Conclusion

Societies, like individuals, have their moral crises and their spiritual revolutions. The student can observe the results which these cataclysms produce, but he can hardly without presumption attempt to appraise them, for it is at the fire which they kindled that his own small taper has been lit. The rise of a naturalistic science of society, with all its magnificent promise of fruitful action and of intellectual light; the abdication of the Christian Churches from departments of economic conduct and social theory long claimed as their province; the general acceptance by thinkers of a scale of ethical values, which turned the desire for pecuniary gain from a perilous, if natural, frailty into the idol of philosophers and the mainspring of society—such movements are written large over the history of the tempestuous age which lies between the Reformation and the full light of the eighteenth century. Their consequences have been worked into the very tissue of modern civilization. Posterity still stands too near their source to discern the ocean into which these streams will flow.

Societies, like individuals, experience moral crises and spiritual revolutions. A student can observe the effects of these upheavals, but can hardly presume to judge them. After all, the student’s own small candle was lit from the fire they kindled. Several movements stand out in the history of the turbulent age between the Reformation and the full light of the eighteenth century. One was the rise of a naturalistic science of society, with all its magnificent promise of fruitful action and intellectual illumination. Another was the withdrawal of the Christian Churches from areas of economic conduct and social theory they had long claimed as their own. Thinkers also generally accepted a scale of ethical values that transformed the desire for money. Once seen as a dangerous, though natural, weakness, it became an idol for philosophers and the driving force of society. The consequences of these movements have become part of the very fabric of modern civilization. Later generations still stand too close to the source of these streams to see the ocean into which they will flow.

In an historical age the relativity of political doctrines is the tritest of commonplaces. But social psychology continues too often to be discussed in serene indifference to the categories of time and place, and economic interests are still popularly treated as though they formed a kingdom over which the Zeitgeist bears no sway. In reality, though inherited dispositions may be constant from generation to generation, the system of valuations, preferences and ideals—the social environment within which individual character functions—is in process of continuous change, and it is in the conception of the place to be assigned to economic interests in the life of society that change has in recent centuries been most comprehensive in its scope, and most sensational in its consequences. The isolation of economic aims as a specialized object of concentrated and systematic effort, the erection of economic criteria into an independent and authoritative standard of social expediency, are phenomena which, though familiar enough in classical antiquity, appear, at least on a grand scale, only at a comparatively recent date in the history of later civilizations. The conflict between the economic outlook of East and West, which impresses the traveller today, finds a parallel in the contrast between medieval and modern economic ideas, which strikes the historian.

In an age conscious of history, the idea that political doctrines depend on their time and place is a commonplace. Yet social psychology is still too often discussed without any regard for time and place. Economic interests, too, are still popularly treated as though they belonged to a realm untouched by the Zeitgeist, or spirit of the age. In reality, inherited dispositions may remain constant from generation to generation, but values, preferences, and ideals are continually changing. Together, they form the social environment in which individual character operates. In recent centuries, the broadest changes, with the most dramatic consequences, have concerned the place of economic interests in society. Economic aims have become a distinct focus of concentrated, systematic effort. Economic criteria have also become an independent and authoritative standard for judging what is good for society. Both developments were familiar enough in classical antiquity. But in the history of later civilizations, they have appeared on a large scale only relatively recently. The contrast between Eastern and Western economic outlooks that strikes travelers today has a parallel for historians. They see a similar contrast between medieval and modern economic ideas.

The elements which combined to produce that revolution are too numerous to be summarized in any neat formula. But, side by side with the expansion of trade and the rise of new classes to political power, there was a further cause, which, if not the most conspicuous, was not the least fundamental. It was the contraction of the territory within which the spirit of religion was conceived to run. The criticism which dismisses the concern of Churches with economic relations and social organization as a modern innovation finds little support in past history. What requires explanation is not the view that these matters are part of the province of religion, but the view that they are not. When the age of the Reformation begins, economics is still a branch of ethics, and ethics of theology; all human activities are treated as falling within a single scheme, whose character is determined by the spiritual destiny of mankind; the appeal of theorists is to natural law, not to utility; the legitimacy of economic transactions is tried by reference, less to the movements of the market, than to moral standards derived from the traditional teaching of the Christian Church; the Church itself is regarded as a society wielding theoretical, and sometimes practical, authority in social affairs. The secularization of political thought, which was to be the work of the next two centuries, had profound reactions on social speculation, and by the Restoration the whole perspective, at least in England, has been revolutionized. Religion has been converted from the keystone which holds together the social edifice into one department within it, and the idea of a rule of right is replaced by economic expediency as the arbiter of policy and the criterion of conduct. From a spiritual being, who, in order to survive, must devote a reasonable attention to economic interest, man seems sometimes to have become an economic animal, who will be prudent, nevertheless, if he takes due precautions to assure his spiritual well-being.

