Chapter 1: The New Energy Source

The problem which was already being mooted by such scientific men as Ramsay, Rutherford, and Soddy, in the very beginning of the twentieth century, the problem of inducing radio-activity in the heavier elements and so tapping the internal energy of atoms, was solved by a wonderful combination of induction, intuition, and luck by Holsten so soon as the year 1933. From the first detection of radio-activity to its first subjugation to human purpose measured little more than a quarter of a century. For twenty years after that, indeed, minor difficulties prevented any striking practical application of his success, but the essential thing was done, this new boundary in the march of human progress was crossed, in that year. He set up atomic disintegration in a minute particle of bismuth; it exploded with great violence into a heavy gas of extreme radio-activity, which disintegrated in its turn in the course of seven days, and it was only after another year’s work that he was able to show practically that the last result of this rapid release of energy was gold. But the thing was done—at the cost of a blistered chest and an injured finger, and from the moment when the invisible speck of bismuth flashed into riving and rending energy, Holsten knew that he had opened a way for mankind, however narrow and dark it might still be, to worlds of limitless power. He recorded as much in the strange diary biography he left the world, a diary that was up to that particular moment a mass of speculations and calculations, and which suddenly became for a space an amazingly minute and human record of sensations and emotions that all humanity might understand.

At the very beginning of the twentieth century, scientists such as Ramsay, Rutherford, and Soddy were already considering a problem. They wanted to induce radioactivity in heavier elements and tap the energy inside atoms. Holsten solved the problem as early as 1933, through a remarkable combination of reasoning, intuition, and luck. Little more than a quarter of a century passed between the discovery of radioactivity and its first use for human purposes. For twenty years after Holsten’s discovery, minor difficulties prevented any striking practical application. But the essential work was done, and a new boundary in human progress was crossed in 1933. Holsten caused a tiny particle of bismuth to undergo atomic disintegration. It exploded violently into a heavy, intensely radioactive gas. The gas in turn disintegrated over seven days. Only after another year’s work could Holsten show in practice that the final product of this rapid release of energy was gold. But he had done it, at the cost of a blistered chest and an injured finger. The invisible speck of bismuth had flashed into a burst of tearing, destructive energy. From that moment, Holsten knew he had opened a path for humanity to worlds of limitless power, however narrow and dark that path might still be. He recorded this in the strange diary biography he left to the world. Up to that moment, the diary had been a mass of speculations and calculations. Then, for a time, it suddenly became an amazingly detailed and human record of sensations and emotions that all humanity could understand.

He gives, in broken phrases and often single words, it is true, but none the less vividly for that, a record of the twenty-four hours following the demonstration of the correctness of his intricate tracery of computations and guesses. ‘I thought I should not sleep,’ he writes—the words he omitted are supplied in brackets—(on account of) ‘pain in (the) hand and chest and (the) wonder of what I had done.... Slept like a child.’

He describes the twenty-four hours after his intricate calculations and guesses were proved correct. He writes in broken phrases and often in single words, but his account is no less vivid for that. ‘I thought I should not sleep,’ he writes. The words he left out are supplied in brackets: (on account of) ‘pain in (the) hand and chest and (the) wonder of what I had done.... Slept like a child.’

He felt strange and disconcerted the next morning; he had nothing to do, he was living alone in apartments in Bloomsbury, and he decided to go up to Hampstead Heath, which he had known when he was a little boy as a breezy playground. He went up by the underground tube that was then the recognised means of travel from one part of London to another, and walked up Heath Street from the tube station to the open heath. He found it a gully of planks and scaffoldings between the hoardings of house-wreckers. The spirit of the times had seized upon that narrow, steep, and winding thoroughfare, and was in the act of making it commodious and interesting, according to the remarkable ideals of Neo-Georgian æstheticism. Such is the illogical quality of humanity that Holsten, fresh from work that was like a petard under the seat of current civilisation, saw these changes with regret. He had come up Heath Street perhaps a thousand times, had known the windows of all the little shops, spent hours in the vanished cinematograph theatre, and marvelled at the high-flung early Georgian houses upon the westward bank of that old gully of a thoroughfare; he felt strange with all these familiar things gone. He escaped at last with a feeling of relief from this choked alley of trenches and holes and cranes, and emerged upon the old familiar scene about the White Stone Pond. That, at least, was very much as it used to be.

He felt strange and unsettled the next morning. He had nothing to do and was living alone in an apartment in Bloomsbury. He decided to go to Hampstead Heath, which he had known as a breezy playground when he was a little boy. He took the underground tube, then the usual way to travel across London. From the station, he walked up Heath Street toward the open heath. He found the street transformed into a gully of planks and scaffolding between the fences put up by demolition crews. The spirit of the times had taken hold of that narrow, steep, winding street. It was making the street spacious and interesting, according to the remarkable ideals of Neo-Georgian aesthetics. Humanity is so illogical that Holsten regretted these changes. Yet he had just been working on something like a bomb planted beneath the seat of modern civilization. He had come up Heath Street perhaps a thousand times. He had known the windows of all the little shops and spent hours in the movie theater, now gone. He had marveled at the tall early Georgian houses rising above the western bank of that old gully of a street. With all these familiar things gone, he felt out of place. At last, he escaped the clogged passage of trenches, holes, and cranes. With relief, he emerged into the familiar surroundings of the White Stone Pond. That, at least, was much as it used to be.

There were still the fine old red-brick houses to left and right of him; the reservoir had been improved by a portico of marble, the white-fronted inn with the clustering flowers above its portico still stood out at the angle of the ways, and the blue view to Harrow Hill and Harrow spire, a view of hills and trees and shining waters and wind-driven cloud shadows, was like the opening of a great window to the ascending Londoner. All that was very reassuring. There was the same strolling crowd, the same perpetual miracle of motors dodging through it harmlessly, escaping headlong into the country from the Sabbatical stuffiness behind and below them. There was a band still, a women’s suffrage meeting—for the suffrage women had won their way back to the tolerance, a trifle derisive, of the populace again—socialist orators, politicians, a band, and the same wild uproar of dogs, frantic with the gladness of their one blessed weekly release from the back yard and the chain. And away along the road to the Spaniards strolled a vast multitude, saying, as ever, that the view of London was exceptionally clear that day.

The fine old red-brick houses still stood on either side of him. The reservoir had been improved with a marble portico. The white-fronted inn still stood at the junction, with flowers clustered above its portico. The blue view toward Harrow Hill and Harrow spire was like a great window opening before the Londoner climbing uphill. It showed hills, trees, shining water, and cloud shadows driven by the wind. All this was very reassuring. The same crowd was strolling about. The same perpetual miracle played out as cars dodged harmlessly through the crowd. They rushed on into the country, escaping the Sunday stuffiness behind and below them. There was still a band, and there was a women’s suffrage meeting. The suffrage women had once again won back the public’s tolerance, though people still mocked them a little. There were socialist speakers, politicians, a band, and the same wild uproar of dogs. The dogs were frantic with joy at their one blessed weekly release from the backyard and the chain. And a huge crowd strolled along the road to the Spaniards, saying, as always, that the view of London was exceptionally clear that day.

Young Holsten’s face was white. He walked with that uneasy affectation of ease that marks an overstrained nervous system and an under-exercised body. He hesitated at the White Stone Pond whether to go to the left of it or the right, and again at the fork of the roads. He kept shifting his stick in his hand, and every now and then he would get in the way of people on the footpath or be jostled by them because of the uncertainty of his movements. He felt, he confesses, ‘inadequate to ordinary existence.’ He seemed to himself to be something inhuman and mischievous. All the people about him looked fairly prosperous, fairly happy, fairly well adapted to the lives they had to lead—a week of work and a Sunday of best clothes and mild promenading—and he had launched something that would disorganise the entire fabric that held their contentments and ambitions and satisfactions together. ‘Felt like an imbecile who has presented a box full of loaded revolvers to a Crêche,’ he notes.

Young Holsten’s face was pale. He walked with an uneasy show of ease, typical of someone with strained nerves and an underexercised body. At the White Stone Pond, he hesitated, unsure whether to go left or right. He hesitated again at the fork in the road. He kept shifting his walking stick from hand to hand. Now and then, his uncertain movements made him get in people’s way or caused them to bump into him. He felt, he admits, ‘unable to cope with ordinary life.’ He seemed to himself like something inhuman and mischievous. Everyone around him looked fairly prosperous, fairly happy, and fairly well suited to the lives they had to lead. They spent the week working and Sunday in their best clothes, taking leisurely walks. Yet he had set something in motion that would disrupt the whole structure holding their comforts, ambitions, and satisfactions together. ‘I felt like an imbecile who has given a box full of loaded revolvers to a nursery,’ he notes.

He met a man named Lawson, an old school-fellow, of whom history now knows only that he was red-faced and had a terrier. He and Holsten walked together and Holsten was sufficiently pale and jumpy for Lawson to tell him he overworked and needed a holiday. They sat down at a little table outside the County Council house of Golders Hill Park and sent one of the waiters to the Bull and Bush for a couple of bottles of beer, no doubt at Lawson’s suggestion. The beer warmed Holsten’s rather dehumanised system. He began to tell Lawson as clearly as he could to what his great discovery amounted. Lawson feigned attention, but indeed he had neither the knowledge nor the imagination to understand. ‘In the end, before many years are out, this must eventually change war, transit, lighting, building, and every sort of manufacture, even agriculture, every material human concern——’

He met a man named Lawson, an old schoolmate. History now knows only that Lawson had a red face and a terrier. Holsten and Lawson walked together. Holsten looked so pale and nervous that Lawson told him he was working too hard and needed a holiday. They sat down at a small table outside the County Council house in Golders Hill Park. They sent a waiter to the Bull and Bush for two bottles of beer, no doubt at Lawson’s suggestion. The beer warmed Holsten’s rather dehumanized system. He began to explain to Lawson as clearly as he could what his great discovery meant. Lawson pretended to pay attention, but he had neither the knowledge nor the imagination to understand. ‘Before many years are out, this discovery must eventually change war, transport, lighting, building, and every kind of manufacturing. It will change even agriculture, and every material human concern...’

Then Holsten stopped short. Lawson had leapt to his feet. ‘Damn that dog!’ cried Lawson. ‘Look at it now. Hi! Here! Phewoo-phewoo-phewoo! Come here, Bobs! Come here!’

Then Holsten stopped abruptly. Lawson had jumped to his feet. ‘Damn that dog!’ Lawson cried. ‘Look at it now. Hey! Here! Phewoo-phewoo-phewoo! Come here, Bobs! Come here!’

The young scientific man, with his bandaged hand, sat at the green table, too tired to convey the wonder of the thing he had sought so long, his friend whistled and bawled for his dog, and the Sunday people drifted about them through the spring sunshine. For a moment or so Holsten stared at Lawson in astonishment, for he had been too intent upon what he had been saying to realise how little Lawson had attended.

The young scientist sat at the green table, his hand bandaged. He was too tired to convey the wonder of what he had sought for so long. His friend whistled and shouted for his dog, while the Sunday crowd wandered around them in the spring sunshine. For a moment, Holsten stared at Lawson in amazement. He had been so focused on what he was saying that he had not realized how little attention Lawson had paid.

