The Werewolf - Swedish Fairy Tale 1921

THE WEREWOLF - Swedish Fairy Tale 1921

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Once upon a time there was a king, who reigned over a great kingdom. He had a queen, but only a single daughter, a girl. In consequence the little girl was the apple of her parents' eyes; they loved her above everything else in the world, and their dearest thought was the pleasure they would take in her when she was older. But the unexpected often happens; for before the king's daughter began to grow up, the queen her mother fell ill and died. It is not hard to imagine the grief that reigned, not alone in the royal castle, but throughout the land; for the queen had been beloved of all. The king grieved so that he would not marry again, and his one joy was the little princess.

A long time passed, and with each succeeding day the king's daughter grew taller and more beautiful, and her father granted her every wish. Now there were a number of women who had nothing to do but wait on the princess and carry out her commands. Among them was a woman who had formerly married and had two daughters. She had an engaging appearance, a smooth tongue and a winning way of talking, and she was as soft and pliable as silk; but at heart she was full of machinations and falseness. Now when the queen died, she at once began to plan how she might marry the king, so that her daughters might be kept like royal princesses. With this end in view, she drew the young princess to her, paid her the most fulsome compliments on everything she said and did, and was forever bringing the conversation around to how happy she would be were the king to take another wife. There was much said on this head, early and late, and before very long the princess came to believe that the woman knew all there was to know about everything. So she asked her what sort of a woman the king ought to choose for a wife. The woman answered as sweet as honey: "It is not my affair to give advice in this matter; yet he should choose for queen some one who is kind to the little princess. For one thing I know, and that is, were I fortunate enough to be chosen, my one thought would be to do all I could for the little princess, and if she wished to wash her hands, one of my daughters would have to hold the wash-bowl and the other hand her the towel." This and much more she told the king's daughter, and the princess believed it, as children will.

From that day forward the princess gave her father no peace, and begged him again and again to marry the good court lady. Yet he did not want to marry her. But the king's daughter gave him no rest; but urged him again and again, as the false court lady had persuaded her to do. Finally, one day, when she again brought up the matter, the king cried: "I can see you will end by having your own way about this, even though it be entirely against my will. But I will do so only on one condition." "What is the condition?" asked the princess. "If I marry again," said the king, "it is only because of your ceaseless pleading. Therefore you must promise that, if in the future you are not satisfied with your step-mother or your step-sisters, not a single lament or complaint on your part reaches my ears." This she promised the king, and it was agreed that he should marry the court lady and make her queen of the whole country.

As time passed on, the king's daughter had grown to be the most beautiful maiden to be found far and wide; the queen's daughters, on the other hand, were homely, evil of disposition, and no one knew any good of them. Hence it was not surprising that many youths came from East and West to sue for the princess's hand; but that none of them took any interest in the queen's daughters. This made the step-mother very angry; but she concealed her rage, and was as sweet and friendly as ever. Among the wooers was a king's son from another country. He was young and brave, and since he loved the princess dearly, she accepted his proposal and they plighted their troth. The queen observed this with an angry eye, for it would have pleased her had the prince chosen one of her own daughters. She therefor made up her mind that the young pair should never be happy together, and from that time on thought only of how she might part them from each other.

An opportunity soon offered itself. News came that the enemy had entered the land, and the king was compelled to go to war. Now the princess began to find out the kind of step-mother she had. For no sooner had the king departed than the queen showed her true nature, and was just as harsh and unkind as she formerly had pretended to be friendly and obliging. Not a day went by without her scolding and threatening the princess; and the queen's daughters were every bit as malicious as their mother. But the king's son, the lover of the princess, found himself in even worse position. He had gone hunting one day, had lost his way, and could not find his people. Then the queen used her black arts and turned him into a werewolf, to wander through the forest for the remainder of his life in that shape. When evening came and there was no sign of the prince, his people returned home, and one can imagine what sorrow they caused when the princess learned how the hunt had ended. She grieved, wept day and night, and was not to be consoled. But the queen laughed at her grief, and her heart was filled with joy to think that all had turned out exactly as she wished.

Now it chanced one day, as the king's daughter was sitting alone in her room, that she thought she would go herself into the forest where the prince had disappeared. She went to her step-mother and begged permission to go out into the forest, in order to forget her surpassing grief. The queen did not want to grant her request, for she always preferred saying no to yes. But the princess begged her so winningly that at last she was unable to say no, and she ordered one of her daughters to go along with her and watch her. That caused a great deal of discussion, for neither of the step-daughters wanted to go with her; each made all sorts of excuses, and asked what pleasures were there in going with the king's daughter, who did nothing but cry. But the queen had the last word in the end, and ordered that one of her daughters must accompany the princess, even though it be against her will. So the girls wandered out of the castle into the forest. The king's daughter walked among the trees, and listened to the song of the birds, and thought of her lover, for whom she longed, and who was now no longer there. And the queen's daughter followed her, vexed, in her malice, with the king's daughter and her sorrow.

After they had walked a while, they came to a little hut, lying deep in the dark forest. By then the king's daughter was very thirsty, and wanted to go into the little hut with her step-sister, in order to get a drink of water. But the queen's daughter was much annoyed and said: "Is it not enough for me to be running around here in the wilderness with you? Now you even want me, who am a princess, to enter that wretched little hut. No, I will not step a foot over the threshold! If you want to go in, why go in alone!" The king's daughter lost no time; but did as her step-sister advised, and stepped into the little hut. When she entered she saw an old woman sitting there on a bench, so enfeebled by age that her head shook. The princess spoke to her in her usual friendly way: "Good evening, motherkin. May I ask you for a drink of water?" "You are heartily welcome to it," said the old woman. "Who may you be, that step beneath my lowly roof and greet me in so winning a way?" The king's daughter told her who she was, and that she had gone out to relieve her heart, in order to forget her great grief. "And what may your great grief be?" asked the old woman. "No doubt it is my fate to grieve," said the princess, "and I can never be happy again. I have lost my only love, and God alone knows whether I shall ever see him again." And she also told her why it was, and the tears ran down her cheeks in streams, so that any one would have felt sorry for her. When she had ended the old woman said: "You did well in confiding your sorrow to me. I have lived long and may be able to give you a bit of good advice. When you leave here you will see a lily growing from the ground. This lily is not like other lilies, however, but has many strange virtues. Run quickly over to it, and pick it. If you can do that then you need not worry, for then one will appear who will tell you what to do." Then they parted and the king's daughter thanked her and went her way; while the old woman sat on the bench and wagged her head. But the queen's daughter had been standing without the hut the entire time, vexing herself, and grumbling because the king's daughter had taken so long.

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So when the latter stepped out, she had to listen to all sorts of abuse from her step-sister, as was to be expected. Yet she paid no attention to her, and thought only of how she might find the flower of which the old woman had spoken. They went through the forest, and suddenly she saw a beautiful white lily growing in their very path. She was much pleased and ran up at once to pick it; but that very moment it disappeared and reappeared somewhat further away.

The king's daughter was now filled with eagerness, no longer listened to her step-sister's calls, and kept right on running; yet each time when she stooped to pick the lily, it suddenly disappeared and reappeared somewhat further away. Thus it went for some time, and the princess was drawn further and further into the deep forest. But the lily continued to stand, and disappear and move further away, and each time the flower seemed larger and more beautiful than before. At length the princess came to a high hill, and as she looked toward its summit, there stood the lily high on the naked rock, glittering as white and radiant as the brightest star. The king's daughter now began to climb the hill, and in her eagerness she paid no attention to stones nor steepness. And when at last she reached the summit of the hill, lo and behold! the lily no longer evaded her grasp; but remained where it was, and the princess stooped and picked it and hid it in her bosom, and so heartfelt was her happiness that she forgot her step-sisters and everything else in the world.

For a long time she did not tire of looking at the beautiful flower. Then she suddenly began to wonder what her step-mother would say when she came home after having remained out so long. And she looked around, in order to find the way back to the castle. But as she looked around, behold, the sun had set and no more than a little strip of daylight rested on the summit of the hill. Below her lay the forest, so dark and shadowed that she had no faith in her ability to find the homeward path. And now she grew very sad, for she could think of nothing better to do than to spend the night on the hill-top. She seated herself on the rock, put her hand to her cheek, cried, and thought of her unkind step-mother and step-sisters, and of all the harsh words she would have to endure when she returned. And she thought of her father, the king, who was away at war, and of the love of her heart, whom she would never see again; and she grieved so bitterly that she did not even know she wept. Night came and darkness, and the stars rose, and still the princess sat in the same spot and wept. And while she sat there, lost in her thoughts, she heard a voice say: "Good evening, lovely maiden! Why do you sit here so sad and lonely?" She stood up hastily, and felt much embarrassed, which was not surprising. When she looked around there was nothing to be seen but a tiny old man, who nodded to her and seemed to be very humble. She answered: "Yes, it is no doubt my fate to grieve, and never be happy again. I have lost my dearest love, and now I have lost my way in the forest, and am afraid of being devoured by wild beasts." "As to that," said the old man, "you need have no fear. If you will do exactly as I say, I will help you." This made the princess happy; for she felt that all the rest of the world had abandoned her. Then the old man drew out flint and steel and said: "Lovely maiden, you must first build a fire." She did as he told her, gathered moss, brush and dry sticks, struck sparks and lit such a fire on the hill-top that the flame blazed up to the skies. That done the old man said: "Go on a bit and you will find a kettle of tar, and bring the kettle to me." This the king's daughter did. The old man continued: "Now put the kettle on the fire." And the princess did that as well. When the tar began to boil, the old man said: "Now throw your white lily into the kettle." The princess thought this a harsh command, and earnestly begged to be allowed to keep the lily. But the old man said: "Did you not promise to obey my every command? Do as I tell you or you will regret it." The king's daughter turned away her eyes, and threw the lily into the boiling tar; but it was altogether against her will, so fond had she grown of the beautiful flower.

The moment she did so a hollow roar, like that of some wild beast, sounded from the forest. It came nearer, and turned into such a terrible howling that all the surrounding hills re-echoed it. Finally there was a cracking and breaking among the trees, the bushes were thrust aside, and the princess saw a great grey wolf come running out of the forest and straight up the hill. She was much frightened and would gladly have run away, had she been able. But the old man said: "Make haste, run to the edge of the hill and the moment the wolf comes along, upset the kettle on him!" The princess was terrified, and hardly knew what she was about; yet she did as the old man said, took the kettle, ran to the edge of the hill, and poured its contents over the wolf just as he was about to run up. And then a strange thing happened: no sooner had she done so, than the wolf was transformed, cast off his thick grey pelt, and in place of the horrible wild beast, there stood a handsome young man, looking up to the hill. And when the king's daughter collected herself and looked at him, she saw that it was really and truly her lover, who had been turned into a werewolf.