The forces that combined to produce that revolution are too numerous to sum up in any neat formula. Trade expanded, and new classes rose to political power. But alongside these changes was another cause. It was not the most obvious, but it was no less fundamental. The area of life in which religion was thought to apply had grown smaller. Some critics dismiss the Churches’ concern with economic relations and social organization as a modern innovation. But history offers little support for that criticism. What needs explaining is not the view that these matters belong to religion, but the view that they do not. At the beginning of the Reformation, economics is still a branch of ethics, and ethics a branch of theology. All human activities are treated as part of a single order, shaped by humanity’s spiritual destiny. Theorists appeal to natural law, not to usefulness. Economic transactions are judged legitimate less by market movements than by moral standards drawn from traditional Christian Church teaching. The Church itself is regarded as a society with theoretical, and sometimes practical, authority in social affairs. Over the next two centuries, political thought would become secular. This change had profound effects on social thought. By the Restoration, the whole perspective has been revolutionized, at least in England. Religion has changed from the keystone holding the social structure together into one department within it. Practical economic advantage, rather than a rule of right, now decides policy and sets the standard for conduct. Man was once seen as a spiritual being who must pay reasonable attention to economic interests in order to survive. Now he sometimes seems to have become an economic animal. Even so, he would be prudent to take proper precautions to ensure his spiritual well-being.

The result is an attitude which forms so fundamental a part of modern political thought, that both its precarious philosophical basis, and the contrast which it offers with the conceptions of earlier generations, are commonly forgotten. Its essence is a dualism which regards the secular and the religious aspects of life, not as successive stages within a larger unity, but as parallel and independent provinces, governed by different laws, judged by different standards, and amenable to different authorities. To the most representative minds of the Reformation, as of the Middle Ages, a philosophy which treated the transactions of commerce and the institutions of society as indifferent to religion would have appeared, not merely morally reprehensible, but intellectually absurd. Holding as their first assumption that the ultimate social authority is the will of God, and that temporal interests are a transitory episode in the life of spirits which are eternal, they state the rules to which the social conduct of the Christian must conform, and, when circumstances allow, organize the discipline by which those rules may be enforced. By their successors in the eighteenth century the philosophy of Indifferentism, though rarely formulated as a matter of theory, is held in practice as a truism which it is irrational, if not actually immoral, to question, since it is in the heart of the individual that religion has its throne, and to externalize it in rules and institutions is to tarnish its purity and to degrade its appeal. Naturally, therefore, they formulate the ethical principles of Christianity in terms of a comfortable ambiguity, and rarely indicate with any precision their application to commerce, finance, and the ownership of property. Thus the conflict between religion and those natural economic ambitions which the thought of an earlier age had regarded with suspicion is suspended by a truce which divides the life of mankind between them. The former takes as its province the individual soul, the latter the intercourse of man with his fellows in the activities of business and the affairs of society. Provided that each keeps to its own territory, peace is assured. They cannot collide, for they can never meet.

