a more effective check to industry than cold.
Warm climates are usually accompanied by fertile soils—the Sahara is an exception—and while the heat is a deterrent to strenuous labour, the fertility of the soil renders such labour less necessary. But where, as in Scotland and Denmark, both climate and soil have been naturally unfavourable, man has been stimulated to increased exertion, with such results that Art is seen to accomplish more for man than Nature has done for him; though, of course, Art is but an application of means which Nature supplies.
As the growth of grass is increased by mowing, as the growth of hair is encouraged by cutting, as the health of shrubs is improved by pruning, so man's energy is braced by natural difficulties. The stony terraces of the Rhine valley have been clothed with earth carried up in baskets on the backs of men and women. The sandy soil of East Flanders has been made to support 70o persons to the square mile, and large quantities of agricultural produce are exported besides. The decomposed granite of Jersey, with no more organic matter than it consumes. So little suited for agriculture was Jersey in it, feeds 13oo persons to the square mile, and exports more naturally that a century ago the population lived chiefly on imported food. Its latter-day fertility is largely due to the use of sea-weed and bones. The wet clay of Scotland was broken up, aerated, drained, and fertilised by dressings of a drying character, till districts, remote from the markets, and formerly given over to barrenness, or producing but scanty and precarious crops, became great areas of agricultural production. On the other hand, the land of Essex, near the great market of London, and the lands of the Campagna around Rome, have, after centuries of cultivation under a favourable climate, gone very largely out of tillage.
Man can make soil and can alter climate. Afforestation and enclosures raise the temperature. When the Parisian market-gardeners' carts take vegetables to the city they bring back manure, and so much soil is made that tons of it are yearly carted off a single acre, and sold to dress lighter lands.
Driving Men Indoors.
An inhospitable climate drives men indoors, and their recreations, their arts of life, and not least their intelligence, benefit by the enforced sedentary habits. The people of inclement Iceland and the Scandinavian countries have long been famous for their love of song and saga, their zeal for education, and their cherishing of free institutions. The people of Catholic Italy and of Mahometan Turkey, cursed, as it seems, by an enervating climate and fertile soils, and by government long despotic in both, are ignorant, slothful, backward in the arts of life, and degraded as regards their standard of comfort.
Climate, soil, and situation, then, count in the opposite way to what might be expected as regards the contributions they make to the sum of material wellbeing.
It might be supposed that long established seaboard communities, with the ocean as their ready means of communication and transport, would grow in population, trade, and wealth, faster than inland communities. But it is not so. Indeed, so much is it the reverse that few considerations more strongly confirm the paradox of environment.
Natural advantages, unsupported by industry in the people—and they appear to be seldom so supported—are as much a bugbear to a community as an inheritance is to a careless and easy-going youth. London is the first city of the world, Glasgow is the second city of the empire; her claim no longer contested by Manchester and Liverpool. No one of the four was by nature a seaport town: they have equipped themselves with the facilities proper to seaports. On the other hand, such old-established and typical British seaports as Harwich, Dover, Plymouth, Southampton, Leith, Dundee, Peterhead, Fraserburgh, and Macduff make comparatively little of their position.
Bristol was the second port of the kingdom when Liverpool had only 200 seamen, and when the now broad estuary of the Mersey was a shallow "Lither Pool." But despite her long start, the public-spirited munificence of her citizens, her queenly position on the mingled waters of the Avon and the Frome, her proximity to the sea and to coalfields both north and south, Bristol has long been outdistanced by Liverpool and by Glasgow. Superbly swimming in waters, her streets seeming to the poet to teem with ships, Bristol is at the same time a well-built and splendidly appointed city, and has fine suburbs and beautiful surroundings. With 320,000 of a population, Bristol is in all conscience big enough. But if the Bristolians wished to keep pace with their neighbours on the West Coast, they must be disappointed; for they certainly have not done so.
Harwich, again, from the fourteenth century till 1867 was a Parliamentary borough returning two members. Time and again fleets of warships rode in its harbour, one of the finest on the east coast. Favoured by railway and shipping companies as a packet station, and by Government as a military station, having large imports of duty-paying goods —Harwich, with all its natural advantages and acquired favours, has still a population of only 1o,000.
That a seaboard position, with a good roadstead, is of value only if the community has manufactures to export and raw material to import, should be self-evident, London became a great port only as it became a great centre of trade and population. Liverpool has the whole export and import trade of Lancashire and the Midlands to feed it. Glasgow is not only the passenger port of Scotland, but it is, needless to say, a great emporium of the chemical, metallurgical, and ship-building industries, Cardiff has the coal and metals of Wales to carry. Hull has textiles, coal, organs, feeding stuffs, chemicals, and much general merchandise to export, in addition to fish.
The Inland Towns.