It is easy to imagine how the princess felt. She opened her arms, and could neither ask questions nor reply to them, so moved and delighted was she. But the prince ran hastily up the hill, embraced her tenderly, and thanked her for delivering him. Nor did he forget the little old man, but thanked him with many civil expressions for his powerful aid. Then they sat down together on the hill-top, and had a pleasant talk. The prince told how he had been turned into a wolf, and of all he had suffered while running about in the forest; and the princess told of her grief, and the many tears she had shed while he had been gone. So they sat the whole night through, and never noticed it until the stars grew pale and it was light enough to see. When the sun rose, they saw that a broad path led from the hill-top straight to the royal castle; for they had a view of the whole surrounding country from the hill-top. Then the old man said: "Lovely maiden, turn around! Do you see anything out yonder?" "Yes," said the princess, "I see a horseman on a foaming horse, riding as fast as he can." Then the old man said: "He is a messenger sent on ahead by the king your father. And your father with all his army is following him." That pleased the princess above all things, and she wanted to descend the hill at once to meet her father. But the old man detained her and said: "Wait a while, it is too early yet. Let us wait and see how everything turns out."

Time passed and the sun was shining brightly, and its rays fell straight on the royal castle down below. Then the old man said: "Lovely maiden, turn around! Do you see anything down below?" "Yes," replied the princess, "I see a number of people coming out of my father's castle, and some are going along the road, and others into the forest." The old man said: "Those are your step-mother's servants. She has sent some to meet the king and welcome him; but she has sent others to the forest to look for you." At these words the princess grew uneasy, and wished to go down to the queen's servants. But the old man withheld her and said: "Wait a while, and let us first see how everything turns out."

More time passed, and the king's daughter was still looking down the road from which the king would appear, when the old man said: "Lovely maiden, turn around! Do you see anything down below?" "Yes," answered the princess, "there is a great commotion in my father's castle, and they are hanging it with black." The old man said: "That is your step-mother and her people. They will assure your father that you are dead." Then the king's daughter felt bitter anguish, and she implored from the depths of her heart: "Let me go, let me go, so that I may spare my father this anguish!" But the old man detained her and said: "No, wait, it is still too early. Let us first see how everything turns out."

Again time passed, the sun lay high above the fields, and the warm air blew over meadow and forest. The royal maid and youth still sat on the hill-top with the old man, where we had left them. Then they saw a little cloud rise against the horizon, far away in the distance, and the little cloud grew larger and larger, and came nearer and nearer along the road, and as it moved one could see it was agleam with weapons, and nodding helmets, and waving flags, one could hear the rattle of swords, and the neighing of horses, and finally recognize the banner of the king. It is not hard to imagine how pleased the king's daughter was, and how she insisted on going down and greeting her father. But the old man held her back and said: "Lovely maiden, turn around! Do you see anything happening at the castle?" "Yes," answered the princess, "I can see my step-mother and step-sisters coming out, dressed in mourning, holding white kerchiefs to their faces, and weeping bitterly." The old man answered: "Now they are pretending to weep because of your death. Wait just a little while longer. We have not yet seen how everything will turn out."

After a time the old man said again: "Lovely maiden, turn around! Do you see anything down below?" "Yes," said the princess, "I see people bringing a black coffin—now my father is having it opened. Look, the queen and her daughters are down on their knees, and my father is threatening them with his sword!" Then the old man said: "Your father wished to see your body, and so your evil step-mother had to confess the truth." When the princess heard that she said earnestly: "Let me go, let me go, so that I may comfort my father in his great sorrow!" But the old man held her back and said: "Take my advice and stay here a little while longer. We have not yet seen how everything will turn out."

Again time went by, and the king's daughter and the prince and the old man were still sitting on the hill-top. Then the old man said: "Lovely maiden, turn around! Do you see anything down below?" "Yes," answered the princess, "I see my father and my step-sisters and my step-mother with all their following moving this way." The old man said: "Now they have started out to look for you. Go down and bring up the wolf's pelt in the gorge." The king's daughter did as he told her. The old man continued: "Now stand at the edge of the hill." And the princess did that, too. Now one could see the queen and her daughters coming along the way, and stopping just below the hill. Then the old man said: "Now throw down the wolf's pelt!" The princess obeyed him, and threw down the wolf's pelt according to his command. It fell directly on the evil queen and her daughters. And then a most wonderful thing happened: no sooner had the pelt touched the three evil women than they immediately changed shape, and turning into three horrible werewolves, they ran away as fast as they could into the forest, howling dreadfully.

No more had this happened than the king himself arrived at the foot of the hill with his whole retinue. When he looked up and recognized the princess, he could not at first believe his eyes; but stood motionless, thinking her a vision. Then the old man cried: "Lovely maiden, now hasten, run down and make your father happy!" There was no need to tell the princess twice. She took her lover by the hand and they ran down the hill. When they came to the king, the princess ran on ahead, fell on her father's neck, and wept with joy. And the young prince wept as well, and the king himself wept; and their meeting was a pleasant sight for every one. There was great joy and many embraces, and the princess told of her evil step-mother and step-sisters and of her lover, and all that she had suffered, and of the old man who had helped them in such a wonderful way. But when the king turned around to thank the old man he had completely vanished, and from that day on no one could say who he had been or what had become of him.

The king and his whole retinue now returned to the castle, where the king had a splendid banquet prepared, to which he invited all the able and distinguished people throughout the kingdom, and bestowed his daughter on the young prince. And the wedding was celebrated with gladness and music and amusements of every kind for many days. I was there, too, and when I rode through the forest I met a wolf with two young wolves, and they showed me their teeth and seemed very angry. And I was told they were none other than the evil step-mother and her two daughters.

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Noble Dogs in Myth and Legend by Estelle Ross 1922

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Noble Dogs in Myth and Legend by Estelle Ross 1922

A LEGEND tells us that after the creation a gulf gradually opened between Adam and the beasts he had named. Among them stood the dog, gazing wistfully at the ever widening chasm till, when the separation was all but complete, he leaped the gulf and stood by man's side. There, with such slight exceptions as prove the rule, in his master's hour of need he has stood ever since.

There are many myths of his first relationship with the creature he has served.

The Koumis, a tribe of eastern India, so Sir James Frazer tells us in "The Golden Bough," give him an important role. In their account of the beginning of years man and woman were not the Maker's crowning achievement, though he evidently intended them to be. He took twelve hours to mold the human forms, and, satisfied with his handiwork, went to sleep. The same night the serpent, who was either indigenous or an unhappy inspiration of the Creator's craft, glided to its prey, and destroyed the Koumis' Adam and Eve. Undaunted, their deity set to work next morning and framed them anew, to have once more labored in vain, owing to the reptile's cunning. A third failure, due to the same cause, decided him to change his tactics. Rising early the following day he proceeded to fashion a guardian in the shape of a dog, and finished his day's Work by—what by now must have been a somewhat wearisome task—remodeling the human pair. In the evening the serpent, crawling through the long grass to the first resting-place of primitive man, horrified by the growling of the faithful watch, abandoned his intention once and for all.

This is why, so the Koumis believe, when a man is dying his dog begins to howl. But in the passing of time he has lost his ancient power, and, despite his protest, the Koumis sleep their last sleep.

A similar legend, with vindictive horses who trampled to death the first of the race ere the dog is created for their protection, is found among the Korkus, a tribe of the central provinces of India.

Unfortunately the canine reputation does not stand so high among all native races. In Togoland the belief is held that it was owing to a dog's greediness that man lost his immortality.

The Togo tribesmen sent the hound with a message to the Deity to inform him that when they died they desired rebirth. He set out with alacrity, but on his way passed a wizard's hut and sniffed a smell of cooking. Walking inside to wait till the savory brew was ready, he saw the frog, who had been annoyed at the choice of a messenger, hopping along on a self-imposed mission to the All-powerful. The true legate, relying on his swiftness, awaited his meal. The frog arrived first at the Togomen's paradise, interviewed the Deity, and informed him that the tribesmen, when they died, did not want to live again.

Shortly afterward the dog appeared in the presence and gave his message. "I do not understand," replied the god, "I have already received intelligence to the opposite effect, and having given my promise to the frog I shall abide by it."

Civilized races, too, believed in the power of the dog. The Greeks held that Cerberus, that most renowned of mythical hounds, guarded the portals of Hades. When old Charon had performed his office and rowed the phantom host in his ferry-boat across the Styx, they wended their way to Pluto's realm of darkness. At the entrance gate stood Cerberus on guard, a three-headed monster, with a serpent's tail, cordial to the spirits who entered, hostile to those who would depart.

Time was when Cerberus left Hades, for it was the twelfth and last labor of Hercules, imposed by Eurystheus, to bring him to earth. Hercules, led by Hermes, descended to the under-world. The thin shades fled before his robust personality as he made his way to Pluto to request permission to carry off the guardian of the portal. "You may do so," was the reply, "but you must be weaponless."

Hercules met Cerberus at the mouth of the Acheron, and with his powerful hands gripped him by the throat, though all the heads were barking at once, the serpent's tail lashing, and the teeth dropping poison. His strength was equal to this, the most arduous of all his labors. With his mighty arm he swung the monster over his back and returned with him to earth. Taking him on a strong leash he reported to Eurystheus, who, when he saw the captive, decided that there was now no task that the hero could not fulfill and released him from further bondage. One condition was imposed: Pluto's portals were not to lose their porter, and Cerberus must be returned forthwith to what, to him, must have been a more congenial clime.

With the passing of paganism and the coming of Christianity the dim abode changed its ruler. Satan replaced Pluto but retained the services of Cerberus, at any rate for a time. There one of the early Christian fathers saw him still on guard. And there, in the third circle of the Inferno, Dante and Vergil met the monster "fierce and strange" torturing the unhappy multitude, who were paying the penalty of gluttony, himself symbolizing the effect of gluttony on the soul. He can hardly be said to have welcomed these illustrious visitors; his red eyes glowered, his jaws opened, and his six sets of teeth looked so ready to devour them that Vergil, hastily filling his hand with the mud with which the place abounded, "cast it in his ravenous maw" and continued his personally conducted tour of the poet, leaving Cerberus, to the agonies of indigestion.

Two of the canine race were admitted to Olympus. The first of these was Jupiter's dog Lelaps, wrought by Vulcan in his forge, a hunting dog of renown who, in the course of his earthly life, came into possession of the beautiful nymph Procris and followed her light and fairy footsteps in joyous companionship. Procris loved Cephalus, a young huntsman, and made herself miserable thinking that his heart was given to another. As he started on a solitary ramble, the nymph, calling Lelaps to her side, secretly followed him. The hunter, preparing his arrows for the chase, concealed behind some bushes, was calling to the happy elements that bright spring morning, "Sweet air, oh, come," and echo answered, "Come, sweet air." Procris, listening in the shadow of the trees, thought such words of tenderness were addressed to her rival. The leaves rustled, as she trembled in an agony of jealousy, and Cephalus, hearing the sound and fearing that a wild beast was about to spring upon him, drew his bow and pierced Procris in the throat.

The Florentine painter Piero di Cosimo, himself a great friend of animals, found inspiration for his brush in "The Death of Procris," which hangs in the National Gallery and shows us Lelaps watching the dead body.