The result is an attitude that forms a basic part of modern political thought. Its uncertain philosophical basis is often forgotten, as is its contrast with the ideas of earlier generations. At its heart is a dualism that treats secular and religious life as parallel, independent spheres. It does not see them as successive stages within a larger unity. Each sphere has its own laws, standards of judgment, and authorities. To the most representative thinkers of the Reformation, as of the Middle Ages, such a philosophy would have seemed intellectually absurd. It would also have seemed morally reprehensible. They could not have accepted a philosophy that treated commerce and social institutions as matters of no concern to religion. Their first assumption was that the will of God is the ultimate authority in society. They also assumed that worldly interests are a passing episode in the lives of eternal spirits. They therefore set out rules for how Christians must behave in society. When circumstances permit, they also establish a system of discipline to enforce those rules. Their successors in the eighteenth century rarely state the philosophy of Indifferentism as a theory. In practice, however, they regard it as a self-evident truth. They consider it irrational, if not actually immoral, to question it. For them, religion reigns in the individual heart. To express religion outwardly in rules and institutions is to tarnish its purity and cheapen its appeal. Naturally, then, they state Christian ethical principles in comfortably vague terms. They rarely say precisely how those principles apply to commerce, finance, and property ownership. Thus a truce suspends the conflict between religion and natural economic ambitions. The thinkers of an earlier age had regarded those ambitions with suspicion. The truce divides human life between religion and economic ambition. Religion takes the individual soul as its sphere. Economic ambition takes people's dealings with one another in business and society. As long as each keeps to its own territory, peace is assured. They cannot clash, for they can never meet.

History is a stage where forces which are within human control contend and coöperate with forces which are not. The change of opinion described in these pages drew nourishment from both. The storm and fury of the Puritan revolution had been followed by a dazzling outburst of economic enterprise, and the transformation of the material environment prepared an atmosphere in which a judicious moderation seemed the voice at once of the truest wisdom and the sincerest piety. But the inner world was in motion as well as the outer. The march of external progress woke sympathetic echoes in hearts already attuned to applaud its triumph, and there was no consciousness of an acute tension between the claims of religion and the glittering allurements of a commercial civilization, such as had tormented the age of the Reformation.

History is a stage where forces within human control struggle and cooperate with forces beyond it. The change in opinion described in these pages drew strength from both. The storm and fury of the Puritan revolution had been followed by a dazzling burst of economic enterprise. The resulting change in the material world created an atmosphere in which sensible moderation seemed both truly wise and sincerely pious. But the inner world was changing as well as the outer world. Outward progress stirred a sympathetic response in hearts already ready to applaud its triumph. People no longer felt the sharp tension between the demands of religion and the glittering attractions of a commercial civilization that had tormented the age of the Reformation.

It was partly the natural, and not unreasonable, diffidence of men who were conscious that traditional doctrines of social ethics, with their impracticable distrust of economic motives, belonged to the conditions of a vanished age, but who lacked the creative energy to state them anew, in a form applicable to the needs of a more complex and mobile social order. It was partly that political changes had gone far to identify the Church of England with the ruling aristocracy, so that, while in France, when the crash came, many of the lower clergy threw in their lot with the tiers état, in England it was rarely that the officers of the Church did not echo the views of society which commended themselves to the rulers of the State. It was partly that, to one important body of opinion, the very heart of religion was a spirit which made indifference to the gross world of external circumstances appear, not a defect, but an ornament of the soul. Untrammelled by the silken chains which bound the Establishment, and with a great tradition of discipline behind them, the Nonconformist Churches might seem to have possessed opportunities of reasserting the social obligations of religion with a vigor denied to the Church of England. What impeded their utterance was less a weakness than the most essential and distinctive of their virtues. Founded on the repudiation of the idea that human effort could avail to win salvation, or human aid to assist the pilgrim in his lonely quest, they saw the world of business and society as a battlefield, across which character could march triumphant to its goal, not as crude materials waiting the architect’s hand to set them in their place as the foundations of the Kingdom of Heaven. It did not occur to them that character is social, and society, since it is the expression of character, spiritual. Thus the eye is sometimes blinded by light itself.

Partly, it was the natural and reasonable hesitation of men who knew that traditional teachings on social ethics belonged to a vanished age. Those teachings distrusted economic motives in ways that were no longer practical. Yet these men lacked the creative energy to restate them for a more complex and mobile society. Partly, too, political changes had closely identified the Church of England with the ruling aristocracy. In France, when the crisis came, many lower clergy sided with the tiers état. In England, by contrast, Church officials rarely failed to echo the views of society favored by the rulers of the State. Partly, too, one important body of opinion saw the very heart of religion as a spirit of indifference to the material world of external circumstances. To them, this indifference was not a defect but an adornment of the soul. The Nonconformist Churches were free of the silken chains that bound the Establishment, and they had a great tradition of discipline behind them. They might therefore seem to have had opportunities to reaffirm the social obligations of religion with a vigor denied to the Church of England. What held them back was less a weakness than the most essential and distinctive of their virtues. Their faith rejected the idea that people could win salvation through their own efforts, or that others could help the pilgrim on his lonely quest. So they saw business and society as a battlefield across which character could march triumphantly toward its goal. They did not see them as raw materials waiting for the architect’s hand to place them as foundations of the Kingdom of Heaven. It did not occur to them that character is social, and that society, because it expresses character, is spiritual. Thus the eye is sometimes blinded by light itself.