Then he remarked, ‘Well!’ and smiled faintly, and—finished the tankard of beer before him.

Then he said, ‘Well!’ He smiled faintly and finished the tankard of beer in front of him.

Lawson sat down again. ‘One must look after one’s dog,’ he said, with a note of apology. ‘What was it you were telling me?’

Lawson sat down again. ‘You have to look after your dog,’ he said apologetically. ‘What were you telling me?’

In the evening Holsten went out again. He walked to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and stood for a time near the door listening to the evening service. The candles upon the altar reminded him in some odd way of the fireflies at Fiesole. Then he walked back through the evening lights to Westminster. He was oppressed, he was indeed scared, by his sense of the immense consequences of his discovery. He had a vague idea that night that he ought not to publish his results, that they were premature, that some secret association of wise men should take care of his work and hand it on from generation to generation until the world was riper for its practical application. He felt that nobody in all the thousands of people he passed had really awakened to the fact of change, they trusted the world for what it was, not to alter too rapidly, to respect their trusts, their assurances, their habits, their little accustomed traffics and hard-won positions.

That evening, Holsten went out again. He walked to Saint Paul’s Cathedral and stood near the door for a while, listening to the evening service. The candles on the altar reminded him in some strange way of the fireflies at Fiesole. Then he walked back through the evening lights to Westminster. The immense consequences of his discovery weighed on him. They frightened him. That night, he had a vague feeling that he should not publish his results because they had come too soon. Perhaps a secret group of wise men should look after his work and pass it down through the generations. They could wait until the world was more ready to put it to practical use. He felt that none of the thousands of people he passed had really awakened to the fact of change. They trusted the world to remain as it was and not change too quickly. They trusted it to respect their trust, their certainties, their habits, their small everyday dealings, and their hard-won positions.

He went into those little gardens beneath the over-hanging, brightly-lit masses of the Savoy Hotel and the Hotel Cecil. He sat down on a seat and became aware of the talk of the two people next to him. It was the talk of a young couple evidently on the eve of marriage. The man was congratulating himself on having regular employment at last; ‘they like me,’ he said, ‘and I like the job. If I work up—in’r dozen years or so I ought to be gettin’ somethin’ pretty comfortable. That’s the plain sense of it, Hetty. There ain’t no reason whatsoever why we shouldn’t get along very decently—very decently indeed.’

He went into the little gardens beneath the overhanging, brightly lit buildings of the Savoy Hotel and the Hotel Cecil. He sat down on a bench and became aware of two people talking next to him. They were a young couple, evidently about to get married. The man was pleased that he finally had regular work. ‘They like me,’ he said, ‘and I like the job. If I work up, in a dozen years or so I ought to be getting something pretty comfortable. That’s the plain sense of it, Hetty. There ain’t no reason whatsoever why we shouldn’t get along very decently, very decently indeed.’

The desire for little successes amidst conditions securely fixed! So it struck upon Holsten’s mind. He added in his diary, ‘I had a sense of all this globe as that....’

The desire for small successes in a world where conditions were securely fixed! That was how it struck Holsten. He added in his diary, ‘I had a sense of the whole world being like that....’

By that phrase he meant a kind of clairvoyant vision of this populated world as a whole, of all its cities and towns and villages, its high roads and the inns beside them, its gardens and farms and upland pastures, its boatmen and sailors, its ships coming along the great circles of the ocean, its time-tables and appointments and payments and dues as it were one unified and progressive spectacle. Sometimes such visions came to him; his mind, accustomed to great generalisations and yet acutely sensitive to detail, saw things far more comprehensively than the minds of most of his contemporaries. Usually the teeming sphere moved on to its predestined ends and circled with a stately swiftness on its path about the sun. Usually it was all a living progress that altered under his regard. But now fatigue a little deadened him to that incessancy of life, it seemed now just an eternal circling. He lapsed to the commoner persuasion of the great fixities and recurrencies of the human routine. The remoter past of wandering savagery, the inevitable changes of to-morrow were veiled, and he saw only day and night, seed-time and harvest, loving and begetting, births and deaths, walks in the summer sunlight and tales by the winter fireside, the ancient sequence of hope and acts and age perennially renewed, eddying on for ever and ever, save that now the impious hand of research was raised to overthrow this drowsy, gently humming, habitual, sunlit spinning-top of man’s existence....

By that phrase he meant a kind of clairvoyant vision of the whole populated world. He saw all its cities, towns, and villages, its highways and the inns beside them, its gardens, farms, and upland pastures. He saw its boatmen and sailors, and its ships following the great circles across the ocean. He saw its schedules, appointments, payments, and dues, all as one unified spectacle moving forward. Sometimes such visions came to him. His mind was used to seeing broad patterns, yet it was sharply sensitive to detail. He saw things far more comprehensively than most of his contemporaries did. Usually, the teeming globe moved toward its destined ends, circling the sun with stately speed. Usually, it was a living progression that changed as he watched. But now fatigue dulled his sense of life’s constant movement. It seemed to him now to be nothing but an eternal circling. He fell back into the more common belief that human life was fixed and endlessly repeated. The distant past of wandering savagery and the inevitable changes of tomorrow were hidden from him. He saw only day and night, planting and harvest, loving and begetting, births and deaths, walks in summer sunlight and stories by winter firesides. He saw the ancient sequence of hope, action, and age, endlessly renewed and swirling on forever. Only now the irreverent hand of research was raised to overturn this drowsy, gently humming, familiar, sunlit spinning top of human existence....

For a time he forgot wars and crimes and hates and persecutions, famine and pestilence, the cruelties of beasts, weariness and the bitter wind, failure and insufficiency and retrocession. He saw all mankind in terms of the humble Sunday couple upon the seat beside him, who schemed their inglorious outlook and improbable contentments. ‘I had a sense of all this globe as that.’

For a time he forgot wars, crimes, hatred, persecution, famine, and disease. He forgot the cruelty of beasts, weariness, the bitter wind, failure, inadequacy, and setbacks. He saw all humanity in the humble Sunday couple sitting beside him. They planned their modest future and their unlikely pleasures. ‘I felt the whole world was like that.’

His intelligence struggled against this mood and struggled for a time in vain. He reassured himself against the invasion of this disconcerting idea that he was something strange and inhuman, a loose wanderer from the flock returning with evil gifts from his sustained unnatural excursions amidst the darknesses and phosphorescences beneath the fair surfaces of life. Man had not been always thus; the instincts and desires of the little home, the little plot, was not all his nature; also he was an adventurer, an experimenter, an unresting curiosity, an insatiable desire. For a few thousand generations indeed he had tilled the earth and followed the seasons, saying his prayers, grinding his corn and trampling the October winepress, yet not for so long but that he was still full of restless stirrings.

His mind fought against this mood, but for a time it fought in vain. He tried to reassure himself against the troubling idea that he was something strange and inhuman. He felt like a stray from the flock, returning with evil gifts from his long, unnatural journeys. Those journeys had taken him into the darkness and glowing depths beneath the beautiful surfaces of life. Man had not always been this way. The instincts and desires centered on a little home and a little plot of land were not his whole nature. He was also an adventurer, an experimenter, a restless curiosity, an insatiable desire. For a few thousand generations, he had indeed farmed the earth and followed the seasons. He had said his prayers, ground his grain, and trodden grapes in the October winepress. Yet he had not done these things for so long that his restless impulses had disappeared.

‘If there have been home and routine and the field,’ thought Holsten, ‘there have also been wonder and the sea.’

‘If there has been home, routine, and the field,’ thought Holsten, ‘there has also been wonder and the sea.’

He turned his head and looked up over the back of the seat at the great hotels above him, full of softly shaded lights and the glow and colour and stir of feasting. Might his gift to mankind mean simply more of that? . . .

He turned and looked over the back of his seat at the great hotels above him. They were full of softly shaded lights and the glow, color, and bustle of feasting. Could his gift to mankind mean simply more of that? . . .

He got up and walked out of the garden, surveyed a passing tram-car, laden with warm light, against the deep blues of evening, dripping and trailing long skirts of shining reflection; he crossed the Embankment and stood for a time watching the dark river and turning ever and again to the lit buildings and bridges. His mind began to scheme conceivable replacements of all those clustering arrangements....

He got up and walked out of the garden. He watched a tram pass, filled with warm light against the deep blue of evening. It trailed long, shimmering reflections. He crossed the Embankment and stood for a while, watching the dark river. Again and again, he turned to look at the lit buildings and bridges. He began imagining possible replacements for all those clustered arrangements....

‘It has begun,’ he writes in the diary in which these things are recorded. ‘It is not for me to reach out to consequences I cannot foresee. I am a part, not a whole; I am a little instrument in the armoury of Change. If I were to burn all these papers, before a score of years had passed, some other man would be doing this. . .

‘It has begun,’ he writes in the diary where he records these events. ‘It is not for me to pursue consequences I cannot foresee. I am a part, not a whole. I am a small tool in the armoury of Change. If I burned all these papers, another man would be doing this within twenty years. . .

Holsten, before he died, was destined to see atomic energy dominating every other source of power, but for some years yet a vast network of difficulties in detail and application kept the new discovery from any effective invasion of ordinary life. The path from the laboratory to the workshop is sometimes a tortuous one; electro-magnetic radiations were known and demonstrated for twenty years before Marconi made them practically available, and in the same way it was twenty years before induced radio-activity could be brought to practical utilisation. The thing, of course, was discussed very much, more perhaps at the time of its discovery than during the interval of technical adaptation, but with very little realisation of the huge economic revolution that impended. What chiefly impressed the journalists of 1933 was the production of gold from bismuth and the realisation albeit upon unprofitable lines of the alchemist’s dreams; there was a considerable amount of discussion and expectation in that more intelligent section of the educated publics of the various civilised countries which followed scientific development; but for the most part the world went about its business—as the inhabitants of those Swiss villages which live under the perpetual threat of overhanging rocks and mountains go about their business—just as though the possible was impossible, as though the inevitable was postponed for ever because it was delayed.

Before he died, Holsten would see atomic energy dominate every other source of power. But for several years, a vast web of practical difficulties kept the discovery from having any real effect on everyday life. The path from the laboratory to the workshop is sometimes a winding one. Electromagnetic radiation had been known and demonstrated for twenty years before Marconi made it practically useful. In the same way, it took twenty years to put induced radioactivity to practical use. Of course, people discussed the discovery a great deal, perhaps more when it was first made than during the years of technical development. But they had little idea of the enormous economic revolution ahead. What impressed journalists in 1933 most was the production of gold from bismuth. It was the realization of the alchemists’ dreams, though it was not profitable. Among the more intelligent educated people who followed scientific developments in the various civilized countries, there was considerable discussion and expectation. But for the most part, the world went about its business. It was like the inhabitants of Swiss villages who live under the constant threat of overhanging rocks and mountains. They go about their business as if the possible were impossible, as if the inevitable had been postponed forever simply because it was delayed.