None saw her die but Lelaps the swift hound,
That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear,

and with a look which seems to say, "What is this change which has come upon her?"

Lelaps had other adventures. Among them was his great fight with Alopex, the fox, which so enraged Jupiter that he turned both dog and fox into marble statues, afterward propitiating Vulcan, whose wrath was aroused by Lelaps's fate, by admitting the dog into Olympus under the name of Canicule.

He had for companion in the dwelling-place of the gods Mera, the dog of Icarius. When on earth Mera followed her master, and was present when the drunken shepherds slew him and threw his body into a well. The deed done Mera sought Erigone, the Athenian's daughter, and, pulling her by her robe, dragged her to the place where her father lay. The poor girl, overcome by grief, hung herself from the nearest tree, and Mera's lifeless body was found lying in its shadow. Mera was accordingly raised to heaven under the title of Procyon (little dog).

Diana, the twin sister of Apollo, was the first patroness of hunting. No special dog is recorded by name as having been her favorite, but, when she was in the Arcadian territory of Pan, there were presented to her some beautiful hunting dogs, who were her body-guard.

The virgin goddess, when bathing, was covertly watched by Acteon. Her wrath at this outrage was such that she turned him into a stag, and bade her hounds tear him to pieces. Diana's festival, with all its attendant rites, was shared by hunters and dogs alike.

The greatest of the Olympians, Jupiter, was saved by his mother, Rhea, from the appetite of his father, Saturn, who devoured his male children at birth, and was hidden in a cave at Crete. Here he was nourished by the nymph Oex and watched over by a golden dog, which subsequently became the guardian of the island and had a medal struck in its honor. Unfortunately it excited the cupidity of Pandarus, who stole it, and presented it to Jupiter's son, Tantalus. Shortly afterward, however, he wished to regain possession of this valuable trophy and requested its return.

"I never received it," Tantalus declared boldly.

It was time for Jupiter to intervene, and he immediately turned Pandarus into stone as a punishment for theft, and hurled Tantalus, on account of his lie, from the mountain top into the abyss.

First in fame for faithfulness stands Argus, the hound of Ulysses, king of Ithaca. A mighty hunter in his happy youth, with Argus his companion in the chase, he pursued the deer and swift hares and wild goats through the woodlands.

Ulysses was summoned from peaceful pursuits to take part in the ten years' siege of Troy; and after the city fell into the hands of the Greeks, on whose side he fought, for ten years more he wandered, enduring many misfortunes, ere he returned to his island kingdom. Garbed as a beggar he set foot once more on the ground where he and Argus had roamed together. No one recognized him.

On his tramp to his home he fell in with his shepherd, Eumeus, guarding his flocks, and sought his company. As the palace came in sight he observed a miserable neglected old dog lying on a dunghill, -who, when he heard the king's voice, feebly pricked his ears and wagged his tail and with a dying effort attempted to crawl to lick his long-absent master's hand. Argus's hour had struck, and Ulysses turning away his head lest Eumeus should see his tears and guess his identity, mourned the one who had not forgotten.

"I am astonished that a dog is thus left on the dung heap," he said, turning to the shepherd once more. "He is still a beautiful dog. I do not know if his lightness and his swiftness were equal to his beauty, or was he one that was only fed at the table, that princes kept through their vanity?"

"This dog," was the reply, "belonged to a master who is dead, alas far from here. If you had seen him in his full strength as he was when Ulysses departed you would have admired his swiftness. Now he is worn out with work and with suffering and with old age, for his master is dead far from here, as I have already said. The women of the palace will not even trouble to take care of him and are allowing him to perish alone."

One of the gallant Trojan defenders was Hector, son of Hecuba, who was slain by Achilles. When Troy fell into the hands of the Greeks Ulysses carried away Hecuba as a slave. Poor Hecuba, overwhelmed with sorrow, had to be dragged away from the graves of her husband and children.

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In revenge for her many wrongs and for the murder of her son, Polydorus, she assassinated the king of Thrace. Pursued by the angry populace, behind her the snowy hills of Thrace, beyond the stormy waters of the Hellespont, wounded by dart and stone, "attempting to speak out, her jaws just ready for the words," she barked, and it was in the semblance of a dog that she leaped the cliff to be engulfed in the depths.

The city of Cynomessa was built in the honor of this hapless queen, and on her monument were engraved the words, "The tomb of an unhappy dog, landmark for lost mariners."

The Northern sagas have their dog heroes. Among them stands the Irish hound Samr, "huge of limb and for a follower equal to an able man," the gift of Olaf Paa to Gunnar. "He hath a man's wit and will bark at thine enemies, but never at thy friends. And he will see by each man's face whether he be well or ill disposed toward thee, and he will lay down his life to be true to thee."

"Samr," commanded Olaf, "from this day follow Gunnar, and do him all the service that thou canst"; and the hound went up to his new master and fawned upon him.

Gunnar had need of Samr's services, for his enemies had decided, when the hay-making time came, to take his village by surprise. As a preliminary, they forced Thorkel, the bond, in peril of his life, to undertake to capture Samr. Thorkel therefore led the marauding party as they filed along a hidden road between fences which bordered Gunnar's farmstead. On the low roof of the house Samr lay on guard, and the moment Thorkel leaped the parapet into the yard, Samr jumped upon him: his fierce attack settled the bondman's fate. An instant later Onund, the next in the file, crashed his mighty battle-ax on Samr's head. With "a great and wonderful cry" the mortally wounded dog roused Gunnar, who was sleeping in his hall: "Thou hast been sorely treated, Samr, my fosterling, and this warning is so meant that our two deaths will not be far apart."

Olaf Trygvesson the Norwegian sea-king who introduced Christianity to the Northern lands, did not consider his conversion inconsistent with pillage. His dragon ship, the Long Worm, its rude carvings gleaming in azure and gold, was a dreaded sight as it moored its bark on some wild coast, and the inhabitants would fly inland from the Christians, sword in hand. On one such expedition he landed in Ireland, and, encountering a beautiful hound, immediately appropriated it, named it Vigi, and returned with it to his vessel. Vigi had every qualification for a viking's dog, for he combined the courage of a fighting man with the craft of a pilot. As Olaf threaded the gloomy fiords on his double business of Christianity and crime he was sometimes ignorant of their windings.

"Take the rudder," he bade an Icelandic member of the crew.

"Not I, King Olaf," replied the sailor, "it is Vigi who can steer the vessel."

And Olaf, holding Vigi's paws at the rudder, proceeded safely on his way.

Olaf fought his last fight in an encounter with a rival sea-king. As the Long Worm made ready for action Vigi stood in his place of honor with the chief fighters under the great mast and played his part well, till one of Olaf's men exclaimed in anguish:

"O Vigi, we have lost our master."

The dog leaped the ship's side and swam ashore, climbing on the top of the nearest hill to be on the watch for that day when, so he believed, as did Olaf's countrymen, the king would come again in his country's hour of need. Since he decided, till that happy morn dawned, to refuse all food, he succumbed to starvation.

Another Northern dog held in even greater esteem was Sor, the hound of Oistene, king of Denmark, who had the unique honor of being elected king. Oistene had laid siege to Norway's ancient capital of Drontheim, and, when it fell into his hands, in order to humiliate the citizens, he offered them a choice of monarchs: "My slave or my Sor." They elected Sor unanimously, and, having once accepted him, played the game, treating him with regal dignity, presenting him with a gold and silver collar and chain of office, and even carrying him to and from his appointments in wet weather, lest he should get his paws wet. All went well until one day the dog-king was out without a sufficient body-guard and a pack of wolves, ignorant of his high position or indifferent to it, attacked him as if he had been an ordinary member of his species and tore him to pieces.

Fingal, the hero of Irish and Scottish legends, owned Bran, of giant build and girth, savage and so strong that when his master was engaged in fighting a rival chief and did not require his assistance he could chain him to an enormous boulder. One great mass of rock, near Dunolly Castle in Ireland, was used for this purpose, when his master fought the chief of the Black Danes, and bears to this day the name of Bran's Pillars.

There are two versions of Bran's end. The Irish legend tells that Bran, hunting one day in the forest of Clare, spotted a beautiful white hart and gave chase. Hour after hour he pursued her as she bounded from crag to crag till at length from a high peak she leaped into the lake beneath. Bran, breathless with pursuit, gazed down from the height, now known as the Craig an Bran, to see rising out of the misty lake a beautiful lady stretching out her arms to him with such appeal that he too took the plunge, to be forever engulfed in the siren's embrace.

The Scottish legend is less romantic. On the borders of Glen Loth in Sutherlandshire, Bran, encountering Thorp, the chieftain's dog, met more than his match and was killed in the fight. Fingal's fury that his favorite was vanquished was such that with his own hands he tore out the victor's heart, and with those same bleeding hands piled stone on stone on his favorite's grave, which bears the name Craig an Bran.

The Knights of the Round Table had their dogs. King Arthur himself owned Cavall, the hound "of deepest mouth," who hunted with his master in the thick wet woods round Tintagel, where, till the coming of the king, the wolf and the bear and the boar had roamed unmolested to the terror of the countryside. Many were the good fights put up by Cavall, whose deep baying would send the hunted animals to seek their lair—that deep baying which was heard by Guinevere when she watched with Gerairtt on the knoll above the waters of Usk.

Hunting further afield in the wild country of Breconshire, Cavall, chasing the wild boar, left the print of his paw on one of the rocks. And since a cairn whose stones had volition was built on this spot, it is thought to be Cavall's grave. Should any mischievous youth remove one of the boulders it is returned by some mysterious means to the place where King Arthur had laid it.

Among King Arthur's knights was Sir Tristram, who was sent to Ireland to escort La Belle Isoud to Cornwall where her future husband, Mark, king of Lyonesse, was awaiting her. With them journeyed Tristram's little bratchet, Hodain, the gift of a daughter of the king of France.

On their fateful voyage by mischance they drank of that magic draft which was forever to bind the destinies of these three together. On parting with his loved Isoud, Tristram gave her Hodain, who owed allegiance to them both and himself left the court.

King Mark was not unaware of Tristram's love.

One day he discovered a man unconscious and unclothed in a wood, and had him carried to Tintagel, and laid in the hall. We read in the "Morte d'Arthur" how, as soon as "this little bratchet felt a savour of Sir Tristram, she leapt upon him and licked his tears and his ears, and she whined and quested, and she smelled at his feet and his hands, and on all parts of the body that she might come to."

"Ah, my lady," said Dame Brangwaine unto La Belle Isoud.

"Alas! Alas I" said she, "I see it is my own lord, Sir Tristram."

And thereupon Isoud fell into a swoon, and so lay a great while. And when she might speak, she said:

"My Lord Tristram, blessed be God ye have your life, and now I am sure ye shall be discovered by this little bratchet, for she will never leave you, and also I am sure as my lord, King Mark, do know you he will banish you out of the country of Cornwall." Then the queen departed, but the bratchet would not from them and bayed at them all. Therewithal Sir Andred spake and said:

"Sir, this is Sir Tristram, I see by the bratchet."