The certainties of one age are the problems of the next. Few will refuse their admiration to the magnificent conception of a community penetrated from apex to foundation by the moral law, which was the inspiration of the great reformers, not less than of the better minds of the Middle Ages. But, in order to subdue the tough world of material interests, it is necessary to have at least so much sympathy with its tortuous ways as is needed to understand them. The Prince of Darkness has a right to a courteous hearing and a fair trial, and those who will not give him his due are wont to find that, in the long run, he turns the tables by taking his due and something over. Common sense and a respect for realities are not less graces of the spirit than moral zeal. The paroxysms of virtuous fury, with which the children of light denounced each new victory of economic enterprise as yet another stratagem of Mammon, disabled them for the staff-work of their campaign, which needs a cool head as well as a stout heart. Their obstinate refusal to revise old formulæ in the light of new facts exposed them helpless to a counter-attack, in which the whole fabric of their philosophy, truth and fantasy alike, was overwhelmed together. They despised knowledge, and knowledge destroyed them.

The certainties of one age become the problems of the next. Few will fail to admire the magnificent vision of a community shaped by moral law, from top to bottom. That vision inspired the great reformers no less than the better minds of the Middle Ages. But to bring the stubborn world of material interests under control, we must understand its tangled ways. And to understand those ways, we need at least some sympathy for them. The Prince of Darkness deserves a courteous hearing and a fair trial. Those who deny him his due tend to find that, in the end, he turns the tables. He takes his due and something more. Common sense and respect for reality are virtues of the spirit, no less than moral zeal. The children of light denounced every new victory of economic enterprise in bursts of righteous fury. Each victory, they declared, was another scheme of Mammon. Their fury left them unable to plan their campaign, which required a cool head as well as a brave heart. They stubbornly refused to revise old formulas in light of new facts. As a result, they were helpless against a counterattack that swept away their entire philosophy, truth and fantasy alike. They despised knowledge, and knowledge destroyed them.

Few can contemplate without a sense of exhilaration the splendid achievements of practical energy and technical skill, which, from the latter part of the seventeenth century, were transforming the face of material civilization, and of which England was the daring, if not too scrupulous, pioneer. If, however, economic ambitions are good servants, they are bad masters. Harnessed to a social purpose, they will turn the mill and grind the corn. But the question, to what end the wheels revolve, still remains; and on that question the naïve and uncritical worship of economic power, which is the mood of unreason too often engendered in those whom that new Leviathan has hypnotized by its spell, throws no light. Its result is not seldom a world in which men commands a mechanism that they cannot fully use, and an organization which has every perfection except that of motion.

Few people can contemplate the magnificent achievements of practical energy and technical skill without feeling exhilarated. From the late seventeenth century onward, these achievements transformed the face of material civilization. England was their daring, if not always scrupulous, pioneer. Economic ambitions, however, are good servants but bad masters. Harnessed to a social purpose, they will turn the mill and grind the corn. But the question remains: to what end do the wheels turn? The naive and uncritical worship of economic power sheds no light on that question. Such worship is an irrational mood that too often takes hold of those hypnotized by the spell of this new Leviathan. The result is not seldom a world in which people command a mechanism they cannot fully use, and an organization that has every perfection except motion.

The shaft of Mephistopheles, which drops harmless from the armor of Reason, pierces the lazy caricature which masquerades beneath that sacred name, to flatter its followers with the smiling illusion of progress won from the mastery of the material environment by a race too selfish and superficial to determine the purpose to which its triumphs shall be applied. Mankind may wring her secrets from nature, and use their knowledge to destroy themselves; they may command the Ariels of heat and motion, and bind their wings in helpless frustration, while they wrangle over the question of the master whom the imprisoned genii shall serve. Whether the chemist shall provide them with the means of life or with tri-nitro-toluol and poison gas, whether industry shall straighten the bent back or crush it beneath heavier burdens, depends on an act of choice between incompatible ideals, for which no increase in the apparatus of civilization at man’s disposal is in itself a substitute. Economic efficiency is a necessary element in the life of any sane and vigorous society, and only the incorrigible sentimentalist will depreciate its significance. But to convert efficiency from an instrument into a primary object is to destroy efficiency itself. For the condition of effective action in a complex civilization is coöperation. And the condition of coöperation is agreement, both as to the ends to which effort should be applied, and the criteria by which its success is to be judged.