It was in 1953 that the first Holsten-Roberts engine brought induced radio-activity into the sphere of industrial production, and its first general use was to replace the steam-engine in electrical generating stations. Hard upon the appearance of this came the Dass-Tata engine—the invention of two among the brilliant galaxy of Bengali inventors the modernisation of Indian thought was producing at this time—which was used chiefly for automobiles, aeroplanes, waterplanes, and such-like, mobile purposes. The American Kemp engine, differing widely in principle but equally practicable, and the Krupp-Erlanger came hard upon the heels of this, and by the autumn of 1954 a gigantic replacement of industrial methods and machinery was in progress all about the habitable globe. Small wonder was this when the cost, even of these earliest and clumsiest of atomic engines, is compared with that of the power they superseded. Allowing for lubrication the Dass-Tata engine, once it was started cost a penny to run thirty-seven miles, and added only nine and quarter pounds to the weight of the carriage it drove. It made the heavy alcohol-driven automobile of the time ridiculous in appearance as well as preposterously costly. For many years the price of coal and every form of liquid fuel had been clambering to levels that made even the revival of the draft horse seem a practicable possibility, and now with the abrupt relaxation of this stringency, the change in appearance of the traffic upon the world’s roads was instantaneous. In three years the frightful armoured monsters that had hooted and smoked and thundered about the world for four awful decades were swept away to the dealers in old metal, and the highways thronged with light and clean and shimmering shapes of silvered steel. At the same time a new impetus was given to aviation by the relatively enormous power for weight of the atomic engine, it was at last possible to add Redmayne’s ingenious helicopter ascent and descent engine to the vertical propeller that had hitherto been the sole driving force of the aeroplane without overweighting the machine, and men found themselves possessed of an instrument of flight that could hover or ascend or descend vertically and gently as well as rush wildly through the air. The last dread of flying vanished. As the journalists of the time phrased it, this was the epoch of the Leap into the Air. The new atomic aeroplane became indeed a mania; every one of means was frantic to possess a thing so controllable, so secure and so free from the dust and danger of the road, and in France alone in the year 1943 thirty thousand of these new aeroplanes were manufactured and licensed, and soared humming softly into the sky.

In 1953, the first Holsten-Roberts engine brought induced radioactivity into industrial production. Its first widespread use was replacing steam engines in electrical generating stations. Soon afterward came the Dass-Tata engine. Its inventors were two among the brilliant galaxy of Bengali inventors produced by the modernization of Indian thought. The Dass-Tata engine was used chiefly for mobile purposes, such as automobiles, aeroplanes, and waterplanes. The American Kemp engine followed close behind, as did the Krupp-Erlanger. The Kemp engine worked on a very different principle but was equally practical. By the autumn of 1954, industrial methods and machinery were being replaced on a gigantic scale throughout the inhabited world. This was hardly surprising, given the cost of the power the atomic engines replaced. Even the earliest and clumsiest atomic engines were cheap by comparison. Once started, the Dass-Tata engine cost a penny to run for thirty-seven miles, including lubrication. It added only nine and a quarter pounds to the weight of the vehicle it powered. It made the heavy alcohol-driven automobile of the time look ridiculous as well as absurdly expensive. For many years, the prices of coal and every kind of liquid fuel had been climbing. They had risen so high that even a return to draft horses seemed possible. Now this pressure suddenly eased, and traffic on the world’s roads changed its appearance instantly. Within three years, the frightful armored monsters had been swept away to scrap dealers. For four awful decades, they had hooted, smoked, and thundered around the world. Now the roads were crowded with light, clean, shimmering shapes of silvered steel. The atomic engine also gave aviation new momentum because it provided enormous power for its weight. At last, Redmayne’s ingenious helicopter engine for ascent and descent could be added without making the aircraft too heavy. Until then, the vertical propeller had been the aeroplane’s sole source of propulsion. People now had a flying machine that could hover or rise and descend vertically and gently. It could also rush wildly through the air. The last fear of flying vanished. Journalists of the time called this the era of the Leap into the Air. The new atomic aeroplane became a mania. Everyone with money was frantic to own something so controllable, so safe, and so free from the dust and danger of the road. In France alone, thirty thousand of these new aeroplanes were manufactured and licensed in 1943. They soared into the sky, humming softly.

And with an equal speed atomic engines of various types invaded industrialism. The railways paid enormous premiums for priority in the delivery of atomic traction engines, atomic smelting was embarked upon so eagerly as to lead to a number of disastrous explosions due to inexperienced handling of the new power, and the revolutionary cheapening of both materials and electricity made the entire reconstruction of domestic buildings a matter merely dependent upon a reorganisation of the methods of the builder and the house-furnisher. Viewed from the side of the new power and from the point of view of those who financed and manufactured the new engines and material it required the age of the Leap into the Air was one of astonishing prosperity. Patent-holding companies were presently paying dividends of five or six hundred per cent. and enormous fortunes were made and fantastic wages earned by all who were concerned in the new developments. This prosperity was not a little enhanced by the fact that in both the Dass-Tata and Holsten-Roberts engines one of the recoverable waste products was gold—the former disintegrated dust of bismuth and the latter dust of lead—and that this new supply of gold led quite naturally to a rise in prices throughout the world.

At the same speed, atomic engines of various kinds swept into industry. Railway companies paid enormous premiums to get atomic traction engines before other customers. Atomic smelting was taken up so eagerly that inexperienced handling of the new power caused several disastrous explosions. Materials and electricity became dramatically cheaper. As a result, the complete rebuilding of homes depended only on reorganizing the work of builders and home furnishers. For those involved with the new power, the age of the Leap into the Air was astonishingly prosperous. This was also true for those who financed and manufactured the engines and materials it required. Companies that held patents were soon paying dividends of five or six hundred percent. Everyone involved in the new developments made enormous fortunes and earned fantastic wages. The prosperity was increased considerably by the fact that both the Dass-Tata and Holsten-Roberts engines produced gold as a recoverable waste product. The Dass-Tata engine broke down bismuth dust, while the Holsten-Roberts engine broke down lead dust. This new supply of gold naturally led to rising prices throughout the world.

This spectacle of feverish enterprise was productivity, this crowding flight of happy and fortunate rich people—every great city was as if a crawling ant-hill had suddenly taken wing—was the bright side of the opening phase of the new epoch in human history. Beneath that brightness was a gathering darkness, a deepening dismay. If there was a vast development of production there was also a huge destruction of values. These glaring factories working night and day, these glittering new vehicles swinging noiselessly along the roads, these flights of dragon-flies that swooped and soared and circled in the air, were indeed no more than the brightnesses of lamps and fires that gleam out when the world sinks towards twilight and the night. Between these high lights accumulated disaster, social catastrophe. The coal mines were manifestly doomed to closure at no very distant date, the vast amount of capital invested in oil was becoming unsaleable, millions of coal miners, steel workers upon the old lines, vast swarms of unskilled or under-skilled labourers in innumerable occupations, were being flung out of employment by the superior efficiency of the new machinery, the rapid fall in the cost of transit was destroying high land values at every centre of population, the value of existing house property had become problematical, gold was undergoing headlong depreciation, all the securities upon which the credit of the world rested were slipping and sliding, banks were tottering, the stock exchanges were scenes of feverish panic;—this was the reverse of the spectacle, these were the black and monstrous under-consequences of the Leap into the Air.

This scene of frantic activity was productivity. Crowds of happy, fortunate rich people were taking flight. Every great city seemed like a crawling anthill that had suddenly taken wing. This was the bright side of the opening phase of a new era in human history. Beneath that brightness, darkness was gathering and dismay was growing. If production was expanding enormously, values were also being destroyed on a huge scale. Factories blazed with light as they worked night and day. Shiny new vehicles glided silently along the roads. Flights of dragonflies swooped, soared, and circled in the air. Yet these were only like the bright lamps and fires that shine as the world sinks into twilight and night. Between these bright spots, disaster and social catastrophe were gathering. The coal mines were clearly doomed to close before long. The vast sums invested in oil were becoming impossible to recover through sale. New, more efficient machinery was throwing millions of coal miners, traditional steelworkers, and countless unskilled or under-skilled laborers out of work. The rapidly falling cost of transportation was destroying high land values in every population center. The value of existing houses had become uncertain. Gold was rapidly losing value. All the securities on which the world’s credit rested were slipping and sliding. Banks were on the verge of collapse, and stock exchanges were scenes of frantic panic. This was the other side of the spectacle, the dark and monstrous consequences beneath the Leap into the Air.

There is a story of a demented London stockbroker running out into Threadneedle Street and tearing off his clothes as he ran. ‘The Steel Trust is scrapping the whole of its plant,’ he shouted. ‘The State Railways are going to scrap all their engines. Everything’s going to be scrapped—everything. Come and scrap the mint, you fellows, come and scrap the mint!’

There is a story about a London stockbroker who went mad and ran into Threadneedle Street, tearing off his clothes as he ran. ‘The Steel Trust is scrapping its entire plant,’ he shouted. ‘The State Railways are going to scrap all their engines. Everything’s going to be scrapped. Everything. Come and scrap the mint, you fellows, come and scrap the mint!’

In the year 1955 the suicide rate for the United States of America quadrupled any previous record. There was an enormous increase also in violent crime throughout the world. The thing had come upon an unprepared humanity; it seemed as though human society was to be smashed by its own magnificent gains.

In 1955, the suicide rate in the United States of America was four times higher than any previous record. Violent crime also rose sharply throughout the world. It had caught humanity unprepared. It seemed as if human society would be destroyed by its own magnificent achievements.

For there had been no foresight of these things. There had been no attempt anywhere even to compute the probable dislocations this flood of inexpensive energy would produce in human affairs. The world in these days was not really governed at all, in the sense in which government came to be understood in subsequent years. Government was a treaty, not a design; it was forensic, conservative, disputatious, unseeing, unthinking, uncreative; throughout the world, except where the vestiges of absolutism still sheltered the court favourite and the trusted servant, it was in the hands of the predominant caste of lawyers, who had an enormous advantage in being the only trained caste. Their professional education and every circumstance in the manipulation of the fantastically naïve electoral methods by which they clambered to power, conspired to keep them contemptuous of facts, conscientiously unimaginative, alert to claim and seize advantages and suspicious of every generosity. Government was an obstructive business of energetic fractions, progress went on outside of and in spite of public activities, and legislation was the last crippling recognition of needs so clamorous and imperative and facts so aggressively established as to invade even the dingy seclusions of the judges and threaten the very existence of the otherwise inattentive political machine.

No one had foreseen these things. Nowhere had anyone even tried to calculate how this flood of cheap energy would probably disrupt human affairs. In those days, the world was not really governed at all, as government came to be understood in later years. Government was an agreement, not a plan. It was legalistic, conservative, quarrelsome, blind, thoughtless, and uncreative. Throughout the world, government was in the hands of the dominant class of lawyers. The only exceptions were places where remnants of absolute rule still protected court favorites and trusted servants. Lawyers had an enormous advantage because they were the only trained class. Their professional education encouraged them to scorn facts and be conscientiously unimaginative. So did every aspect of the fantastically naïve electoral methods they manipulated to climb to power. These influences also made them quick to claim and seize advantages and suspicious of every act of generosity. Government was an obstructive business carried on by energetic factions. Progress took place outside public affairs and in spite of them. Laws came last, crippling what they finally acknowledged. They recognized needs only when those needs had become so urgent and insistent that they reached even the gloomy offices of judges. The same was true of facts that had become so forcefully established that they threatened the very existence of the otherwise inattentive political machine.