"Nay," said the king, "I cannot suppose that."

But when he was convinced of the identity of the man he had rescued, he sentenced him to ten years' banishment from the country of Cornwall.

Sir Tristram journeyed to Wales to the land of the great Duke Gilian, who did all he could to rouse him from his sad thoughts. One day he invited him into his private room and his servants brought in a tiny dog, bearing round its neck on a golden chain a little bell that tinkled so sweetly that the knight's grief was assuaged. For it was a fairy dog, a gift to Gilian from the Duke of Avalon, and its bell was a charm against pain. "And as Sir Tristram stroked the little thing, the dog that took away his sorrow, he saw how delicate it was and fine, and how it had soft hair like samite; an'd he thought how good a gift it would make for the Queen. But he dared not ask for it right out for he knew that the Duke loved this dog beyond everything in the world." The land was molested by a hairy gaint Urgan, and the duke promised Sir Tristram, if he could rid his territory of this monster, he should have for his reward whatever he should ask. Tristram did battle with the giant and overcame him and as a recompense requested the little fairy dog.

"Friend," said the duke, "take it then, but in taking it you take away all my joy."

The knight was so desirous to please Isoud that he accepted the gift, and sent it to her at Tintagel. Her delight was great when she beheld the dainty little creature. She ordered the goldsmith to make her a tiny kennel, set with jewels and enamel, and she carried her new possession; about with her, happy now after much sorrow.

At first she thought her joy was owing to the fact that she bore with her the gift of her knight, but when she found it was due to the magic bell she refused such consolation, since he could not share it, and threw the bauble out of the open window into the sea.

The lovers met again to end their tragic story and find the happiness of death together. Their bodies were brought to Cornwall to be buried, and as Sir Tristram lay in the chapel, Hodain who had made his way thither, unheeding the stags with which the woods abounded, sought admittance and remained on vigil by his master's body till it was laid in earth.

In the medieval romance of Sir Triamour we have another instance of a dog's relentless memory. Arados, king of Aragon, sets forth on a pilgrimage for the Holy Land, leaving his wife, unaware that she is with child, in the charge of his steward Marrock. This evil genius of the story promptly makes love to the queen, and as his attentions are as promptly spurned, he meditates a subtle revenge. On the monarch's return he tactfully informs him that the expected infant is not of the king's begetting, and that the father is a knight who will no longer trouble the court with his amorous adventures, for the steward has slain him.

Othello himself is outdistanced by Arados's credulity. He refuses to believe his wife's plea of innocence and banishes the poor lady from court, with old Sir Roger to act as her body-guard. Thus sorrowfully she leaves the palace, supported by the knight, with his dog in their wake. Marrock, not yet satisfied and still desirous of the lady, waylays the little party when they have traveled but a short distance. The queen manages to escape but old Sir Roger is killed, and Marrock returns to his stewardship. The hound digs his master's grave, and the queen reappears to lay the faithful knight in the ground. She bids the animal follow her, for she must seek some shelter; but he refuses to leave the spot, and she travels on alone, shortly afterward giving birth to Sir Triamour. The dog remains by the grave-side year in year out, seeking his food in the forest, and as time goes on searching further and further afield for sustenance. On the seventh Christmas after the murder he reappears in the hall of the king of Aragon, who has a dim recollection that he has seen him before. Daily he makes the pilgrimage from the copse to the castle to obtain food, and the king's curiosity is roused. He calls for his steward to bid him accompany the canine visitor to his lair. The result of the meeting between the hound and the murderer can readily be guessed, and Marrock's mauled and lifeless body bears witness to his guilt. The king seeks Sir Roger's grave and removes the remains to a more honorable resting-place, and the hound, his work accomplished, dies on his master's tomb. All which fortunately paves the way for a happy ending and a reunited king and queen.

The Gabriel hounds, known also as eu Mammau (dogs of the fairies), Cwynbir (sky dogs), and Cyn Anwyn (couriers of hell), were spirit hounds of ill omen who rode the clouds. An old man told Wordsworth, who recorded it in a poem, that he had frequently seen the Gabriel hounds sweeping overhead. Far away a droning sound is heard in the air, and as it comes nearer it grows in volume and intensity till it resembles the baying of a bloodhound. The village folk strain their eyes and watch the flying pack, with deep misgiving, since their flight over a house presages the death of one of its inmates.

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Carl Menger and the Austrian School of Economics

Carl Menger and the Austrian School of Economics

[This article, written on the occasion of a memorial to Carl Menger, first appeared in Neue Freie Presse (Vienna), January 29 /30, 1929. It was translated from the German by Bettina Bien Greaves, and appeared first in Austrian Economics: An Anthology (Foundation for Economic Education, 1996, pp. 47-53. This is this article's first appearance online.]

On the day when the memorial to Carl Menger is to be unveiled in the courtyard of the University of Vienna, it seems appropriate to take a look at the work accomplished by Menger, founder of the "Austrian School of Economics." This is by no means merely a posthumous trib­ute to persons who are dead and gone. Even though those who devel­oped the Austrian school are no longer with us, their work survives as firm as a rock and it still continues. What they contributed has become the basis of all scientific effort in economic theory. Every economic thought today is connected with what Menger and his school demon­strated. 1871, the date of the publication of Menger's first scientific work, Principles of Economics, is usually considered the opening of a new epoch in the history of our science.

No place would be better than the columns of the Neue Freie Presse to review briefly for a larger audience the work of the Austrian school. Carl Menger himself, as well as all the others closely or more loosely associated with the older Austrian school-Eugen von Bohm-Bawerk, Friedrich von Wieser, Robert Zuckerkandl, Emil Sax, Robert Meyer, Johann  Komorzynski, Rudolf Auspitz, Richard Lieben-often availed themselves of the pages of the Neue Freie Presse to discuss economic and political events of the day and to report on the results of their theoreti­cal analyses.

I

The knowledge that prices, wages, and interest rates are clearly determined through the marketplace, even within very narrow mar­gins, and that the market price functions as a regulator of production, was developed in the 18th century by the Physiocrats in France and by the Scots David Hume and Adam Smith. This knowledge became the historical foundation of scientific economics. Where previously men had seen only chance and caprice in economic affairs, they came to rec­ognize regularity. The Classical school of economics, which reached its peak in the works of David Ricardo, considered its task to be to elabo­rate a comprehensive system of catallactics, a theory of exchange and income.

The recognition brought to light by theoretical investigation led to important conclusions for economic policy. People began to realize that the interventions, by which governments sought to direct the economic forces in a certain way to attain some particular goal, must fail. By no means can the fixing of maximum prices assure the provisioning of the people at the cheapest possible prices; if the official order is actually obeyed, it leads to a contraction, if not to a complete halt, of the ship­ment to the market of the commodities concerned; thus the interven­ tion accomplishes the very opposite of what had been intended. The situation is similar with respect to the political regulation of wages and interest rates, as well as with regard to interventions in international trade. Mercantilism believed that to assure equilibrium in foreign trade measures of trade policy (tariffs, embargoes, etc.) were necessary.

Ricardo proved that equilibrium always reestablishes itself automati­cally, that measures of trade policy to protect a monetary standard not destroyed by inflation are superfluous, and that they are incapable also of halting an inflation-caused downward slide of purchasing power. Political measures aimed at trade policy divert production away from opportunities that take advantage of the most advantageous natural conditions of production, reducing the economic productivity of labor as a result and thus depressing the living standards of the masses.

In the eyes of Classical economics interventionism seemed nonsen­sical in every respect. The continual improvement in the well-being of all classes may be expected, not from government interventions which only hinder and hamper economic development, but from the free flow of all forces. So the political program of liberalism, which advocated free trade in domestic as well as international economic policy, is built on the foundation of Classical economic theory.
Whoever wants to struggle against liberalism, must attempt to refute these conclusions. But that is impossible. The aspect of Classical economic theory on which liberalism rests cannot be shaken. Only one way remains for the opponents of liberalism: they must reject on prin­ciple, as the German Historical school of political science does, any knowledge of the social economy which claims general validity for its tenets; only economic history and economic description are considered of value; fundamental investigations of the interconnectedness of eco­nomic phenomena are declared to be "abstract" and "unscientific."

After Walter Bagehot, whose reputation as a political economist rests on his renowned book on the London money market, Lombard Street, had already struggled against these errors in the mid-1870s, Menger came forward in 1883 with his Untersuchungen uber die Methode der Sociolwissenschaften [Investigations into the Methods of the Social Sciences]. The debates associated with this book, which have come to be known as the Methodenstreit, exposed the objections raised by his­toricism against the logical and methodological correctness of the exis­tence of generally valid knowledge in the field of economics.

Theoreti­cal ideas and principles, the general validity of which is maintained even if not so recognized, are found in every economic historical inves­tigation or description. Without a consideration of theory, it is impossi­ble to assert anything about anything. In every statement about com­modity prices, taxes, socio-political measures or group interests, "theory" must necessarily be included. If the school of academic social­ists has failed to notice this, that does not mean they have operated without theory. It only means they have relinquished any claim to investigate the correctness of their theories in advance, to think them through to their logical conclusions, to integrate them into a system, to explore their irrefutability and their logical consistency, and to check them against the facts.

Instead of useful, irrefutable theories, therefore, the school has based its investigations on untenable, long-since repudi­ated errors which are full of contradictions. And these it has presented as the outcome of its efforts.

To pursue economic theory means simply to examine all assertions concerning economics, again and again, to examine them very critically on their merit, using every intellectual means available.

II

Classical economics was unable to solve the problem of price for­mation satisfactorily. To accomplish this, it is obvious that the basis of the evaluations, which determine the configuration of the prices of goods, derive from their utility (their usefulness for the satisfaction of human needs). However that presented a difficulty which the Classi­cists, in spite of their ingenuity, were unable to overcome. Many of the most useful goods, such as iron, coal, or bread, have little value on the market;  goods such as water or air are not even considered to have any value at all. On the other hand, some less useful commodities, precious stones for instance, are highly valued. In view of the failure of all their efforts to explain this antinomy, the Classicists seized on other explana­tions of value, but without artificial help none of these could be thought through to an irrefutable conclusion. Apparently nothing seemed to work.

Then Menger appeared on the scene with his ingenious first book which overcame the supposed antinomy of value. It is not the signifi­cance of the entire class of goods, which determines value, but the sig­nificance of precisely that portion of a good that is at one's disposal. Since we ascribe to every individual portion of a given supply only the importance of the want-satisfaction it has brought about, then with respect to every individual class of needs the urgency of further gratification diminishes with progressive satisfaction; thus we value each concrete aliquot [fractional] portion according to the importance of the last, i.e., the least important, concrete need which can be satisfied by the still available supply, that is to its marginal utility. In this way, the for­mation of the prices of goods of the first order, i.e., goods for immediate use and for consumption, may be traced to the subjective values of con­sumers. The formation of the prices of goods of the higher orders (also known as factors of production or operational goods) including wages, prices for labor power, i.e., goods needed for the production of con­sumers' goods and luxury goods, are also traced back to the prices of the goods of the first order. Thus in the final analysis it is the consumers who determine and who pay the prices of the means of production and wages. To accomplish this calculation is the task of accounting theory which deals specifically with prices, wages, interest, and entrepreneur­ial profit.