The arrow of Mephistopheles falls harmlessly from the armor of Reason. But it pierces the lazy caricature that pretends to be Reason. This caricature flatters its followers with a reassuring illusion: that mastering the material world brings progress. Yet the human race is too selfish and superficial to decide what purpose its triumphs should serve. Humanity may wrest nature’s secrets from her and use that knowledge to destroy itself. People may command the Ariels of heat and motion, yet leave these spirits helpless and frustrated. Meanwhile, they quarrel over which master the imprisoned genii should serve. Chemists may provide the means of life, or tri-nitro-toluol and poison gas. Industry may straighten the bent back, or crush it under heavier burdens. The outcome depends on a choice between incompatible ideals. No increase in the tools of civilization available to humanity can substitute for that choice. Economic efficiency is a necessary part of life in any sane and vigorous society. Only a hopeless sentimentalist would belittle its importance. But turning efficiency from a tool into a primary goal destroys efficiency itself. Effective action in a complex civilization requires cooperation. And cooperation requires agreement about the ends toward which effort should be directed and the standards for judging its success.

Agreement as to ends implies the acceptance of a standard of values, by which the position to be assigned to different objects may be determined. In a world of limited resources, where nature yields a return only to prolonged and systematic effort, such a standard must obviously take account of economic possibilities. But it cannot itself be merely economic, since the comparative importance of economic and of other interests—the sacrifice, for example, of material goods worth incurring in order to extend leisure, or develop education, or humanize toil—is precisely the point on which it is needed to throw light. It must be based on some conception of the requirements of human nature as a whole, to which the satisfaction of economic needs is evidently vital, but which demands the satisfaction of other needs as well, and which can organize its activities on a rational system only in so far as it has a clear apprehension of their relative significance. “Whatever the world thinks,” wrote Bishop Berkeley, “he who hath not much meditated upon God, the human mind and the summum bonum may possibly make a thriving earthworm, but will most indubitably make a sorry patriot and a sorry statesman.” The philosopher of today, who bids us base our hopes of progress on knowledge inspired by love, does not differ from the Bishop so much, perhaps, as he would wish. The most obvious facts are the most easily forgotten. Both the existing economic order, and too many of the projects advanced for reconstructing it, break down through their neglect of the truism that, since even quite common men have souls, no increase in material wealth will compensate them for arrangements which insult their self-respect and impair their freedom. A reasonable estimate of economic organization must allow for the fact that, unless industry is to be paralyzed by recurrent revolts on the part of outraged human nature, it must satisfy criteria which are not purely economic. A reasonable view of its possible modifications must recognize that natural appetites may be purified or restrained, as, in fact, in some considerable measure they already have been, by being submitted to the control of some larger body of interests. The distinction made by the philosophers of classical antiquity between liberal and servile occupations, the medieval insistence that riches exist for man, not man for riches, Ruskin’s famous outburst, “there is no wealth but life,” the argument of the Socialist who urges that production should be organized for service, not for profit, are but different attempts to emphasize the instrumental character of economic activities by reference to an ideal which is held to express the true nature of man.