The world was so little governed that with the very coming of plenty, in the full tide of an incalculable abundance, when everything necessary to satisfy human needs and everything necessary to realise such will and purpose as existed then in human hearts was already at hand, one has still to tell of hardship, famine, anger, confusion, conflict, and incoherent suffering. There was no scheme for the distribution of this vast new wealth that had come at last within the reach of men; there was no clear conception that any such distribution was possible. As one attempts a comprehensive view of those opening years of the new age, as one measures it against the latent achievement that later years have demonstrated, one begins to measure the blindness, the narrowness, the insensate unimaginative individualism of the pre-atomic time. Under this tremendous dawn of power and freedom, under a sky ablaze with promise, in the very presence of science standing like some bountiful goddess over all the squat darknesses of human life, holding patiently in her strong arms, until men chose to take them, security, plenty, the solution of riddles, the key of the bravest adventures, in her very presence, and with the earnest of her gifts in court, the world was to witness such things as the squalid spectacle of the Dass-Tata patent litigation.

The world was so poorly governed that hardship, famine, anger, confusion, conflict, and senseless suffering still had to be recorded. They continued even as plenty arrived, in a flood of immeasurable abundance. Everything needed to satisfy human needs was already at hand. So was everything needed to fulfill whatever wishes and purposes people then held in their hearts. There was no plan for distributing this vast new wealth, which had finally come within humanity's reach. There was not even a clear idea that such a distribution was possible. Looking at the early years of the new age as a whole, we can compare them with what later years showed was possible. Then we begin to see the blindness, narrowness, and senseless, unimaginative individualism of the pre-atomic era. A tremendous dawn of power and freedom had broken, under a sky blazing with promise. Science stood over all the cramped darkness of human life like a generous goddess. In her strong arms she patiently held security, plenty, solutions to riddles, and the key to the boldest adventures. She waited for people to choose to take them. Yet even in her presence, with a first installment of her gifts already before the court, the world was to witness such things as the squalid spectacle of the Dass-Tata patent litigation.

There in a stuffy court in London, a grimy oblong box of a room, during the exceptional heat of the May of 1956, the leading counsel of the day argued and shouted over a miserable little matter of more royalties or less and whether the Dass-Tata company might not bar the Holsten-Roberts’ methods of utilising the new power. The Dass-Tata people were indeed making a strenuous attempt to secure a world monopoly in atomic engineering. The judge, after the manner of those times, sat raised above the court, wearing a preposterous gown and a foolish huge wig, the counsel also wore dirty-looking little wigs and queer black gowns over their usual costume, wigs and gowns that were held to be necessary to their pleading, and upon unclean wooden benches stirred and whispered artful-looking solicitors, busily scribbling reporters, the parties to the case, expert witnesses, interested people, and a jostling confusion of subpoenaed persons, briefless young barristers (forming a style on the most esteemed and truculent examples) and casual eccentric spectators who preferred this pit of iniquity to the free sunlight outside. Every one was damply hot, the examining King’s Counsel wiped the perspiration from his huge, clean-shaven upper lip; and into this atmosphere of grasping contention and human exhalations the daylight filtered through a window that was manifestly dirty. The jury sat in a double pew to the left of the judge, looking as uncomfortable as frogs that have fallen into an ash-pit, and in the witness-box lied the would-be omnivorous Dass, under cross-examination....

In a stuffy London courtroom, a grimy rectangular box of a room, the leading lawyers of the day argued and shouted. It was during the exceptional heat of May 1956, and the case concerned a miserable little question of higher or lower royalties. It also concerned whether the Dass-Tata company might prevent the use of Holsten-Roberts’ methods for using the new power. The Dass-Tata people were indeed making a determined attempt to secure a world monopoly in atomic engineering. The judge sat above the court, as judges did in those days, wearing a ridiculous gown and a huge, foolish wig. The lawyers also wore dirty-looking little wigs and strange black gowns over their usual clothes. These wigs and gowns were considered necessary for them to plead their cases. On dirty wooden benches sat and shifted crafty-looking solicitors, reporters busily scribbling, the parties to the case, expert witnesses, and interested observers. There was also a jostling crowd of people summoned to court, young barristers without cases who were modeling their style on the most respected and aggressive examples, and casual, eccentric spectators who preferred this pit of iniquity to the free sunlight outside. Everyone was damp with heat. The King’s Counsel conducting the examination wiped sweat from his huge, clean-shaven upper lip. Daylight filtered through an obviously dirty window into this atmosphere of greedy conflict and human exhalations. The jury sat in a double row of benches to the judge’s left. They looked as uncomfortable as frogs that had fallen into an ash pit. In the witness box, Dass, who wanted to swallow everything, lied under cross-examination....

Holsten had always been accustomed to publish his results so soon as they appeared to him to be sufficiently advanced to furnish a basis for further work, and to that confiding disposition and one happy flash of adaptive invention the alert Dass owed his claim....

Holsten had always published his results as soon as they seemed advanced enough to support further work. The alert Dass owed his claim to Holsten's trusting nature and one inspired flash of inventive adaptation....

But indeed a vast multitude of such sharp people were clutching, patenting, pre-empting, monopolising this or that feature of the new development, seeking to subdue this gigantic winged power to the purposes of their little lusts and avarice. That trial is just one of innumerable disputes of the same kind. For a time the face of the world festered with patent legislation. It chanced, however, to have one oddly dramatic feature in the fact that Holsten, after being kept waiting about the court for two days as a beggar might have waited at a rich man’s door, after being bullied by ushers and watched by policemen, was called as a witness, rather severely handled by counsel, and told not to ‘quibble’ by the judge when he was trying to be absolutely explicit.

But in fact, vast numbers of such shrewd people were grabbing, patenting, claiming, and monopolizing parts of the new development. They sought to bend this gigantic winged power to their petty desires and greed. That trial was just one of countless similar disputes. For a time, the face of the world festered with patent legislation. The trial, however, happened to have one strangely dramatic feature. Holsten was kept waiting around the court for two days, like a beggar at a rich man’s door. He was bullied by court officers and watched by police. Then he was called as a witness and treated harshly by the lawyers. When he tried to be completely precise, the judge told him not to ‘quibble’.

The judge scratched his nose with a quill pen, and sneered at Holsten’s astonishment round the corner of his monstrous wig. Holsten was a great man, was he? Well, in a law-court great men were put in their places.

The judge scratched his nose with a quill pen and sneered at Holsten’s surprise from behind his enormous wig. Holsten was a great man, was he? Well, in a courtroom, great men were put in their places.

‘We want to know has the plaintiff added anything to this or hasn’t he?’ said the judge, ‘we don’t want to have your views whether Sir Philip Dass’s improvements were merely superficial adaptations or whether they were implicit in your paper. No doubt—after the manner of inventors—you think most things that were ever likely to be discovered are implicit in your papers. No doubt also you think too that most subsequent additions and modifications are merely superficial. Inventors have a way of thinking that. The law isn’t concerned with that sort of thing. The law has nothing to do with the vanity of inventors. The law is concerned with the question whether these patent rights have the novelty the plantiff claims for them. What that admission may or may not stop, and all these other things you are saying in your overflowing zeal to answer more than the questions addressed to you—none of these things have anything whatever to do with the case in hand. It is a matter of constant astonishment to me in this court to see how you scientific men, with all your extraordinary claims to precision and veracity, wander and wander so soon as you get into the witness-box. I know no more unsatisfactory class of witness. The plain and simple question is, has Sir Philip Dass made any real addition to existing knowledge and methods in this matter or has he not? We don’t want to know whether they were large or small additions nor what the consequences of your admission may be. That you will leave to us.’

‘We want to know whether the plaintiff has added anything to this or not,’ said the judge. ‘We don’t want your views on whether Sir Philip Dass’s improvements were merely superficial adaptations or already implicit in your paper. No doubt, like most inventors, you think your papers contain the seeds of most things that could ever be discovered. No doubt you also think most later additions and modifications are merely superficial. Inventors tend to think that way. The law is not concerned with such things. The law has nothing to do with the vanity of inventors. It is concerned with whether these patent rights are as novel as the plaintiff claims. ‘You are eager to answer more than the questions put to you. But what your admission may or may not prevent has nothing to do with this case. Neither does anything else you are saying about it. I am constantly astonished in this court by how you scientists wander once you enter the witness box. And that is despite all your extraordinary claims to precision and truthfulness. I know of no more unsatisfactory class of witness. ‘The question is plain and simple. Has Sir Philip Dass made any real addition to existing knowledge and methods in this matter, or has he not? We don’t want to know whether the additions were large or small. Nor do we want to know what the consequences of your admission may be. You will leave that to us.’

Holsten was silent.

Holsten was silent.

‘Surely?’ said the judge, almost pityingly.

‘Surely?’ said the judge, almost with pity.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Holsten, perceiving that for once in his life he must disregard infinitesimals.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Holsten. He realized that, for once in his life, he had to ignore the smallest details.

‘Ah!’ said the judge, ‘now why couldn’t you say that when counsel put the question? . . .’

‘Ah!’ said the judge, ‘why couldn’t you say that when the lawyer asked you? . . .’

An entry in Holsten’s diary-autobiography, dated five days later, runs: ‘Still amazed. The law is the most dangerous thing in this country. It is hundreds of years old. It hasn’t an idea. The oldest of old bottles and this new wine, the most explosive wine. Something will overtake them.’

An entry in Holsten’s diary-autobiography, dated five days later, reads: ‘Still amazed. The law is the most dangerous thing in this country. It is hundreds of years old. It doesn’t have a single idea. The oldest of old bottles and this new wine, the most explosive wine. Something will overtake them.’

There was a certain truth in Holsten’s assertion that the law was ‘hundreds of years old.’ It was, in relation to current thought and widely accepted ideas, an archaic thing. While almost all the material and methods of life had been changing rapidly and were now changing still more rapidly, the law-courts and the legislatures of the world were struggling desperately to meet modern demands with devices and procedures, conceptions of rights and property and authority and obligation that dated from the rude compromises of relatively barbaric times. The horse-hair wigs and antic dresses of the British judges, their musty courts and overbearing manners, were indeed only the outward and visible intimations of profounder anachronisms. The legal and political organisation of the earth in the middle twentieth century was indeed everywhere like a complicated garment, outworn yet strong, that now fettered the governing body that once it had protected.

There was some truth in Holsten’s claim that the law was ‘hundreds of years old.’ Compared with current thought and widely accepted ideas, the law was archaic. Almost all the materials and methods of life had been changing rapidly, and were now changing even faster. Yet courts and legislatures around the world were struggling desperately to meet modern demands. They relied on methods, procedures, and ideas about rights, property, authority, and obligation. These dated from the crude compromises of relatively barbaric times. The British judges’ horsehair wigs and strange robes, their musty courts and overbearing manners, were only outward signs of deeper anachronisms. Everywhere, the world’s legal and political organization in the mid-twentieth century was like a complicated garment. It was worn out but still strong, and now it bound the governing body it had once protected.