Using the knowledge already won by the Classicals, Menger and his successors erected on the new foundation a comprehensive system interprething all economic phenomena.

III

Almost at the same time as Menger, and independently of him, the Englishman William Stanley Jevons and the Frenchman Leon Walras working in Lausanne [Switzerland] expounded similar theories. After some time had passed, time which every new idea needs to be accepted, the subjectivist marginal utility theory became victorious worldwide. Menger was luckier than his important forerunner, the Prussian government official Hermann Heinrich Gossen; Menger's the­ory gained the recognition of economists throughout the entire world. The ideas of the Austrian school were developed in the United States especially by John Bates Clark, founder of the renowned American school. Clark, like Heinrich Oswalt in Frankfurt and Richard Reisch, is a worthy associate of the Economic Society of Vienna. The theory soon flourished also in the Netherlands and the Scandinavian countries. And successful scientific work based on it appeared in Italy.

Menger did not found a school in the usual sense of the word. He stood too high and thought too much of the worth of science to use the paltry means by which others seek to promote themselves. He inquired, wrote and taught. And the best who have worked in the Aus­trian state and economy in recent decades have been products of that school. Optimistic like all liberals, Menger fully expected that reason must finally prevail.

Before long Menger had two companions who stood with him, two men who followed in his footsteps, both a decade younger than Menger-Eugen von Bohm-Bawerk and Friedrich von Wieser. Both were the same age, had been friends from youth, were bound together as brothers-in-law, and were related also by conviction, character, and culture. As scientific personalities, however, they were both as different as two equally aspiring contemporaries could be. Yet each in his own way began working where Menger left off. Working as mature men with Menger 's works at hand, they succeeded in solving problems. Their names are now inseparably linked to Menger 's in the history of our science.

Now these two men have also completed their work and their lives. A new generation is coming along. A collection of exceptional scientific investigations has been published in recent years by men who have not yet reached their thirties, showing that Austria is unwilling to relin­quish her priority as a source of important economic contributions.

IV

The Historical school of academic socialism and of "economic political science" has not allowed itself to be interrupted by the critical and positive work of the Austrian school any more than it has by the foreign interventionist school. The members of the German Historical school, confident in the political power guaranteed them by govern­ment and political parties, continue to look down contemptuously on serious theoretical work; and they continue calmly to publish their work on the omnipotence of the state over the economy.

The economic-political experiments put into effect during the War [World War I] and the early post-war years carried interventionism and statism to a peak. Everything that was tried-maximum prices, the command economy, inflation-turned out just as foreseen by the theo­reticians, the theoreticians who are despised by government officials and adherents of the Historical school. Yet the opponents of "abstract, inappropriate, Austrian value theory" still tried stubbornly to maintain their point of view. How far they went in their delusion is illustrated by the fact that one of them renowned as a monetary authority, Bank Director Bendixen, announced that he believed that the undervaluation abroad of the German currency during the War was "to a certain extent even desirable because it made it possible for us to purchase foreign goods at an advantageous rate."

Finally, however, a reaction must set in. The Historical school's anti-theoretical position is beginning to be rejected. The decade-long neglect of theoretical studies had led to the remarkable result that the German public must look to a foreigner, the Swede Gustav Cassel, for a principled explanation of the problems of economic life. For example, Cassel related to German newspaper readers, not only the old purchas­ing power parity theory of exchange rates first developed by Ricardo, but also the suggestion that lasting unemployment is a necessary con­ sequence of union wage policy. Cassel expounded in his theoretical works the theory of the subjectivist school, even if he expressed it a lit­tle differently and at times somewhat awkwardly so that it is not exactly worth accepting in every detail.

Though the camp followers of the Historical school still try to set forth their old theme of the end or collapse of marginal theory, one can­ not fail but recognize, however, that to an increasing extent the ideas and thoughts of the Austrian school are penetrating the treatises of today's younger political economists, even in the German Reich. The work of Menger and his friends has become the foundation of the entire modern science of economics.

Ludwig von Mises

Ludwig von Mises (1881-1973) taught in Vienna and New York and served as a close adviser to the Foundation for Economic Education. He is considered the leading theorist of the Austrian School of the 20th century.

This article was originally published on FEE.org. Read the original article.

The History of Angels by Lewis Spence 1920

Lewis Spence on Angels

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Angels: The word angel, "angelos" in Greek, "malak" in Hebrew, literally signifies a "person sent" or a "messenger." It is a name, not of nature but of office, and is applied also to men in the world, as ambassadors or representatives. In a lower sense, angel denotes a spiritual being employed in occasional offices; and lastly, men in office as priests or bishops. The "angel of the congregation," among the Jews, was the chief of the synagogue. Such is the scriptural usage of a term, which, in common parlance, is now limited to its principal meaning, and denotes only the inhabitants of heaven.

The apostle of the Gentiles speaks of the angels as "ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation," in strict keeping with the import of the term itself. In Mark i., 2, it is applied to John the Baptist: "Behold I send my messenger ('angel') before my face," and the word is the same ("malak") in the corresponding prophecy of Malachi. In Hebrews xii., 22, 24, we read: "Ye have come to an innumerable company of angels, to the spirits of the just," etc., and this idea of their great number is sustained by the words of our Lord himself, where, for example, he declares that "twelve legions" of them were ready upon His demand. In the Revelation of St. John, a vast idea of their number is given. They are called the "armies" of heaven. Their song of praise is described as "the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunderings." In fine, the sense of number is overwhelmed in the effort to compute them.

As to their nature, it is essentially the same as that of man, for not only are understanding and will attributed to them, but they have been mistaken for men when they appeared, and Paul represents them as capable of disobedience (Heb. ii., 7, 16.) The latter possibility is exhibited in its greatest extent by Jude, who speaks of the "angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation," and upon this belief is founded the whole system of tradition concerning angels and demons. The former term was gradually limited to mean only the obedient ministers of the will of the Almighty, and the influence of evil angels was concentrated into the office of the great adversary of all good, the devil or Satan. These ideas were common to the whole Eastern world, and were probably derived by the Jewish people from the Assyrians. The Pharisees charged the Saviour with casting out devils "by Beelzebub the prince of the devils." But that evil spirits acted in multitudes under one person, appears from Mark v., 9, where the evil spirit being asked his name, answered: "My name is 'Legion' for we are many."

It is generally held that two orders are mentioned in scripture, "angels" and "archangels"; but the latter word only occurs twice, namely, in Jude, where Michael is called "an archangel," and in I. Thess. iv., 16, where it is written: "the Lord shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God." This is a slender foundation to build a theory upon. The prefix simply denotes rank, not another order of intelligence. There is nothing in the whole of Scripture, therefore, to show that intelligent beings exist who have other than human attributes. Gabriel and Michael are certainly mentioned by name, but they appeared to Daniel, Zacharias, and the Virgin Mary, in fulfilment of a function, correspondent to the high purpose of which,' may be the greater power, wisdom, and goodness, we should attribute to them; and hence the fuller representation of the angelic hosts, as chief angels.

The mention of Michael by name occurs five times in Scripture, and always in the character of a chief militant:— In Daniel, he is the champion of the Jewish church against Persia; in the Revelation, he overcomes the dragon; and in Jude he is mentioned in personal conflict with the devil about the body of Moses. He is called by Gabriel, "Michael, your prince," meaning of the Jewish church. In the alleged prophecy of Enoch, he is styled: "Michael, one of the holy angels, who, presiding over human virtue, commands the nations"; while Raphael, it says, "presides oper the spirits of men"; Uriel, "over clamour and terror"; and Gabriel, "over Paradise, and over the cherubims." In the Catholic services, St. Michael is invoked as a "most glorious and warlike prince," "the receiver of souls," and "the vanquisher of evil spirits." His design, according to Randle Holme, is a banner hanging on a cross; and he is armed as representing victory, with a dart in one hand and a cross on his forehead. Bishop Horsley and others considered Michael only another designation for the Son of God. We may add as a certain biblical truth, that the Lord Himself is always meant, in an eminent sense, by any angel named as His minister; and he is called the angel of the Covenant, because he embodied in his own person the whole power and representation of the angelic kingdom, as the messenger, not of separate and temporary commands, but of the whole Word in its fulness.

Paul speaks of a "third heaven," which must be understood not as a distinct order of created intelligences, but in the same sense as the Lord's declaration: "In my Father's house are many mansions." For Jesus Christ always speaks of His kingdom as essentially one, even in both worlds, the spiritual and natural.

Dionysius, or St. Denis, the supposed Areopagite, describes three hierarchies of angels in nine choirs, thus: Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones, Dominions, Principalities, Powers, Virtues, Angels, Archangels. And Vartan, or Vertabied, the Armenian poet and historian, who flourished in the thirteenth century, describes them under the same terms, but expressly states: "these orders differ from one another in situation and degree of glory, just as there are different ranks among men, though they are all of one nature." He also remarks that the first order are attracted to the Deity by love, and hardly attributes place to them, but states of desire and love, while the heaven which contains the whole host is above the printunt mobile, which, again is superior to the starry firmament. This description, and all others resembling it, the twelve heavenly worlds of Plato, and the heaven succeeding it, the heaven of the Chinese, for example, are but as landmarks serving to denote the heights which the restless waves of human intelligence have reached at various times in the attempt to represent the eternal and infinite in precise terms. Boeheme recognises the "whole deep between the stars," as the heaven of one of the three hierarchies, and places the other two above it; "in the midst of all which," he says, "is the Son of God; no part of either is farther or nearer to him, yet are the three kingdoms circular about him." The Revelations of Swedenborg date a century later, and begin all these subjects de novo, but his works are accessible to all, and therefore we do not further allude to them.

The Jewish rabbi's hold the doctrine of another hierarchy superior to these three, and some of them, as Bechai and Joshua, teach that "every day ministering angels are created out of the river Dinor, or fiery stream, and they sing an anthem and cease to exist; as it is written, they are new every morning." This, however, is only a misunderstanding, for to be "renewed" or "created" in the scriptural sense, is to be regenerated; and to be renewed every morning is to be kept in a regenerate state; the fiery stream is the baptism by fire or divine love.

The following represent the angelic hierarchies answering to the ten divine names:—

1. Jehovah, attributed to God the Father, being the pure and simple essence of the divinity, flowing through Hajoth Hakados to the angel Metratton (Metatron) and to the ministering spirit, Reschith Hajalalim, who guides the primum mobile, and bestows the gift of being on all. These names are to be understood as pure essences, or as spheres of angels and blessed spirits, by whose agency the divine providence extends to all his words.