Agreement about goals requires a standard of values for deciding how important different things are. Resources are limited, and nature gives us a return only for long, systematic effort. So any such standard must take economic possibilities into account. But the standard cannot be purely economic. Its purpose is to clarify the relative importance of economic and other interests. For example, how much material wealth is worth sacrificing to gain leisure, improve education, or make work more humane? The standard must be based on an understanding of what human nature as a whole requires. Meeting economic needs is clearly vital, but human nature has other needs too. People can organize their activities rationally only if they clearly understand their relative importance. “Whatever the world thinks,” wrote Bishop Berkeley, “a person who has not given much thought to God, the human mind, and the summum bonum may make a thriving earthworm, but will most certainly make a sorry patriot and a sorry statesman.” Today’s philosopher urges us to base our hopes of progress on knowledge inspired by love. Perhaps he does not differ from the Bishop as much as he would wish. The most obvious facts are the easiest to forget. Both the existing economic order and too many proposals to rebuild it fail because they ignore an obvious truth. Even quite ordinary people have souls. No increase in material wealth will make up for arrangements that insult their self-respect and weaken their freedom. A reasonable assessment of economic organization must recognize that it must meet standards that are not purely economic. Otherwise, industry will be paralyzed by repeated revolts from people whose human nature has been outraged. A reasonable view of possible changes to economic organization must recognize something else as well. Natural appetites can be purified or restrained by bringing them under the control of a wider set of interests. In fact, this has already happened to a considerable extent. Many thinkers have tried to emphasize that economic activities are a means to an end. They have done so by appealing to an ideal they believe expresses humanity’s true nature. Examples include the classical philosophers’ distinction between liberal and servile occupations, and the medieval insistence that riches exist for people, not people for riches. Others include Ruskin’s famous outburst, “there is no wealth but life,” and the Socialist’s argument that production should be organized for service, not for profit.

Of that nature and its possibilities the Christian Church was thought, during the greater part of the period discussed in these pages, to hold by definition a conception distinctively its own. It was therefore committed to the formulation of a social theory, not as a philanthropic gloss upon the main body of its teaching, but as a vital element in a creed concerned with the destiny of men whose character is formed, and whose spiritual potentialities are fostered or starved, by the commerce of the market-place and the institutions of society. Stripped of the eccentricities of period and place, its philosophy had as its center a determination to assert the superiority of moral principles over economic appetites, which have their place, and an important place, in the human scheme, but which, like other natural appetites, when flattered and pampered and overfed, bring ruin to the soul and confusion to society. Its casuistry was an attempt to translate these principles into a code of practical ethics, sufficiently precise to be applied to the dusty world of warehouse and farm. Its discipline was an effort, too often corrupt and pettifogging in practice, but not ignoble in conception, to work the Christian virtues into the spotted texture of individual character and social conduct. That practice was often a sorry parody on theory is a truism which should need no emphasis. But in a world where principles and conduct are unequally mated, men are to be judged by their reach as well as by their grasp—by the ends at which they aim as well as by the success with which they attain them. The prudent critic will try himself by his achievement rather than by his ideals, and his neighbors, living and dead alike, by their ideals not less than by their achievement.

For most of the period discussed in these pages, the Christian Church was thought to have its own distinctive understanding of human nature and its possibilities. The Church was therefore committed to developing a social theory. This was not a charitable addition to its main teachings, but a vital part of its creed. That creed was concerned with human destiny. People’s character is shaped by trade in the marketplace and by society’s institutions. These also nurture or starve their spiritual potential. Stripped of the peculiarities of time and place, the Church’s philosophy centered on a determination to uphold moral principles over economic appetites. Economic appetites have a place, and an important place, in human life. But like other natural appetites, when indulged, pampered, and overfed, they ruin the soul and throw society into confusion. The Church’s casuistry was an attempt to turn these principles into a practical code of ethics. The code had to be precise enough to apply to the dusty world of warehouses and farms. The Church’s discipline was an effort to weave Christian virtues into the stained fabric of individual character and social conduct. In practice, that discipline was too often corrupt and concerned with petty details, but its aim was not ignoble. It should hardly need saying that practice was often a sorry parody of theory. But in a world where principles and conduct do not match, people should be judged by their reach as well as their grasp. They should be judged by the ends they aim for as well as by their success in achieving them. A prudent critic will judge himself by his achievements rather than his ideals. He will judge his neighbors, living and dead alike, by their ideals no less than by their achievements.