Yet that same spirit of free-thinking and outspoken publication that in the field of natural science had been the beginning of the conquest of nature, was at work throughout all the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries preparing the spirit of the new world within the degenerating body of the old. The idea of a greater subordination of individual interests and established institutions to the collective future, is traceable more and more clearly in the literature of those times, and movement after movement fretted itself away in criticism of and opposition to first this aspect and then that of the legal, social, and political order. Already in the early nineteenth century Shelley, with no scrap of alternative, is denouncing the established rulers of the world as Anarchs, and the entire system of ideas and suggestions that was known as Socialism, and more particularly its international side, feeble as it was in creative proposals or any method of transition, still witnesses to the growth of a conception of a modernised system of inter-relationships that should supplant the existing tangle of proprietary legal ideas.

Yet the same spirit of free thought and open publication had begun the conquest of nature through natural science. Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it was also preparing the spirit of a new world within the decaying body of the old. The literature of those times increasingly shows the idea that individual interests and established institutions should be more subordinate to the collective future. Movement after movement wore itself out criticizing and opposing one aspect or another of the legal, social, and political order. As early as the nineteenth century, Shelley denounced the established rulers of the world as Anarchs, without offering the slightest alternative. The whole system of ideas and proposals known as Socialism, especially its international side, also showed a growing vision of a modern system of relationships to replace the existing tangle of legal ideas about property. It did so, even though Socialism offered few creative proposals or methods for making the transition.

The word ‘Sociology’ was invented by Herbert Spencer, a popular writer upon philosophical subjects, who flourished about the middle of the nineteenth century, but the idea of a state, planned as an electric-traction system is planned, without reference to pre-existing apparatus, upon scientific lines, did not take a very strong hold upon the popular imagination of the world until the twentieth century. Then, the growing impatience of the American people with the monstrous and socially paralysing party systems that had sprung out of their absurd electoral arrangements, led to the appearance of what came to be called the ‘Modern State’ movement, and a galaxy of brilliant writers, in America, Europe, and the East, stirred up the world to the thought of bolder rearrangements of social interaction, property, employment, education, and government, than had ever been contemplated before. No doubt these Modern State ideas were very largely the reflection upon social and political thought of the vast revolution in material things that had been in progress for two hundred years, but for a long time they seemed to be having no more influence upon existing institutions than the writings of Rousseau and Voltaire seemed to have had at the time of the death of the latter. They were fermenting in men’s minds, and it needed only just such social and political stresses as the coming of the atomic mechanisms brought about, to thrust them forward abruptly into crude and startling realisation.

Herbert Spencer coined the word ‘Sociology’. He was a popular writer on philosophy in the mid-nineteenth century. But the idea of a state planned scientifically, like an electric railway system, did not capture the world’s imagination until the twentieth century. Such a state would be planned without regard for the systems already in place. By then, Americans were growing impatient with the monstrous party systems that had sprung from their absurd electoral arrangements. These systems were paralyzing society, and impatience with them led to the ‘Modern State’ movement. A host of brilliant writers in America, Europe, and the East stirred the world to consider bolder changes than ever before. They called for new ways of organizing social interaction, property, employment, education, and government. No doubt these Modern State ideas largely reflected the vast revolution in material things that had been underway for two hundred years. But for a long time, they seemed to have little influence on existing institutions. In that respect, they were like the writings of Rousseau and Voltaire at the time of Voltaire’s death. Yet the ideas were fermenting in people’s minds. All they needed were the kinds of social and political pressures brought on by atomic mechanisms. Those pressures suddenly thrust the ideas into crude and startling reality.

Frederick Barnet’s Wander Jahre is one of those autobiographical novels that were popular throughout the third and fourth decades of the twentieth century. It was published in 1970, and one must understand Wander Jahre rather in a spiritual and intellectual than in a literal sense. It is indeed an allusive title, carrying the world back to the Wilhelm Meister of Goethe, a century and a half earlier.

Frederick Barnet’s Wander Jahre is one of the autobiographical novels popular throughout the 1930s and 1940s. It was published in 1970. The title Wander Jahre should be understood in a spiritual and intellectual sense rather than a literal one. It refers back to Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister, published a century and a half earlier.

Its author, Frederick Barnet, gives a minute and curious history of his life and ideas between his nineteenth and his twenty-third birthdays. He was neither a very original nor a very brilliant man, but he had a trick of circumstantial writing; and though no authentic portrait was to survive for the information of posterity, he betrays by a score of casual phrases that he was short, sturdy, inclined to be plump, with a ‘rather blobby’ face, and full, rather projecting blue eyes. He belonged until the financial débâcle of 1956 to the class of fairly prosperous people, he was a student in London, he aeroplaned to Italy and then had a pedestrian tour from Genoa to Rome, crossed in the air to Greece and Egypt, and came back over the Balkans and Germany. His family fortunes, which were largely invested in bank shares, coal mines, and house property, were destroyed. Reduced to penury, he sought to earn a living. He suffered great hardship, and was then caught up by the war and had a year of soldiering, first as an officer in the English infantry and then in the army of pacification. His book tells all these things so simply and at the same time so explicitly, that it remains, as it were, an eye by which future generations may have at least one man’s vision of the years of the Great Change.

Its author, Frederick Barnet, gives a detailed and curious account of his life and ideas between his nineteenth and twenty-third birthdays. He was neither very original nor very brilliant, but he had a knack for writing in detail. Although no authentic portrait of him would survive for future generations, dozens of casual phrases reveal his appearance. He was short, sturdy, and inclined to be plump, with a ‘rather blobby’ face and full blue eyes that protruded slightly. Until the financial débâcle of 1956, he belonged to a fairly prosperous class. He was a student in London. He flew to Italy, then walked from Genoa to Rome. He flew on to Greece and Egypt, and returned by way of the Balkans and Germany. His family’s wealth was largely invested in bank shares, coal mines, and residential property. It was wiped out. Left penniless, he tried to earn a living. He suffered great hardship, then was caught up in the war and spent a year as a soldier. He served first as an officer in the English infantry and then in the army of pacification. His book tells all this so simply and yet so clearly that it remains a kind of eye. Through it, future generations may see the years of the Great Change through at least one man’s eyes.

And he was, he tells us, a ‘Modern State’ man ‘by instinct’ from the beginning. He breathed in these ideas in the class rooms and laboratories of the Carnegie Foundation school that rose, a long and delicately beautiful facade, along the South Bank of the Thames opposite the ancient dignity of Somerset House. Such thought was interwoven with the very fabric of that pioneer school in the educational renascence in England. After the customary exchange years in Heidelberg and Paris, he went into the classical school of London University. The older so-called ‘classical’ education of the British pedagogues, probably the most paralysing, ineffective, and foolish routine that ever wasted human life, had already been swept out of this great institution in favour of modern methods; and he learnt Greek and Latin as well as he had learnt German, Spanish, and French, so that he wrote and spoke them freely, and used them with an unconscious ease in his study of the foundation civilisations of the European system to which they were the key. (This change was still so recent that he mentions an encounter in Rome with an ‘Oxford don’ who ‘spoke Latin with a Wiltshire accent and manifest discomfort, wrote Greek letters with his tongue out, and seemed to think a Greek sentence a charm when it was a quotation and an impropriety when it wasn’t.’)

And he tells us that he was a ‘Modern State’ man ‘by instinct’ from the beginning. He absorbed these ideas in the classrooms and laboratories of the Carnegie Foundation school. Its long, delicately beautiful facade stood along the South Bank of the Thames, opposite the ancient dignity of Somerset House. Such ideas were woven into the fabric of this pioneering school in England’s educational revival. After the usual years of exchange study in Heidelberg and Paris, he entered the classical school of London University. The old so-called ‘classical’ education of British teachers had already been swept out of this great institution. It was probably the most crippling, ineffective, and foolish routine that ever wasted human life. Modern methods had taken its place. He learned Greek and Latin as well as he had learned German, Spanish, and French. He wrote and spoke them freely and used them with effortless ease. They were the key to his study of the civilizations on which the European system was founded. (This change was still so recent that he mentions meeting an ‘Oxford don’ in Rome. The don ‘spoke Latin with a Wiltshire accent and obvious discomfort. He wrote Greek letters with his tongue out. He seemed to think a Greek sentence was charming when it was a quotation and improper when it wasn’t.’)

Barnet saw the last days of the coal-steam engines upon the English railways and the gradual cleansing of the London atmosphere as the smoke-creating sea-coal fires gave place to electric heating. The building of laboratories at Kensington was still in progress, and he took part in the students’ riots that delayed the removal of the Albert Memorial. He carried a banner with ‘We like Funny Statuary’ on one side, and on the other ‘Seats and Canopies for Statues, Why should our Great Departed Stand in the Rain?’ He learnt the rather athletic aviation of those days at the University grounds at Sydenham, and he was fined for flying over the new prison for political libellers at Wormwood Scrubs, ‘in a manner calculated to exhilarate the prisoners while at exercise.’ That was the time of the attempted suppression of any criticism of the public judicature and the place was crowded with journalists who had ventured to call attention to the dementia of Chief Justice Abrahams. Barnet was not a very good aviator, he confesses he was always a little afraid of his machine—there was excellent reason for every one to be afraid of those clumsy early types—and he never attempted steep descents or very high flying. He also, he records, owned one of those oil-driven motor-bicycles whose clumsy complexity and extravagant filthiness still astonish the visitors to the museum of machinery at South Kensington. He mentions running over a dog and complains of the ruinous price of ‘spatchcocks’ in Surrey. ‘Spatchcocks,’ it seems, was a slang term for crushed hens.

Barnet saw the last days of coal-powered steam engines on English railways. He also saw London’s air gradually clear as electric heating replaced smoky sea-coal fires. Laboratories were still being built at Kensington. He took part in the student riots that delayed the removal of the Albert Memorial. He carried a banner with ‘We like Funny Statuary’ on one side. The other side read, ‘Seats and Canopies for Statues, Why should our Great Departed Stand in the Rain?’ He learned the rather athletic flying of those days at the University grounds at Sydenham. He was fined for flying over the new prison for political libellers at Wormwood Scrubs. He had flown ‘in a manner calculated to exhilarate the prisoners while at exercise.’ At the time, the authorities were trying to suppress all criticism of the courts. The prison was crowded with journalists who had dared to point out Chief Justice Abrahams’s dementia. Barnet was not a very good aviator. He admitted that he was always a little afraid of his aircraft. Everyone had excellent reason to fear those clumsy early models. He never attempted steep descents or flew very high. He also recorded that he owned one of the motor-bicycles powered by oil. Their clumsy complexity and extraordinary filth still astonish visitors to the museum of machinery at South Kensington. He mentioned running over a dog and complained about the ruinous price of ‘spatchcocks’ in Surrey. ‘Spatchcocks,’ it seems, was slang for crushed hens.