2. Jah, attributed to the person of the Messiah or Logos, whose power and influence descends through the angel Masleh into the sphere of the Zodiac. This is the spirit or word that actuated the chaos, and ultimately produced the four elements, and all creatures that inherit them, by the agency of a spirit named Raziel, who was the ruler of Adam.

3. Ehjeh, attributed to the Holy Spirit, whose divine light is received by the angel Sabbathi, and communicated from him through the sphere of Saturn. It denotes the beginning of the supernatural generation, and hence of all living souls.

The ancient Jews considered the three superior names which are those above, to be attributed to the divine essence as personal or proper names, while the seven following denote the measures (middoth) or attributes which are visible in the works of God. But the modern Jews, in opposition to the tripersonalists, consider the whole as attributes. Maurice makes the higher three denote the heavens, and the succeeding the seven planets or worlds, to each of which a presiding angel was assigned.

4. El, strength, power, light, through which flow grace, goodness, mercy, piety, and munificence to the angel Zadkiel, and passing through the sphere of Jupiter fashioneth the images of all bodies, bestowing clemency, benevolence and justice on all.

5. Elohi, the upholder of the sword and left hand of God. Its influence penetrates the angel Geburah (or Gamaliel) and descends through the sphere of Mars. It imparts fortitude in times of war and affliction.

6. Tsebaoth, the title of God as Lord of hosts. The angel is Raphael, through whom its mighty power passes into the sphere of the sun, giving motion, heat and brightness to it.

7. Elion, the title of God as the highest. The angel is Michael. The sphere to which he imparts its influence is Mercury, giving benignity, motion, and intelligence, with elegance and consonance of speech.

8. Adonai, master or lord, governing the angel Haniel, and the sphere of Venus.

9. Shaddai, the virtue of this name is conveyed by Cherubim to the angel Gabriel, and influences the sphere of the moon. It causes increase and decrease, and rules the jinn and protecting spirits.

10. Elohim, the source of knowledge, understanding and wisdom, received by the angel Jesodoth, and imparted to the sphere of the earth.

The division of angels into nine orders or three hierarchies, as derived from Dionysius Areopagus, was held in the Middle Ages, and gave the prevalent character to much of their symbolism. With it was held the doctrine of their separate creation, and the tradition of the rebellious hierarchy, headed by Lucifer, the whole of which was rendered familiar to the popular mind by the Epic of Milton. Another leading tradition, not so much interwoven with the popular theology, was that of their intercourse with women, producing the race of giants. It was supposed to be authorised by Gen. vi. 2 in the adoption of which the Christian fathers seem to have followed the opinion of Philo-Judaeus, and Josephus. A particular account of the circumstances is given in the book of Enoch, already mentioned, which makes the angels, Uriel, Gabriel, and Michael, the chief instruments in the subjugation of the adulterers and their formidable off-spring. The classic writers have perpetuated similar traditions of the "hero" race, all of them born either from the love of the gods for women, or of the preference shown for a goddess by some mortal man.

The Persian, Jewish, and Mohammedan accounts of angels all evince a common origin, and they alike admit a difference of sex. In the latter, the name of Azazil is given to the hierarchy nearest the throne of God, to which the Mohammedan Satan (Eblis or Haris) is supposed to have belonged; also Azreal, the angel of death, and Asrafil (probably the same as Israfil), the angel of the resurrection. The examiners, Moukir and Nakir, are subordinate angels of terrible aspect, armed with whips of iron and fire, who interrogate recently deceased souls as to their lives. The parallel to this tradition in the Talmud is an account of seven angels who beset the paths of death. The Koran also assigns two angels to every man, one to record his good, and the other his evil actions; they are so merciful that if an evil action has been done, it is not recorded till the man has slept, and if in that interval he repents, they place on the record that God has pardoned him. The Siamese, beside holding the difference of sex, imagine that angels have offspring; but their traditions concerning the government of the world and the guardianship of man are similar to those of other nations.

The Christian fathers, for the most part, believed that angels possessed bodies of heavenly substance (Tertullian calls it "angelified flesh"), and, if not, that they could assume a corporeal presence at their pleasure. In fact, all the actions recorded of them in Scripture, suppose human members and attributes. It is not only so in the historic portions, but in the prophetic, even in the Apocalypse, the most replete with symbolic figures.

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The Seen and the Unseen by Frederic Bastiat

The Seen and the Unseen by Frederic Bastiat

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[His contributions to the economics literature have been sufficient for him to earn a place in Mark Blaug’s Great Economists before Keynes. Robert Heilbroner devotes a major portion of a chapter to Bastiat in his classic book The Worldly Philosophers, first published in 1953 and used in economics classrooms ever since. Rothbard devotes nine pages to Bastiat in volume two of his history of economic thought15 and credits Bastiat with refuting the Keynesian multiplier theory nearly 100 years before it was advanced by Keynes. Skousen spends seven pages discussing Bastiat in his history of economic thought. Schumpeter referred to him as a “brilliant economic journalist.” Haney devotes chapter 15 of his History of Economic Thought to Bastiat.
A number of authors have applied Bastiat’s theories and approaches to modern economic problems. Henry Hazlitt, an American economic journalist, used Bastiat’s approach to examine a number of economic theories and policies in his classic Economics in One Lesson. Dean Russell, an economist, also applied Bastiat’s theories and approaches to a wide range of economic issues. ~ECONOMIC PROTECTIONISM AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF FRÉDÉRIC BASTIAT by Robert W. McGee]

Frederic Bastiat: Have you ever had occasion to witness the fury of the honest burgess, Jacques Bonhomme, when his scapegrace son has broken a pane of glass? If you have, you cannot fail to have observed that all the bystanders, were there thirty of them, lay their heads together to offer the unfortunate proprietor this never-failing consolation, that there is good in every misfortune, and that such accidents give a fillip to trade. Everybody must live. If no windows were broken, what would become of the glaziers? Now, this formula of condolence contains a theory which it is proper to lay hold of in this very simple case, because it is exactly the same theory which unfortunately governs the greater part of our economic institutions.

Assuming that it becomes necessary to expend six francs in repairing the damage, if you mean to say that the accident brings in six francs to the glazier, and to that extent encourages his trade, I grant it fairly and frankly, and admit that you reason justly.

The glazier arrives, does his work, pockets the money, rubs his hands, and blesses the scapegrace son. That is what we see.

But, if by way of deduction, you come to conclude, as is too often done, that it is a good thing to break windows—that it makes money circulate—and that encouragement to trade in general is the result, I am obliged to cry, Halt! Your theory stops at what you see, and takes no account of what we don't see.

We don't see that since our burgess has been obliged to spend his six francs on one thing, he can no longer spend them on another.

We don't see that if he had not this pane to replace, he would have replaced, for example, his shoes, which are down, at the heels; or have placed a new book on his shelf. In short, he would have employed his six francs in a way in which he cannot now employ them. Let us see. then, how the account stands with trade in general. The pane being broken, the glazier's trade is benefited to the extent of six francs. That is what we see.

If the pane had not been broken, the shoemaker's or some other trade would have been encouraged to the same extent of six francs. This is what we don't see. And if we take into account what we don't see, which is a negative fact, as well as what we do see, which is a positive fact, we shall discover that trade in general, or the aggregate of national industry, has no interest, one way or another, whether windows are broken or not.

Let us see again how the account stands with Jacques Bonhomme. On the last hypothesis, that of the pane being broken, he spends six francs, and gets neither more nor less than he had before, namely, the use of a pane of glass. On the other hypothesis, namely, that the accident had not happened, he would have expended six francs on shoes, and would have had the enjoyment both of the shoes and the pane of glass.

Now, as the good burgess, Jacques Bonhomme, constitutes a fraction of society at large, we are forced to conclude that society, taken in the aggregate, and after all accounts of labor and enjoyment have been squared, has lost the value of the pane of glass which has been broken.

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A Plea for Liberty, article in The London Quarterly Review 1891

A PLEA FOR LIBERTY, article in The London Quarterly Review 1891

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THAT “we are all Socialists now” is not more true than sweeping statements usually are; but that we are on the incline towards Socialism, and that the pace is quickening, cannot be denied. As is not unnatural, the masses of the people are bent on using their political power to improve their material condition. So long as the government was in the hands of the upper and middle classes, workmen, and especially British workmen, had a wholesome jealousy of State control. But successive extensions of the franchise have “changed all that.” L’etat c’est moi: I am the State; why should I fear myself? exclaims the workman, as, after centuries of servitude, he begins to feel his freedom and to exercise his power. Government is now self-government; it is government by the people as well as for the people; and, therefore, the masses in every civilised community, with a self-reliance which, however rash or excessive, we cannot but admire, are pressing their Parliaments in all directions for measures to improve their lot. Emancipated politically, they will be strongly tempted to employ the powers of the State, both local and central, to effect what they imagine will be their social emancipation. Already in this country large bodies of the workers have yielded to the temptation. The Trades Unionists carried no less than forty-six demands for legislation in a Socialist direction at their last Congress. During the last ten years upwards of three hundred Acts of this character have passed the House of Commons, and the cry is still for more. The Government is called upon to supply work, to fix the hours of labour, to build houses for artisans, to nationalise the land and the railways, to municipalise all local monopolies in water, light, and locomotion, and to do we know not what besides. With not a few these measures are calculated steps and stages in the transformation of society into one vast Industrial Democracy on a Socialistic basis, in which private capital shall be abolished, and all the means of production placed under collective control.

It is, therefore, time to look the danger in the face. Rival politicians of both parties, while competing with each other in furthering many of these intermediate measures, admit that “the end thereof is Socialism.” “But,” say they, “we do not mean to go to the end; we shall know where to stop.” Will they be able to stop? They admit that complete Socialism is the logical outcome of these tendencies; “but,” say they, "Englishmen are not governed by logic.” And this, as all our history shows, is true. But there is a “logic of events” as well as of ideas; and, though there is no fatality in the matter, there is a momentum in affairs which often carries men and nations farther than they mean to go. If we are not governed by logic we are governed by precedent; and thraldom, as well as freedom, broadens slowly down from precedent to precedent. Not only so—

“There are many concurrent causes which threaten continually to accelerate the transformation now going on. There is that increasing need for administrative compulsions and restraints which results from the unforeseen evils and shortcomings of preceding compulsions and restraints. Moreover, every additional State interference strengthens the tacit assumption that it is the duty of the State to deal with all evils, and secure all benefits. Increasing power of a growing administrative organisation is accompanied by decreasing power of the rest of society to resist its further growth and control. The multiplication of careers opened by a developing bureaucracy tempts numbers of the classes regulated by it to favour its extension, as adding to the chances of safe and respectable places for their relatives. The people at large, led to look on benefits received through public agencies as gratis benefits, have their hopes continually excited by the prospect of more. . . . . Worse still, such hopes are ministered to by candidates for public choice to augment their chances of success; and leading statesmen, in pursuit of party ends, bid for popular favour by countenancing them. Getting repeated justifications from new laws harmonising with their doctrines, political enthusiasts and unwise philanthropists push their agitations with growing confidence and success. Journalism, ever responsive to popular opinion, daily strengthens it by giving it voice; while counter-opinion, more and more discouraged, finds little utterance. Thus influences of various kinds conspire to increase corporate action and decrease individual action. . . . The numerous socialistic changes made by Act of Parliament, joined with the numerous others presently to be made, will by-and-by be all merged in State Socialism—swallowed in the vast wave which they have little by little raised.”