That towns may prosper without harbours, and languish with them, is strikingly shown by the statistics of population. Keeping away from the very large cities, the five typical inland towns Birmingham, Bradford, Leeds, Leicester, and Nottingham – all of modern growth – have combined populations numbering 1,957,070 persons. The populations of the five, typical seaport towns Plymouth, Devonport, Dover and Portsmouth (this last including three others) number together only 528,389 inhabitants, for practically eight seaboard townships, although all of them are of ancient standing, and most of them have had millions of pounds sterling of Imperial taxes spent upon them. That the finest roadstead in the world will not necessarily lead to a development of trade is shown on the seaboard of the Australian Commonwealth. On harbours there much borrowed money has been spent; but improvements, extensions, and even natural advantages, as at Sydney, have not been followed by great industrial expansion on land. Trade not only may and does flourish remote from seaboards: it even flourishes better inland than on the coast.
Man the Master.
Caucasian man at least masters his environment. The flow and ebb of population lie almost entirely with the people themselves. Industry, courage, a spirit of mutual helpfulness, encouragement to a new departure rather than criticism of it, faith in our neighbours, local patriotism—such are the requisites of civic success and the civilisation that goes with "the swarming of men." It is not geographical position, it is not coalfields, it is not cotton or iron, and it is not proximity to the sea that make a people. It is attachment to industrial processes, it is the willingness to make rather than merely to sell things, the courage resolutely to adventure in new and untried directions, the creation of wealth by intelligent labour rather than the hunting of wild beasts, or fishing, or the breeding and feeding and slaughter of domestic animals; though all these pursuits have their place and value. Communities succeed or fail in proportion to the intelligence expended by their people in many and varied directions, by the extent to which they refuse to put all their eggs in one basket, all their cargoes in one "bottom," and, above all, by the amount of industry and intelligence they display in the branches of business, whatever these may be, to which they set their hands.
Do these seem harmless generalities ? Let us apply them.
The small community does not find place for its young people. It is from it that the haemorrhage of the country takes place. The small community has health and peace and much superficial good fellowship, even where there may be the contempt of an intimacy which is unbrightened by personal gifts or graces. By these the rustic mentality sets no store as a rule; though it develops mild enthusiasms for such accomplishments as throwing the hammer and playing whist. It tends to measure men by what they have rather than what they are.
The Land of Do Without.
The small community may have beautiful surroundings; but to the young people who know they will have to leave it these fine things do but increase the irony of the fate that sends them forth as exiles, never again to return for permanent residence in most cases. For the rest, a small community is a Land of Do Without. The small community has no variety of industries, and the young people are denied the interest and education of looking on at varied processes, and making choice of the calling they would best prefer. Frequent funerals—for there is a large proportion of old people—represent the chief attempt at pageantry, the procession consisting of indifferently dressed men bobbing along out of step. Local gossip takes the place of large general interests. The small community often has no public baths, swimming ponds, or gymnasium. It does not possess public libraries, reading rooms, museums, or galleries of pictures and statuary. It has no theatre, no good concerts, and is rarely visited by great preachers or platform orators. These are the extras, the graces of life that ennoble it, raising man from the position of the muck-raker, the hewer of wood and drawer of water; nay, divested of literature, music, and oratory, he is little above the beasts of the field; for they also eat, drink, sleep, work, and enjoy other pleasures of the senses. Vita sine literis mars est (Life without literature is death) ran the old Roman saying.
Economically, the small communities are parasitical. A healthy community absorbs its own natural increase. But the small communities obviously do not do this, or they would not remain small. The villages, little towns, and open country shed their natural increase upon the cities, and complicate all the standing problems of urban life. The small community looks to the city to take its sons and daughters almost as a matter of course. The cities have to absorb, not only their own natural increase, but the increase of the rural districts as well.
One of the many arrestive steps taken by the Italian Dictator Mussolini is to stop emigration from Italy. He rightly holds that the name and fame of Italy, oldest of the large European States, are dragged in the mire by the, degraded position her sons take abroad as vendors of ice-cream, organ-grinders with monkey colleagues, vendors of roast chestnuts, and, in the United States, navvies. If the Duce sees his way to support the rapidly increasing population of the Italian Peninsular, with its high birth-rate, he must have found a key to social prosperity for which statesmanship elsewhere is not even looking.
One speculates how Mussolini will approach this problem of making Italy support its own sons. Will he, for one thing, go to employers and say, "I find that two of your apprentices finish their time next month. Your income and business show that you can afford to keep them on as journeymen. Your bread (or clothes, or joinery, as the case may be) is the same price as or dearer than the loaf in the nearest city, and as you have had the services of these young men for years at a low wage, it is your duty to keep them on at the city wage. If they are discharged merely because their apprenticeship has expired, you will be fined periodically the amount that they would have earned as journeymen at standard rates."
I suggest that as one of the possible methods, short of socialising industry, whereby the problem of absorbing the natural increase of population may be solved. That the country employer should automatically dump his apprentices upon the City is not only obviously unfair to the city, but to the small community as well. For the parents who have brought up a son and maintained him on a nominal wage during the period of his apprenticeship have a real grievance against the employer who, by turning him off as soon as he becomes a journeyman, passes sentence of expulsion from home and kindred upon him, and this usually for no other reason than greed or unenterprising timidity. The youth has been educated at the expense of the township, and the community as a whole has a moral right to object to its money being wasted upon the training of those from whom it is not to derive any benefit.