He passed the examinations necessary to reduce his military service to a minimum, and his want of any special scientific or technical qualification and a certain precocious corpulence that handicapped his aviation indicated the infantry of the line as his sphere of training. That was the most generalised form of soldiering. The development of the theory of war had been for some decades but little assisted by any practical experience. What fighting had occurred in recent years, had been fighting in minor or uncivilised states, with peasant or barbaric soldiers and with but a small equipment of modern contrivances, and the great powers of the world were content for the most part to maintain armies that sustained in their broader organisation the traditions of the European wars of thirty and forty years before. There was the infantry arm to which Barnet belonged and which was supposed to fight on foot with a rifle and be the main portion of the army. There were cavalry forces (horse soldiers), having a ratio to the infantry that had been determined by the experiences of the Franco-German war in 1871. There was also artillery, and for some unexplained reason much of this was still drawn by horses; though there were also in all the European armies a small number of motor-guns with wheels so constructed that they could go over broken ground. In addition there were large developments of the engineering arm, concerned with motor transport, motor-bicycle scouting, aviation, and the like.

He passed the examinations needed to reduce his military service to a minimum. He had no special scientific or technical qualifications, and he had grown stout at an early age, which hindered his flying. This made the regular infantry the natural choice for his training. It was the most general form of soldiering. For some decades, practical experience had done little to advance the theory of war. Recent fighting had taken place in minor or uncivilised states, with peasant or barbaric soldiers and little modern equipment. The great powers were mostly content to maintain armies whose broad organisation followed the traditions of European wars thirty or forty years earlier. Barnet belonged to the infantry, which was supposed to fight on foot with rifles and form the main part of the army. There were also cavalry forces (horse soldiers). Their numbers relative to the infantry had been determined by the experience of the Franco-German war in 1871. There was also artillery, much of which was still pulled by horses, for some unexplained reason. But all the European armies also had a small number of motor-guns with wheels designed to cross rough ground. In addition, the engineering branch had expanded greatly. It dealt with motor transport, motorcycle scouting, aviation, and similar activities.

No first-class intelligence had been sought to specialise in and work out the problem of warfare with the new appliances and under modern conditions, but a succession of able jurists, Lord Haldane, Chief Justice Briggs, and that very able King’s Counsel, Philbrick, had reconstructed the army frequently and thoroughly and placed it at last, with the adoption of national service, upon a footing that would have seemed very imposing to the public of 1900. At any moment the British Empire could now put a million and a quarter of arguable soldiers upon the board of Welt-Politik. The traditions of Japan and the Central European armies were more princely and less forensic; the Chinese still refused resolutely to become a military power, and maintained a small standing army upon the American model that was said, so far as it went, to be highly efficient, and Russia, secured by a stringent administration against internal criticism, had scarcely altered the design of a uniform or the organisation of a battery since the opening decades of the century. Barnet’s opinion of his military training was manifestly a poor one, his Modern State ideas disposed him to regard it as a bore, and his common sense condemned it as useless. Moreover, his habit of body made him peculiarly sensitive to the fatigues and hardships of service.

No first-rate mind had been asked to specialize in the problem of warfare using new technology under modern conditions. Instead, a succession of able lawyers had repeatedly and thoroughly rebuilt the army. They were Lord Haldane, Chief Justice Briggs, and the very able King’s Counsel, Philbrick. Finally, with the adoption of national service, they had put the army on a footing that would have seemed very impressive to the public of 1900. The British Empire could now put a million and a quarter soldiers, at least on paper, onto the board of Welt-Politik at any moment. The traditions of Japan and the Central European armies were more princely and less legalistic. The Chinese still firmly refused to become a military power. They maintained a small standing army on the American model, which was said to be highly efficient within its limited scope. Russia, protected from internal criticism by strict government control, had scarcely changed the design of a uniform or the organization of an artillery battery since the opening decades of the century. Barnet clearly thought little of his military training. His Modern State ideas led him to see it as a bore, and his common sense told him it was useless. Moreover, his physical makeup made him especially sensitive to the fatigue and hardships of service.

‘For three days in succession we turned out before dawn and—for no earthly reason—without breakfast,’ he relates. ‘I suppose that is to show us that when the Day comes the first thing will be to get us thoroughly uncomfortable and rotten. We then proceeded to Kriegspiel, according to the mysterious ideas of those in authority over us. On the last day we spent three hours under a hot if early sun getting over eight miles of country to a point we could have reached in a motor omnibus in nine minutes and a half—I did it the next day in that—and then we made a massed attack upon entrenchments that could have shot us all about three times over if only the umpires had let them. Then came a little bayonet exercise, but I doubt if I am sufficiently a barbarian to stick this long knife into anything living. Anyhow in this battle I shouldn’t have had a chance. Assuming that by some miracle I hadn’t been shot three times over, I was far too hot and blown when I got up to the entrenchments even to lift my beastly rifle. It was those others would have begun the sticking....

‘For three days in a row, we turned out before dawn and, for no earthly reason, without breakfast,’ he says. ‘I suppose that is to show us that when the Day comes, the first thing will be to make us thoroughly uncomfortable and miserable. Then we went on to Kriegspiel, following the mysterious ideas of those in charge of us. On the last day, we spent three hours crossing eight miles of country under a sun that was hot even so early. We could have reached our destination in nine and a half minutes by motor bus. I did just that the next day. Then we made a massed attack on entrenchments. The defenders could have shot us all about three times over, if only the umpires had let them. ‘Then came a little bayonet practice. But I doubt I am enough of a barbarian to stick this long knife into anything alive. In any case, I wouldn’t have had a chance in this battle. Even assuming that, by some miracle, I hadn’t been shot three times over, I was far too hot and out of breath to lift my damned rifle when I reached the entrenchments. It was the others who would have started the stabbing....’

‘For a time we were watched by two hostile aeroplanes; then our own came up and asked them not to, and—the practice of aerial warfare still being unknown—they very politely desisted and went away and did dives and circles of the most charming description over the Fox Hills.’

‘For a while, two enemy planes watched us. Then our own planes came up and asked them to stop. Since no one yet knew how to fight a war in the air, they politely stopped and flew away. They then performed the most charming dives and circles over the Fox Hills.’

All Barnet’s accounts of his military training were written in the same half-contemptuous, half-protesting tone. He was of opinion that his chances of participating in any real warfare were very slight, and that, if after all he should participate, it was bound to be so entirely different from these peace manœuvres that his only course as a rational man would be to keep as observantly out of danger as he could until he had learnt the tricks and possibilities of the new conditions. He states this quite frankly. Never was a man more free from sham heroics.

All of Barnet’s accounts of his military training had the same tone, half scornful and half protesting. He believed he had little chance of taking part in any real war. But if he did, it would be completely different from these peacetime exercises. As a rational man, he would have no choice but to watch and stay out of danger as best he could. He would do this until he had learned the tricks and possibilities of the new conditions. He says this quite frankly. No man was ever freer from false heroics.

Barnet welcomed the appearance of the atomic engine with the zest of masculine youth in all fresh machinery, and it is evident that for some time he failed to connect the rush of wonderful new possibilities with the financial troubles of his family. ‘I knew my father was worried,’ he admits. That cast the smallest of shadows upon his delighted departure for Italy and Greece and Egypt with three congenial companions in one of the new atomic models. They flew over the Channel Isles and Touraine, he mentions, and circled about Mont Blanc—‘These new helicopters, we found,’ he notes, ‘had abolished all the danger and strain of sudden drops to which the old-time aeroplanes were liable’—and then he went on by way of Pisa, Paestum, Ghirgenti, and Athens, to visit the pyramids by moonlight, flying thither from Cairo, and to follow the Nile up to Khartum. Even by later standards, it must have been a very gleeful holiday for a young man, and it made the tragedy of his next experiences all the darker. A week after his return his father, who was a widower, announced himself ruined, and committed suicide by means of an unscheduled opiate.

Barnet greeted the arrival of the atomic engine with a young man’s excitement for any new machine. For some time, he evidently failed to connect the rush of wonderful new possibilities with his family’s financial troubles. ‘I knew my father was worried,’ he admits. But this cast only the smallest shadow over his delighted departure for Italy, Greece, and Egypt. He traveled with three congenial companions in one of the new atomic models. They flew over the Channel Isles and Touraine, he mentions, and circled Mont Blanc. ‘These new helicopters, we found,’ he notes, ‘had eliminated all the danger and strain of sudden drops that old-fashioned aeroplanes were prone to.’ He then went on by way of Pisa, Paestum, Ghirgenti, and Athens. He flew from Cairo to visit the pyramids by moonlight, then followed the Nile up to Khartum. Even by later standards, it must have been a very joyful holiday for a young man. It made the tragedy of his next experiences all the darker. A week after his return, his father, a widower, announced that he was ruined. He then committed suicide using an unregulated opiate.

At one blow Barnet found himself flung out of the possessing, spending, enjoying class to which he belonged, penniless and with no calling by which he could earn a living. He tried teaching and some journalism, but in a little while he found himself on the underside of a world in which he had always reckoned to live in the sunshine. For innumerable men such an experience has meant mental and spiritual destruction, but Barnet, in spite of his bodily gravitation towards comfort, showed himself when put to the test, of the more valiant modern quality. He was saturated with the creative stoicism of the heroic times that were already dawning, and he took his difficulties and discomforts stoutly as his appointed material, and turned them to expression.

In one blow, Barnet was thrown out of the class that owned, spent, and enjoyed wealth. He was penniless and had no profession to earn a living. He tried teaching and some journalism, but soon found himself on the underside of a world where he had always expected to live in the sunshine. For countless men, such an experience has meant mental and spiritual destruction. But Barnet, despite his physical longing for comfort, proved himself more courageous and modern when tested. He was steeped in the creative stoicism of the heroic times already beginning. He faced his difficulties and discomforts bravely, accepting them as the material he had been given, and turned them into expression.

Indeed, in his book, he thanks fortune for them. ‘I might have lived and died,’ he says, ‘in that neat fool’s paradise of secure lavishness above there. I might never have realised the gathering wrath and sorrow of the ousted and exasperated masses. In the days of my own prosperity things had seemed to me to be very well arranged.’ Now from his new point of view he was to find they were not arranged at all; that government was a compromise of aggressions and powers and lassitudes, and law a convention between interests, and that the poor and the weak, though they had many negligent masters, had few friends.

Indeed, in his book, he thanks fortune for them. ‘I might have lived and died,’ he says, ‘in that comfortable fool’s paradise of wealth and security up there. I might never have realized the growing anger and sorrow of the displaced and frustrated masses. When I was prosperous, things had seemed to me to be very well arranged.’ Now, from his new point of view, he would find that things were not arranged at all. Government was a compromise between aggression, power, and apathy. Law was an agreement between competing interests. The poor and the weak had many careless masters, but few friends.

‘I had thought things were looked after,’ he wrote. ‘It was with a kind of amazement that I tramped the roads and starved—and found that no one in particular cared.’