Mr. Herbert Spencer, from whom we have just quoted, and whose introductory essay gives its chief weight and value to the volume before us, is sometimes accused of lack of sympathy with the labouring classes. Because he is so strongly opposed to the governmental regulation of their industries, and to the various Socialistic schemes for the improvement of their condition, he is supposed to be indifferent to their welfare and callous to their woes. But this a mistake. Profoundly as he is convinced of the mischievousness of Socialistic legislation and of the fatuity of Socialism full-blown, he is not blind to the evils of the present competitive system, or unmoved by the miseries arising out of it. “Albeit unused to the melting mood,” his voice trembles as, in gently answering his opponents in this latest essay, he exclaims: “Not that the evils to be remedied are small. Let no one suppose that I wish to make light of the sufferings which most men have to hear. The fates of the majority have ever been, and doubtless still are, so sad that it is painful to think of them. . . . . The present social state is transitional. There will, I hope and believe, come a future social state differing as much from the present as the present differs from the past."

It is in the interests of the workers themselves that Mr. Spencer is fighting so strenuously against Socialism, which he thinks would stop the progress to this better social state. He does not under-estimate the vices incident to competition. For more than thirty years he has been describing and denouncing them. But, as he observes, “it is a question of relative evils; whether the evils at present suffered are or are not less than the evils which would he suffered under another system; whether efforts for mitigation along the lines thus far followed are not more likely to succeed than efforts along utterly different lines.”

The evils arising out of the present system are patent and distressing; but it does not follow that the present is the worst of all possible systems. Even if its defects could not be supplied, and its evils remedied by voluntary effort, it might still be wiser “to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.” The present system has one great recommendation—it works. Under it a tolerable amount of freedom is enjoyed—freedom of domicile and residence, freedom of occupation, of sale and purchase, of consumption, of investment and bequest—freedom of a hundred kinds, of which, conceivably and of necessity, we might, under another system, be deprived. Then again, the present system is admitted on all hands to have permitted if it has not favoured an enormous increase of wealth; and, whilst there is much to be desired in this direction, it cannot be disproved that the tendency is for that wealth to be more and more widely diffused.

[One of the cardinal mistakes of Karl Marx—a mistake on which much of the Socialislic critique is based—was to suppose that the tendency in his time towards the accumulation of capital in ever fewer hands would continue until the proletariate would find themselves face to face with a few mammoth millionaires, and that then the workers would arise and “expropriate the expropriators.” Owing to exceptional and temporary causes, such as the monopoly of foreign markets, this tendency did no doubt exist in England in Marx’s time; but through other causes, such as increased competition, increased wages, decreased prices, the multiplication of companies, &c., the tendency had become much weaker before Marx died, and it has now almost ceased. At present the tendency is to “the massing together of separate portions of capital, owned by many capitalists, small, great, and of moderate dimensions; to the concentration of capital certainly, but not in single hands.”— See Graham’s Socialism Old and New (p. 406). Kegan Paul. 1890.]

And, lastly, amid the free play of individual energies and interests, there is room for voluntary association and co-operation. Combination in a thousand forms and for a thousand purposes can complement the present system, and can greatly lessen, if it cannot neutralise, the evils caused by it. Of the opposite system, no one can say with certainty that it would work at all: for Socialism, in the collective as distinguished from the Communistic form, has never yet been tried, and cogent reasons can be given for the opinion that, if by either violent or peaceful means Collectivism should ever be established, it could not be made to work without destroying both the freedom of the individual and the progress of the community.

Confining himself to one aspect of the question, and reasoning from the observed tendencies of human nature and the laws of all organic structures, Mr. Spencer seeks to prove, not that Socialism is impracticable, or that it would intensify the misery of the world, but that it would inevitably lead to the most complete and crushing tyranny the world has ever seen. By way of introduction to his argument, he sets forth with fresh and copious illustrations the distinction familiar to students of the political portions of his philosophy between the “militant” and the “industrial” form of society—activities in the former being carried on under a system of compulsory, and, in the latter, under a system of voluntary cooperation. In order to live in society at all, men must co-operate with one another. When they work together under the impersonal coercion of Nature only, they may be said to be socially free. When they work together under the coercion of their fellow-men, they may be said to be socially enslaved. In the latter case, of course, there are degrees of bondage; and the history of civilisation, in the economic sphere, has been a history of progress from slavery and serfdom to the comparative freedom of the present day. We say comparative freedom; for it is obvious that until the worker is the owner of the land he tills, and of the other instruments of production, he cannot be entirely free. But, even under existing conditions, his state is one of freedom compared with either the servitude from which by centuries of effort he has been emancipated, or the bondage into which he would be brought by the contemplated Socialist regime.

For, what is the regimen proposed? Government of some kind there must be under any system of associated life. What is to be the form of government under Socialism? So far, the Socialists have been too reticent upon this vital point. Either because they have been too busy criticising the existing order and creating discontent, or because they have not thoroughly thought out their schemes, or, possibly, because their modesty forbids them to presume to dictate laws to the “impending Revolution,” the constructive part of their philosophy is vague and meagre in the extreme. It is not impossible, however, from their principles and writings, to infer and gather the main outlines of a Socialistic state. Marx, whose book on Capital is the fons et origo of Collectivism, is very chary of suggestions. The Social Democratic Federation, the Socialist League, and the still more recent Fabian Society, composed of “cultured young enthusiasts,” to whom the effort must amount almost to miracle, contrive, for the present, to repress their altruistic impulses, and to hide their light beneath the bushel of destructive criticism. Occasional gleams escape, however, and for these we must be thankful till the time arrives when they shall deem it possible to allow the day to dawn upon us with impunity.”

From all we are able to gather, it would appear that the State of the future is to be ruled by a sort of elective aristocracy of talent. By some means—we had almost written “by any means,” for Socialist writers somehow give you the idea. that they are only too ready to endorse the Jesuitical maxim that the end justifies the means—by some means the community is to get possession of the land and the capital of the country, and then it is to produce and distribute all the commodities needed for home consumption, and for foreign trade, by means of one vast central and innumerable local organisations, under the direction of officers chosen for the purpose. All kinds of workers are to be State functionaries, and are to be paid by the State in kind. Private property in such commodities as the State may think fit to produce is to be permitted: but no one will be allowed to engage in any undertaking on his own account. According to the scheme proposed by Mr. Gronlund the workers in each industry will choose their foreman; the foremen will appoint their superintendents; the superintendents district superintendents; they in turn will appoint a Bureau-Chief, and all the bureau-chiefs will electachief of department. In this way, the ablest administrators will be sifted from the mass. A similar process is to “riddle ” the wise and virtuous and capable to the top in the domains of education, law, finance, medicine, transport, defence, art, literature, &c. &c. “There is not a social function that will not converge in some way in such chief of department.” These chiefs are to form a “national board of administrators, whose function it will be to supervise the whole social activity of the country. Each chief will supervise the internal affairs of his own department, and the whole board will control those matters in which the general public is interested.” All promotion is to come from beneath; but, “in the interests of obedience and discipline,” the various officials are “not to be removable save by their superiors.” Who are the superiors of the chiefs is not quite clear. Possibly these “omniarchs,” as Fourier picturesquely called them, will be required to set to the community a supreme example of altruism by appointing an irresponsible protector of the commonwealth with power to dismiss them all. This, however, is a detail. We merely mention it to complete the outline of the scheme of government proposed. “That the scheme will work well in practice,” says Mr. Gronlund, “the Catholic Church may teach us: cardinals elect the Pope; priests nominate their bishops, and monks their abbots. That Church, by the way—the most ingenious of human contrivances—can teach us many a lesson, and we are fools if we do not profit by them.”

We are now in a position to admire the accuracy with which Mr. Spencer, reasoning on general principles, describes the régime necessary to a Socialist State:
“Some kind of organisation labour must have; and if it is not that which arises by agreement under free competition it must be that which is imposed by authority. Unlike in appearance and names as it may be to the old order of slaves and serfs, working under masters, who were coerced by barons who were themselves vessels of dukes or kings, the new order wished for, constituted by workers under foremen of small groups, overlooked by superintendents, who are subject to higher local managers, who are controlled by superiors of districts, themselves under a central government, must be essentially the same in principle. In the one case, as in the other, there must be established grades, and enforced subordination of each grade to the grades above."

Not less prescient is his forecast of the manner in which the machinery would work:
“Before a man can be provided for, he must put himself under orders, and obey those who say what he shall do, and at what hours, and where; and who give him his share of food, clothing, and shelter. If competition is excluded, and with it buying and selling, there can be no voluntary exchange of so much labour for so much produce; but there must be apportionment of the one to the other by appointed officers. This apportionment must be enforced. Without alternative the work must be done, and the benefit, whatever it may be, must be accepted. For the worker may not leave his place at will, and offer himself elsewhere. Under such a system he cannot be accepted elsewhere, save by order of the authorities. And it is manifest that a standing order would forbid employment in one place of an insubordinate member from another place: the system could not be worked if the workers were severally allowed to come and go as they pleased. . . . . Obedience must be required throughout the industrial army as throughout a fighting army. ‘Do your prescribed duties and take your appointed rations’ must be the rule of the one as of the other.”

“Ah, but,” say sanguine social system makers, “you forget that Socialism is based on Democracy. The workers will choose their officers, and they will see to it that only those shall be appointed who can safely be entrusted with authority. Moreover, in the constitution contemplated, there are full provisions against the abuse of power.”

To which it might be sufficient to answer that this cheerful confidence is strangely inconsistent with the complaints these very people make continually against the present system-— complaints based on the belief that men have neither the wisdom nor the rectitude that would be absolutely necessary to the successful working of the new régime. Unless we are to suppose that a mere rearrangement of the units of which society is composed would result in the regeneration of those units, it is vain to expect that the new social system will be productive of less injustice and oppression than the old. The same causes, in both systems, would of course produce the same effects.

To bring the matter home, however, abstract reasoning needs to be supplemented by the rude rhetoric of fact. What, then, is the teaching of facts as to the probable outcome of the scheme of government proposed? Briefly, it is this: the outcome would be widely different from, and probably the very opposite of, the end desired. Freedom, as regarded from our present standpoint, is the end desired. Social democracy, as above described, is the means proposed. Would the means be likely to be effectual? The answer based on observation must be “No.” For, first, as Mr. Spencer, by a wide induction, shows, not only is the development of the regulative apparatus a cardinal trait in all advancing organisation, but the regulative structure always tends to increase in power; and, secondly, in the action of the workers and their leaders now we have, to say the best of it, an insufficient guarantee of freedom in the time to come.