Mussolini, doubtless, has nothing to say against the young journeyman going upon his travels voluntarily in order to acquire experience and see the world. But the process of creating an army of unemployed workmen must stop somewhere, and to arrest it where I have indicated is to deal with it at the fountain-head.
The Prime Cause of Unemployment.
The problem of unemployment is primarily created by low wages. The largest body of consumers is the wage-earning class; but obviously they cannot consume if they are not allowed to produce and earn full wages. Even so, to retain population in a country or a district is the best way to beget a demand for the produce of labour. Careless people speak of a large centre as affording more openings for the young person in quest of employment; but the truth really is that, in proportion to the number of openings, there will always be more candidates for those in a large centre than in a small.
Pessimism of Small Communities.
In the small community all new departures are viewed with pessimism. The newcomer spends his money on shop, factory, or printing office to an accompaniment of head-shaking, and no attempt is made to help, but the reverse.
The people spend their money, by preference, more and more out of town, the motor bus and reduced rail fares helping this anti-social tendency. Goods will be bought in the city at higher prices from an idea that the quality is better. The saying that "No good thing cometh out of Nazareth" was doubtless coined by the Nazarenes themselves. Lower wages are paid because usually there is no trade unionism to force them up. The employer is thus able to take it easy, play golf and bowls, run about in a car, and shoot clay pigeons. He breaks his promises every day from sheer inertia and lack of conscience. Thus all life goes slowly. Everything hangs fire. Three men will be seen winding an empty bucket up out of a hole, and often an entire staff will be seen smoking, talking, and looking at something done or to be done.
Public improvements are resisted on the ground of the expense, nobody considering that the money is spent locally. Men starve their own business and practise personal economies, in order to invest their savings elsewhere; and then they ask, What are we to do with our boys?
If the big city can carry out big schemes, the small town can carry out small schemes; for the expense will be proportionate in either case. But in a city those at the head of affairs are not so amenable to criticism, and there is next to none anyhow, the citizens rejoicing in the expenditure that increases prosperity by circulating money, and the improvement remaining as an asset.
To ensure the development of civilization that comes with population the inhabitants of small communities need--
(1) To believe in themselves and their neighbours.
(2)To encourage local trade and industry by spending money at home wherever possible.
(3)The son should oftener follow the father's calling, instead of seeking to become a professional man away from home. A scavenger living in the town is of more use to it than a great man who has left it.
(4)Wages should be as high as the business can afford. A community of slums on the one hand and palaces on the other is a congeries of human hogs; and this is a matter of wages.
(5)Slums should be ordered to be destroyed by the local authority, and no congestion of buildings should be allowed.
(6)Saving money may be wasteful. A community is rich, not by the money it saves, but by the money it spends. Britain is being crippled by the saving of the New Rich, who invest their savings abroad, and help to intensify foreign competition. The old county families lived up to and even beyond their incomes, and the money was mostly spent at home. Money left to sons is usually a curse sooner or later. It is better to live rich than to die rich. Money inherited represents that which is lightly come by, and it usually goes as lightly, the prodigal suffering in the process of living idly and spending, as the saver suffered in working and saving.
(7) Agriculture is the basis of all civilization, and any country that neglects its soil or allows it to lapse from cultivation is on the road to ruin. The British farmer does not work, and he will not co-operate for marketing. £20 worth of produce is taken from each acre of naturally poor land in Flanders, as compared with from each acre of better land in Britain. There is 80 per cent. of co-operation among Canadian farmers as compared with 10 per cent. in buying and 4 per cent. in selling with the British farmer. £400,000,000 go abroad every year for foodstuffs that we could grow ourselves. That is the root of the whole evil of British and especially Scottish decay. The expenditure of that money in the home market would make the difference between depression and decadence on the one hand and prosperity and progress on the other.
Civilization goes forward as a result of the capacity for not becoming tired, and there are more world-novelties to keep us alert than ever there were There is no sign that we are becoming tired as a nation. We have, for one thing, more zest in non-intellectual pleasures than ever we had, and, just at present, a horror of any attempt to teach us. Our aversion from anything "highbrow" (as if the brain were not, as it is, the chief muscle in the human organism) reverses the excellent attitude of our parents and grandparents, who revelled in mechanics' institutes, libraries, lectures, and classes. They fell away from that because science, they found, was being used chiefly as an instrument of trade competition, which intensified the working pace of life.
When, as the result of pending changes, we realise that work has become the service of ourselves and our fellows instead of a means of earning dividends for people who cannot spend them; when we realise, with more than Elizabethan spaciousness, how absorbingly interesting is the world and the life of man upon it, civilization will go forward, as never before, under social arrangements that are at last really worthy of that most social of all animals—Man.
To find past articles please use monthly archives.