‘I had thought things were taken care of,’ he wrote. ‘I was amazed as I walked the roads and went hungry, and found that no one particularly cared.’

He was turned out of his lodging in a backward part of London.

He was kicked out of his lodging in a run-down part of London.

‘It was with difficulty I persuaded my landlady—she was a needy widow, poor soul, and I was already in her debt—to keep an old box for me in which I had locked a few letters, keepsakes, and the like. She lived in great fear of the Public Health and Morality Inspectors, because she was sometimes too poor to pay the customary tip to them, but at last she consented to put it in a dark tiled place under the stairs, and then I went forth into the world—to seek first the luck of a meal and then shelter.’

‘It was hard to persuade my landlady to keep an old box for me. The poor woman was a widow in need, and I already owed her money. I had locked a few letters, keepsakes, and similar things in the box. She lived in great fear of the Public Health and Morality Inspectors. She was sometimes too poor to pay them the customary tip. But at last she agreed to put the box in a dark, tiled space under the stairs. Then I went out into the world, hoping to find a meal first and then shelter.’

He wandered down into the thronging gayer parts of London, in which a year or so ago he had been numbered among the spenders.

He wandered into the crowded, livelier parts of London, where a year or so ago he had been one of the spenders.

London, under the Visible Smoke Law, by which any production of visible smoke with or without excuse was punishable by a fine, had already ceased to be the sombre smoke-darkened city of the Victorian time; it had been, and indeed was, constantly being rebuilt, and its main streets were already beginning to take on those characteristics that distinguished them throughout the latter half of the twentieth century. The insanitary horse and the plebeian bicycle had been banished from the roadway, which was now of a resilient, glass-like surface, spotlessly clean; and the foot passenger was restricted to a narrow vestige of the ancient footpath on either side of the track and forbidden at the risk of a fine, if he survived, to cross the roadway. People descended from their automobiles upon this pavement and went through the lower shops to the lifts and stairs to the new ways for pedestrians, the Rows, that ran along the front of the houses at the level of the first story, and, being joined by frequent bridges, gave the newer parts of London a curiously Venetian appearance. In some streets there were upper and even third-story Rows. For most of the day and all night the shop windows were lit by electric light, and many establishments had made, as it were, canals of public footpaths through their premises in order to increase their window space.

Under the Visible Smoke Law, anyone who produced visible smoke was fined, with or without an excuse. London had already ceased to be the gloomy, smoke-darkened city it had been in Victorian times. It had been constantly rebuilt, and the rebuilding was still going on. Its main streets were already beginning to show the features that distinguished them throughout the latter half of the twentieth century. The unsanitary horse and the common bicycle had been banished from the road. Its surface was now springy, glass-like, and spotlessly clean. Pedestrians were confined to a narrow remnant of the old sidewalk on either side of the road. They were forbidden to cross the road and, if they survived, faced a fine for doing so. People got out of their automobiles onto this pavement. They went through the shops on the lower level to lifts and stairs leading to the new pedestrian walkways, the Rows. These ran along the fronts of buildings at first-story level. Frequent bridges connected them, giving the newer parts of London a strangely Venetian appearance. Some streets had Rows on the second and even third stories. Shop windows were lit by electricity for most of the day and all night. Many businesses had created public footpaths through their premises, like canals, to increase their window space.

Barnet made his way along this night-scene rather apprehensively since the police had power to challenge and demand the Labour Card of any indigent-looking person, and if the record failed to show he was in employment, dismiss him to the traffic pavement below.

Barnet made his way through the nighttime scene with some anxiety. The police could stop anyone who looked poor and demand their Labour Card. If the card did not show that the person had a job, they could send them down to the traffic pavement below.

But there was still enough of his former gentility about Barnet’s appearance and bearing to protect him from this; the police, too, had other things to think of that night, and he was permitted to reach the galleries about Leicester Square—that great focus of London life and pleasure.

But Barnet still looked and carried himself enough like a gentleman to protect him from this. The police also had other things to think about that night. So he was allowed to reach the galleries around Leicester Square, that great center of London life and pleasure.

He gives a vivid description of the scene that evening. In the centre was a garden raised on arches lit by festoons of lights and connected with the Rows by eight graceful bridges, beneath which hummed the interlacing streams of motor traffic, pulsating as the current alternated between east and west and north and south. Above rose great frontages of intricate rather than beautiful reinforced porcelain, studded with lights, barred by bold illuminated advertisements, and glowing with reflections. There were the two historical music halls of this place, the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, in which the municipal players revolved perpetually through the cycle of Shakespeare’s plays, and four other great houses of refreshment and entertainment whose pinnacles streamed up into the blue obscurity of the night. The south side of the square was in dark contrast to the others; it was still being rebuilt, and a lattice of steel bars surmounted by the frozen gestures of monstrous cranes rose over the excavated sites of vanished Victorian buildings.

He gives a vivid description of the scene that evening. In the center was a garden raised on arches and lit by strings of lights. Eight graceful bridges connected it to the Rows. Beneath them, interweaving streams of motor traffic hummed. The traffic pulsed as the flow alternated between east and west, then north and south. Above rose great facades of reinforced porcelain, more intricate than beautiful. They were studded with lights, crossed by bold illuminated advertisements, and glowing with reflections. The square had two historic music halls and the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. There, the municipal players performed Shakespeare’s plays in a perpetual cycle. There were also four other great venues for food and entertainment. Their pinnacles rose high into the dim blue night. The south side of the square stood in dark contrast to the others. It was still being rebuilt. Above the excavated sites of vanished Victorian buildings rose a lattice of steel bars. Monstrous cranes stood over it, frozen in mid-gesture.

This framework attracted Barnet’s attention for a time to the exclusion of other interests. It was absolutely still, it had a dead rigidity, a stricken inaction, no one was at work upon it and all its machinery was quiet; but the constructor’s globes of vacuum light filled its every interstice with a quivering green moonshine and showed alert but motionless—soldier sentinels!

For a time, the framework held Barnet’s attention to the exclusion of everything else. It was completely still, rigid as if dead, frozen into inactivity. No one was working on it, and all its machinery was silent. But the constructor’s globes of vacuum light filled every gap with a trembling green moonlight. In their light stood soldier sentinels, alert but motionless!

He asked a passing stroller, and was told that the men had struck that day against the use of an atomic riveter that would have doubled the individual efficiency and halved the number of steel workers.

He asked a passerby, who told him the men had gone on strike that day over an atomic riveter. It would have doubled each worker’s productivity and cut the number of steelworkers in half.

‘Shouldn’t wonder if they didn’t get chucking bombs,’ said Barnet’s informant, hovered for a moment, and then went on his way to the Alhambra music hall.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they started throwing bombs,’ said Barnet’s informant. He lingered for a moment, then went on to the Alhambra music hall.

Barnet became aware of an excitement in the newspaper kiosks at the corners of the square. Something very sensational had been flashed upon the transparencies. Forgetting for a moment his penniless condition, he made his way over a bridge to buy a paper, for in those days the papers, which were printed upon thin sheets of metallic foil, were sold at determinate points by specially licensed purveyors. Half over, he stopped short at a change in the traffic below; and was astonished to see that the police signals were restricting vehicles to the half roadway. When presently he got within sight of the transparencies that had replaced the placards of Victorian times, he read of the Great March of the Unemployed that was already in progress through the West End, and so without expenditure he was able to understand what was coming.

Barnet noticed a stir around the newspaper kiosks at the corners of the square. Some sensational news had appeared on the display screens. Forgetting for a moment that he had no money, he crossed a bridge to buy a paper. In those days, newspapers were printed on thin sheets of metal foil. They were sold at designated locations by specially licensed sellers. Halfway across, he stopped suddenly when he noticed a change in the traffic below. To his surprise, police signals were directing vehicles to use only half the road. Soon he could see the display screens that had replaced the posters of Victorian times. They reported that the Great March of the Unemployed was already making its way through the West End. So, without spending any money, he understood what was coming.

He watched, and his book describes this procession which the police had considered it unwise to prevent and which had been spontaneously organised in imitation of the Unemployed Processions of earlier times. He had expected a mob but there was a kind of sullen discipline about the procession when at last it arrived. What seemed for a time an unending column of men marched wearily, marched with a kind of implacable futility, along the roadway underneath him. He was, he says, moved to join them, but instead he remained watching. They were a dingy, shabby, ineffective-looking multitude, for the most part incapable of any but obsolete and superseded types of labour. They bore a few banners with the time-honoured inscription: ‘Work, not Charity,’ but otherwise their ranks were unadorned.

He watched the procession and described it in his book. The police had decided it would be unwise to stop it. It had been organized spontaneously, in imitation of the Unemployed Processions of earlier times. He had expected a mob, but when the procession finally arrived, it had a kind of sullen discipline. For a while, the column of men seemed endless. They marched wearily along the road below him, with a kind of relentless futility. He says he felt moved to join them, but instead he stayed and watched. They were a drab, shabby crowd, and they looked ineffectual. Most were capable of doing only kinds of work that were now outdated and had been replaced. They carried a few banners with the familiar inscription: ‘Work, not Charity,’ but otherwise their ranks were bare.

They were not singing, they were not even talking, there was nothing truculent nor aggressive in their bearing, they had no definite objective they were just marching and showing themselves in the more prosperous parts of London. They were a sample of that great mass of unskilled cheap labour which the now still cheaper mechanical powers had superseded for evermore. They were being ‘scrapped’—as horses had been ‘scrapped.’

They were not singing or even talking. There was nothing hostile or aggressive about them. They had no clear goal. They were just marching and showing themselves in the wealthier parts of London. They were a sample of the vast mass of cheap, unskilled workers who had been replaced forever by machines, which were now even cheaper. They were being ‘scrapped’, just as horses had been ‘scrapped.’

Barnet leant over the parapet watching them, his mind quickened by his own precarious condition. For a time, he says, he felt nothing but despair at the sight; what should be done, what could be done for this gathering surplus of humanity? They were so manifestly useless—and incapable—and pitiful.

Barnet leaned over the parapet, watching them. His own precarious situation sharpened his mind. For a while, he says, the sight filled him with despair. What should be done, what could be done for this growing surplus of humanity? They were so clearly useless, incapable, and pitiful.

What were they asking for?

What were they asking for?

They had been overtaken by unexpected things. Nobody had foreseen——

Unexpected events had overtaken them. Nobody had foreseen...

It flashed suddenly into his mind just what the multitudinous shambling enigma below meant. It was an appeal against the unexpected, an appeal to those others who, more fortunate, seemed wiser and more powerful, for something—for intelligence. This mute mass, weary footed, rank following rank, protested its persuasion that some of these others must have foreseen these dislocations—that anyhow they ought to have foreseen—and arranged.

He suddenly understood what the vast, shuffling mystery below meant. It was an appeal against the unexpected. The crowd appealed to those others who, more fortunate, seemed wiser and more powerful. They appealed for something, for intelligence. This silent mass, weary from walking, followed rank after rank. It expressed the belief that some of the others must have foreseen these upheavals. At any rate, they ought to have foreseen them and made arrangements.

That was what this crowd of wreckage was feeling and seeking so dumbly to assert.