Change is the all but universal law. It is especially the law of living things. In plants, in animals, in human individuals and communities, we trace its workings. Societies as wholes or in their separate institutions are always in a state of flux and change. They never end as they begin. Would a Social Democracy be an exception to the rule? The Roman Catholic Church, from which, as Mr. Gronlund says, we shall be foolish if we fail to learn, in spite of her proud boast semper eadem, has not been able to evade the law. To take a single illustration out of Mr. Spencer’s teeming quiver: “When the early Christian missionaries, having humble externals, and passing self-denying lives, spread over pagan Europe, preaching forgiveness of injuries and the returning of good for evil, no one dreamt that in course of time their representatives would form a vast hierarchy, possessing everywhere a large part of the land, distinguished by the haughtiness of its members grade above grade, ruled by military bishops who led their retainers to battle, and headed by a pope exercising supreme power over kings.” The present system of society is the outcome of numerous forces, physical, intellectual, moral, social, working along the line of the same law of change, of metamorphosis; and if our English ancestors with their simple needs and institutions could see themselves in their successors with their highly organised and complex social life they would indeed “have much ado to know themselves.” These forces are still operative, still effecting changes, which, according to Lassalle and Marx and all their followers, are bringing us, rapidly and inevitably, to the Revolution which will usher in the Socialist regime. And then? Why, then, of course, the law of change will be suspended. Nature will have then achieved her masterpiece. The mighty multifarious forces which have made for evolution will thenceforward work together to preserve stability and peace. The kindly race shall slumber lapt in socialistic law.

There is something so pathetic in such dreams that it is almost cruel to disturb them. So suggestive are they of the greatness and the misery of man, and so prophetic of his destiny, that we restrain the ridicule for which at first sight they might seem to call. The pattern of a perfect society is, as Plato said, laid up in heaven, and, so far as that is possible, a copy of it some day will appear on earth; but that day is not yet, nor will it dawn as the result of any change outside the heart of man. To dream that any rearrangements in society will of themselves bring in the millennium is mere midsummer madness. Such rearrangements, if they be wisely and gradually made, will help to hasten on the Golden Age predicted and ordained; but sudden and fantastic changes such as those sometimes proposed would throw the race back through the Age of Iron to the Age of Stone. Eventually, if not at the outset, and by the very exigencies of the system, Socialism would crush out all personal freedom, weigh down the springs of activity and enterprise, and reduce society to one dead level of dulness, poverty, and commonplace.

This of course is not the opinion of its advocates. They believe that theirs is the only system under which the masses of the people can enjoy true freedom and the benefits which flow therefrom. Is this belief well founded? What is true freedom? It is, broadly speaking, the maximum of opportunity for all the members of human society alike to make the most and best of themselves. This is a definition of freedom which would be accepted, we venture to think, by Socialists and Individualists alike. Moreover, Socialists would not refuse to adopt the words of Spinoza so far as they go: “The end of the State is not to transform men from reasonable beings into animals or automata; its end is so to act that the citizens may develop in security, body and soul, and make free use of their reason; the end of the State, in truth, is liberty.” Would Socialism fulfil this end for which the State exists? Would it cherish or destroy true liberty in thought and life and work? A question well worth asking, but too wide for us to enter on just now. The inquiry must be limited to the bearing of Socialism on freedom in the economic sphere.

It is possible that, working under an oflicial hierarchy such as we have described, the members of a Socialist community might for a time enjoy a fair amount of liberty. But only for a time. The tendency observable in all organisms of the regulative apparatus to increase in power and stringency would be accelerated and intensified by the necessities of the situation. Think of the vastness of the area to be covered by the official eye; of the responsibilities of the central government; of the minuteness, the multitudinousness, the bewildering complexity of the affairs it would have to direct and control. Imagine the administration needed for the distribution of commodities of every kind in every town and village in the land; for doing all that farmers, merchants, manufacturers now do; for the management of all the mines and roads and railways, of all the postal telegraphic and carrying businesses; for the conduct of the export and the import trade; to say nothing of the army, navy, and police.

“Imagine all this, and then ask what will be the position of the actual workers? Already on the Continent, where governmental organisations are more elaborate and coercive than here, there are chronic complaints of the tyranny of bureaucracies—the hauteur and brutality of their members. What will these become when not only the more public actions of citizens are controlled, but there is added this far more extensive control of their respective daily duties? . . . . How will the individual worker fare if he is dissatisfied with his treatment—thinks that he has not an adequate share of the products, or has more to do than can rightly he demanded, or wishes to undertake a function for which he feels himself fitted, but which is not thought proper for him by his superiors, or desires to make an independent career for himself? This dissatisfied unit in the immense machine will be told that he must submit or go.”

But whither shall he go? Ex hypothesi he is shut up to the system under which he groans. Private trade and industry do not exist. Outside the public works he could not find employment, and outside the public stores he could not buy a pair of stockings or a loaf of bread. Submission or starvation would soon come to be the alternative in a Socialistic State. Bemonstrance would be treated as rebellion and rebellion as a crime. And, as Burke once said, “A Government against which a claim of liberty is tantamount to treason, is a Government submission to which is equivalent to slavery.”

But Britons never would submit to this. They “never shall be slaves.” So it is said, and we admit the prospect is unbearable.

“It is not to be thought of that the flood
 Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
 Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
 Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters unwithstood,’
 That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
 Should perish.”

Those Continental peoples which for generations have submitted to conscription, and whose lives in almost every detail are now subjected to Government inspection and control, may possibly be brought to labour in the Socialistic yoke. But Englishmen, who have been nursed in freedom; in whose very vein the blood of freedom runs; who “augur misgovernment at a distance, and snuff the approach of tyranny in every tainted
breeze;”
             “ Patient of constitutional control,
               He hears it with meek manliness of soul;
               But if authority grow wanton, woe
               To him that treads upon his free-born toe!”

So Cowper sang; and so it would be easy to believe if countervailing evidence did not so rudely stare us in the face.

We do not need to cross the Channel to discover proof that Socialism might be synonymous with slavery. Mr. Gronlund writes as if we were on the brink of the Social Revolution; and, whilst the more sober and considerate Socialists are kind enough to put off the catastrophe a century or so, they nearly all agree in holding out the possibility of its speedy advent. It is only fair, therefore, to assume that the kind of men who would be chosen to command us would be similar to those who now supply the light and leading to the labourers of the land; that they would act as these now act; and that then, as now, the masses would elect and follow and submit. What kind of leaders, then, do the industrial masses choose and follow now?

We cannot do more than call attention to the startling chapter in this volume on “Socialism in the Antipodes,” in which the writer—Mr. Charles Fairfield—with what sounds to us much like exaggeration, speaks of the Federated Trade Unions of Australia as “perhaps the most efficient, rapacious, and unscrupulous organisation in the world.” The Trades Unions at our doors—especially the newer ones—Will furnish all the facts we need. These are composed of the classes which would constitute the great body of the Socialist State, and their character would determine its nature. What are the prevailing characteristics of these classes as manifested in their present organisations? How far are the unselfishness, the consideration for each other’s feelings and interests, the mutual help and sympathy which—so we are assured—will render possible and permanent the new regime displayed by British workmen towards each other now? Alas for the prospects of any system of society that is to depend for its existence on such qualities as these. One has only to take up the first daily newspaper to perceive that Mr. Spencer’s picture is quite underdrawn: “‘Be one of us or we will cut off your means of living,’ is the usual threat to those of their own trade outside the unions. Individuals who maintain their rights to make their own contracts are vilified as ‘blacklegs’ and ‘traitors,’ and meet with violence which would be merciless were there no legal penalties and no police.”

With this there goes peremptory dictation to employers as to whom they shall employ; in some cases strikes occur if the employer dares to trade with other firms who have presumed to give employment to non-union men. On the other hand, the men submit to their leaders in a most astounding way. They give up their individual liberties and sacrifice their personal convictions, and submit to rules and regulations and exactions just as they would be obliged to do in the most rigorous Socialist State. Only, from a State like that, as we have seen, there would be no escape, and these depotic and submissive qualities would be relieved from all restraint. At present these bodies are surrounded by a public, partly passive, partly antagonistic, and are subjected to the criticism of a fairly independent press. And “if in these circumstances these bodies habitually take courses which override individual freedom, what will happen,” asks Mr. Spencer, “when, instead of being only scattered parts of the community, governed by their separate sets of regulators, they constitute the whole community, governed by a consolidated system of such regulators; when functionaries of all orders, including those who officer the press, form parts of the regulative organisation; and when the law is both enacted and administered by this regulative organisation?” The answer could not be more accurately and powerfully put: “The vast, ramified, and consolidated body of those who direct its activities, using without check whatever coercion seems to be needful in the interests of the system (which will practically become their own interests) will have no hesitation in imposing their rigorous rule over the entire lives of the actual workers; until eventually there is developed an official oligarchy, with its various grades, exercising a tyranny more gigantic and more terrible than any which the world has seen.”

The Socialist rejoinder is that in a purely democratic State, and with the Referendum in full play, oppression such as this would be impossible. Impossible it might be at the outset, but we think that Mr. Spencer proves that without a large amount of tyranny a Socialist regime could not be long maintained, and that the needful pressure from above would not long be wanting, nor the necessary acquiescence and submission from below.

The great political problem, according to Rousseau, is “to find a form of association which defends and protects with all the public force the person and the property of each partner, and by which each, while uniting himself to all, still obeys only himself.” The latter part of the problem, as here stated, is a paradox, and cannot be solved. No form of association for political purposes, or for any other purpose, is possible if each member is to be a law unto himself. But the first part of the problem has been solved, so far as England is concerned. It is for us to see that public force is not perverted so as to deprive us of the liberty outside the sphere of politics, the liberty in our industrial and social life of which we make our boast. At the same time it is possible to use our freedom to much better purpose. We may combine in countless ways to remedy the evils incident to the free play of individual and competing wills. What might not be achieved throughout our social life if all the sections of our vast community would unite in common effort for the amelioration and improvement of the common lot? What might not be accomplished through a not impossible growth of temperance, prudence, sympathy? To use the glowing and yet sober closing sentences of Mr. Leonard Courtney’s recent splendid lecture at University College on “The Difficulties of Socialism” (Feb. 11, 1891):

“Poverty, as we understand it, would disappear. Strong men and free men, with personal independence unabated, yet imbued with mutual respect, would associate and dissociate and reassociate themselves as occasion offered and reason suggested, working out an elevation of the common life through individual advancement. The individualist has his ideal, and there is an inheritance of the future which he, too, can regard with hope. Life remains rich, nay, is richer than ever in variety and beauty; for while the toil which is necessary to support existence is abated, and the condition of all has been raised, character and independence, vivacity, self-reliance, courage-— all the elements that constitute the personal genius of each citizen, have been strengthened, to the ever-increasing enhancement of the charm and grace and well-being of humanity.”

But the paramount condition and pre-requisite of all this is, that each man shall be free to follow his own aims and interests so long as in doing this he does not trespass on the like and equal liberty of every other man.

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