Circumstances alter from age to age, and the practical interpretation of moral principles must alter with them. Few who consider dispassionately the facts of social history will be disposed to deny that the exploitation of the weak by the powerful, organized for purposes of economic gain, buttressed by imposing systems of law, and screened by decorous draperies of virtuous sentiment and resounding rhetoric, has been a permanent feature in the life of most communities that the world has yet seen. But the quality in modern societies which is most sharply opposed to the teaching ascribed to the Founder of the Christian Faith lies deeper than the exceptional failures and abnormal follies against which criticism is most commonly directed. It consists in the assumption, accepted by most reformers with hardly less naïveté than by the defenders of the established order, that the attainment of material riches is the supreme object of human endeavor and the final criterion of human success. Such a philosophy, plausible, militant, and not indisposed, when hard pressed, to silence criticism by persecution, may triumph or may decline. What is certain is that it is the negation of any system of thought or morals which can, except by a metaphor, be described as Christian. Compromise is as impossible between the Church of Christ and the idolatry of wealth, which is the practical religion of capitalist societies, as it was between the Church and the State idolatry of the Roman Empire.

Circumstances change from age to age, and the practical interpretation of moral principles must change with them. Anyone who looks impartially at social history will hardly deny that the powerful have exploited the weak for economic gain. This exploitation has been organized, supported by imposing legal systems, and hidden behind respectable displays of virtuous sentiment and grand rhetoric. It has been a permanent feature of life in most communities the world has yet seen. But the feature of modern societies most sharply opposed to the teachings attributed to the Founder of the Christian Faith runs deeper. It lies beyond the exceptional failures and abnormal follies that criticism most often targets. It is the assumption that gaining material wealth is the highest goal of human effort and the ultimate measure of success. Most reformers accept this assumption with hardly less naïveté than defenders of the established order. This philosophy is plausible and militant. When hard pressed, it is not unwilling to silence criticism through persecution. It may triumph or decline. But one thing is certain. This philosophy is the opposite of any system of thought or morality that can be called Christian, except as a metaphor. There can be no compromise between the Church of Christ and the worship of wealth, the practical religion of capitalist societies. Nor could there be a compromise between the Church and the worship of the state in the Roman Empire.

“Modern capitalism,” writes Mr. Keynes, “is absolutely irreligious, without internal union, without much public spirit, often, though not always, a mere congeries of possessors and pursuers.” It is that whole system of appetites and values, with its deification of the life of snatching to hoard, and hoarding to snatch, which now, in the hour of its triumph, while the plaudits of the crowd still ring in the ears of the gladiators and the laurels are still unfaded on their brows, seems sometimes to leave a taste as of ashes on the lips of a civilization which has brought to the conquest of its material environment resources unknown in earlier ages, but which has not yet learned to master itself. It was against that system, while still in its supple and insinuating youth, before success had caused it to throw aside the mask of innocence, and while its true nature was unknown even to itself, that the saints and sages of earlier ages launched their warnings and their denunciations. The language in which theologians and preachers expressed their horror of the sin of covetousness may appear to the modern reader too murkily sulphurous; their precepts on the contracts of business and the disposition of property may seem an impracticable pedantry. But rashness is a more agreeable failing than cowardice, and, when to speak is unpopular, it is less pardonable to be silent than to say too much. Posterity has, perhaps, as much to learn from the whirlwind eloquence with which Latimer scourged injustice and oppression as from the sober respectability of the judicious Paley—who himself, since there are depths below depths, was regarded as a dangerous revolutionary by George III.

“Modern capitalism,” writes Mr. Keynes, “is absolutely irreligious, without internal union, without much public spirit, often, though not always, a mere congeries of possessors and pursuers.” It is a whole system of desires and values. It worships a life of grabbing things to hoard, and hoarding things to grab more. Now, at the height of its triumph, it sometimes seems to leave a taste of ashes on the lips of civilization. The crowd’s applause still rings in the gladiators’ ears, and the laurels on their heads have not yet faded. Yet this civilization, which has brought unprecedented resources to the conquest of its material environment, has not learned to master itself. The saints and sages of earlier ages warned against and condemned this system. They did so while it was still young, flexible, and quietly spreading its influence. Success had not yet led it to throw aside its mask of innocence. Its true nature was still unknown even to itself. The language in which theologians and preachers expressed their horror of covetousness may seem darkly hellish to modern readers. Their rules for business contracts and the use of property may seem impractical and pedantic. But rashness is a more appealing fault than cowardice. And when speaking out is unpopular, silence is less forgivable than saying too much. Perhaps later generations have as much to learn from Latimer’s stormy denunciations of injustice and oppression as from the sober respectability of the prudent Paley. Paley himself was regarded as a dangerous revolutionary by George III. There are depths below depths.