That was what this crowd of wreckage felt and was struggling wordlessly to express.

‘Things came to me like the turning on of a light in a darkened room,’ he says. ‘These men were praying to their fellow creatures as once they prayed to God! The last thing that men will realise about anything is that it is inanimate. They had transferred their animation to mankind. They still believed there was intelligence somewhere, even if it was careless or malignant.... It had only to be aroused to be conscience-stricken, to be moved to exertion.... And I saw, too, that as yet there was no such intelligence. The world waits for intelligence. That intelligence has still to be made, that will for good and order has still to be gathered together, out of scraps of impulse and wandering seeds of benevolence and whatever is fine and creative in our souls, into a common purpose. It’s something still to come....’

‘It was like a light being switched on in a dark room,’ he says. ‘These men were praying to their fellow human beings as they had once prayed to God! The last thing people realize about anything is that it is not alive. They had given humanity the life they once gave to God. They still believed there was intelligence somewhere, even if it was careless or evil.... They believed it only had to be awakened to feel guilty and be moved to act.... And I saw, too, that no such intelligence existed yet. The world is waiting for intelligence. That intelligence still has to be created. The will for good and order still has to be brought together into a common purpose. It must be made from scraps of impulse, scattered seeds of kindness, and whatever is fine and creative in our souls. It is still to come....’

It is characteristic of the widening thought of the time that this not very heroical young man who, in any previous age, might well have been altogether occupied with the problem of his own individual necessities, should be able to stand there and generalise about the needs of the race.

The young man was not very heroic. In any earlier age, he might well have been entirely occupied with his own needs. Yet he could stand there and think about the needs of the human race as a whole. This showed how thinking was broadening at the time.

But upon all the stresses and conflicts of that chaotic time there was already dawning the light of a new era. The spirit of humanity was escaping, even then it was escaping, from its extreme imprisonment in individuals. Salvation from the bitter intensities of self, which had been a conscious religious end for thousands of years, which men had sought in mortifications, in the wilderness, in meditation, and by innumerable strange paths, was coming at last with the effect of naturalness into the talk of men, into the books they read, into their unconscious gestures, into their newspapers and daily purposes and everyday acts. The broad horizons, the magic possibilities that the spirit of the seeker had revealed to them, were charming them out of those ancient and instinctive preoccupations from which the very threat of hell and torment had failed to drive them. And this young man, homeless and without provision even for the immediate hours, in the presence of social disorganisation, distress, and perplexity, in a blazing wilderness of thoughtless pleasure that blotted out the stars, could think as he tells us he thought.

But across all the stresses and conflicts of that chaotic time, the light of a new era was already dawning. Even then, the human spirit was escaping its extreme confinement within individuals. For thousands of years, people had consciously sought religious salvation from the bitter intensity of self. They had sought it through self-denial, in the wilderness, in meditation, and along countless strange paths. At last, that salvation was coming naturally into people’s conversations and the books they read. It was entering their unconscious gestures, their newspapers, their daily purposes, and their everyday actions. The spirit of the seeker had revealed broad horizons and magical possibilities to them. These were drawing people away from ancient, instinctive preoccupations that even the threat of hell and torment had failed to overcome. And this young man was homeless, with no means of providing for even the next few hours. He faced social disorder, distress, and confusion, in a blazing wilderness of thoughtless pleasure that blotted out the stars. Yet he could think as he tells us he thought.

‘I saw life plain,’ he wrote. ‘I saw the gigantic task before us, and the very splendour of its intricate and immeasurable difficulty filled me with exaltation. I saw that we have still to discover government, that we have still to discover education, which is the necessary reciprocal of government, and that all this—in which my own little speck of a life was so manifestly overwhelmed—this and its yesterday in Greece and Rome and Egypt were nothing, the mere first dust swirls of the beginning, the movements and dim murmurings of a sleeper who will presently be awake....’

‘I saw life clearly,’ he wrote. ‘I saw the enormous task before us. The sheer grandeur of its intricate, immeasurable difficulty filled me with joy. I saw that we have yet to discover how to govern. We have yet to discover education, the necessary counterpart to government. My own tiny speck of a life was clearly overwhelmed by it all. Yet all of it, and its past in Greece and Rome and Egypt, amounted to nothing. It was merely the first swirls of dust at the beginning, the movements and faint murmurs of a sleeper who will soon wake....’

And then the story tells, with an engaging simplicity, of his descent from this ecstatic vision of reality.

Then the story tells, with charming simplicity, how he came down from this ecstatic vision of reality.

‘Presently I found myself again, and I was beginning to feel cold and a little hungry.’

‘Soon I came to my senses again, and I was beginning to feel cold and a little hungry.’

He bethought himself of the John Burns Relief Offices which stood upon the Thames Embankment. He made his way through the galleries of the booksellers and the National Gallery, which had been open continuously day and night to all decently dressed people now for more than twelve years, and across the rose-gardens of Trafalgar Square, and so by the hotel colonnade to the Embankment. He had long known of these admirable offices, which had swept the last beggars and matchsellers and all the casual indigent from the London streets, and he believed that he would, as a matter of course, be able to procure a ticket for food and a night’s lodgings and some indication of possible employment.

He remembered the John Burns Relief Offices on the Thames Embankment. He made his way through the booksellers’ galleries and the National Gallery. They had been open day and night to all decently dressed people for more than twelve years. He crossed the rose gardens of Trafalgar Square and went past the hotel colonnade to the Embankment. He had long known about these admirable offices. They had cleared the London streets of the last beggars, match sellers, and all the other people occasionally in need. He believed he could, as a matter of course, get a ticket for food and a night’s lodging, along with some guidance on possible employment.

But he had not reckoned upon the new labour troubles, and when he got to the Embankment he found the offices hopelessly congested and besieged by a large and rather unruly crowd. He hovered for a time on the outskirts of the waiting multitude, perplexed and dismayed, and then he became aware of a movement, a purposive trickling away of people, up through the arches of the great buildings that had arisen when all the railway stations were removed to the south side of the river, and so to the covered ways of the Strand. And here, in the open glare of midnight, he found unemployed men begging, and not only begging, but begging with astonishing assurance, from the people who were emerging from the small theatres and other such places of entertainment which abounded in that thoroughfare.

But he had not counted on the new labor troubles. When he reached the Embankment, he found the offices hopelessly overcrowded and surrounded by a large, rather unruly crowd. For a while, he lingered at the edge of the waiting crowd, puzzled and dismayed. Then he noticed people beginning to drift away with a purpose. They went through the arches of the great buildings and on to the covered walkways of the Strand. The buildings had arisen after all the railway stations were moved to the south side of the river. There, in the bright light of midnight, he found unemployed men begging. They begged with astonishing confidence from people coming out of the many small theaters and other places of entertainment along the Strand.

This was an altogether unexampled thing. There had been no begging in London streets for a quarter of a century. But that night the police were evidently unwilling or unable to cope with the destitute who were invading those well-kept quarters of the town. They had become stonily blind to anything but manifest disorder.

This was completely unprecedented. There had been no begging on London streets for twenty-five years. But that night, the police were clearly unwilling or unable to deal with the destitute people entering those well-kept parts of town. They had become coldly blind to anything short of obvious disorder.

Barnet walked through the crowd, unable to bring himself to ask; indeed his bearing must have been more valiant than his circumstances, for twice he says that he was begged from. Near the Trafalgar Square gardens, a girl with reddened cheeks and blackened eyebrows, who was walking alone, spoke to him with a peculiar friendliness.

Barnet walked through the crowd, unable to bring himself to beg. He must have looked better off than he was. He says that twice people asked him for money. Near the Trafalgar Square gardens, a girl walking alone spoke to him with an unusual friendliness. Her cheeks were reddened and her eyebrows blackened.

‘I’m starving,’ he said to her abruptly.

‘I’m starving,’ he said to her suddenly.

‘Oh! poor dear!’ she said; and with the impulsive generosity of her kind, glanced round and slipped a silver piece into his hand....

‘Oh, poor dear!’ she said. With the impulsive generosity typical of her kind, she glanced around and slipped a silver coin into his hand....

It was a gift that, in spite of the precedent of De Quincey, might under the repressive social legislation of those times, have brought Barnet within reach of the prison lash. But he took it, he confesses, and thanked her as well as he was able, and went off very gladly to get food.

Despite De Quincey's example, the gift might have exposed Barnet to a prison flogging under the harsh laws of the time. But he admits that he took it, thanked her as best he could, and went off happily to get food.

A day or so later—and again his freedom to go as he pleased upon the roads may be taken as a mark of increasing social disorganisation and police embarrassment—he wandered out into the open country. He speaks of the roads of that plutocratic age as being ‘fenced with barbed wire against unpropertied people,’ of the high-walled gardens and trespass warnings that kept him to the dusty narrowness of the public ways. In the air, happy rich people were flying, heedless of the misfortunes about them, as he himself had been flying two years ago, and along the road swept the new traffic, light and swift and wonderful. One was rarely out of earshot of its whistles and gongs and siren cries even in the field paths or over the open downs. The officials of the labour exchanges were everywhere overworked and infuriated, the casual wards were so crowded that the surplus wanderers slept in ranks under sheds or in the open air, and since giving to wayfarers had been made a punishable offence there was no longer friendship or help for a man from the rare foot passenger or the wayside cottage....

A day or so later, he wandered out into the open country. His freedom to travel the roads as he pleased may again be taken as a sign of growing social disorder and police difficulties. He describes the roads of that age of rule by the wealthy as ‘fenced with barbed wire against people without property.’ High-walled gardens and trespassing warnings kept him on the narrow, dusty public roads. In the air, happy rich people flew, paying no attention to the misfortunes around them. He himself had been flying just as they were two years earlier. Along the road swept the new traffic, light and swift and wonderful. Even on field paths or across the open downs, one was rarely out of earshot of its whistles, gongs, and siren cries. Everywhere, the officials at the labour exchanges were overworked and furious. The shelters for homeless people were so crowded that the wanderers who could not fit slept in rows under sheds or in the open air. Giving to travelers had been made a punishable offence, so a man could no longer find friendship or help from the occasional pedestrian or a cottage by the road....

‘I wasn’t angry,’ said Barnet. ‘I saw an immense selfishness, a monstrous disregard for anything but pleasure and possession in all those people above us, but I saw how inevitable that was, how certainly if the richest had changed places with the poorest, that things would have been the same. What else can happen when men use science and every new thing that science gives, and all their available intelligence and energy to manufacture wealth and appliances, and leave government and education to the rustling traditions of hundreds of years ago? Those traditions come from the dark ages when there was really not enough for every one, when life was a fierce struggle that might be masked but could not be escaped. Of course this famine grabbing, this fierce dispossession of others, must follow from such a disharmony between material and training. Of course the rich were vulgar and the poor grew savage and every added power that came to men made the rich richer and the poor less necessary and less free. The men I met in the casual wards and the relief offices were all smouldering for revolt, talking of justice and injustice and revenge. I saw no hope in that talk, nor in anything but patience....’

‘I wasn’t angry,’ said Barnet. ‘I saw enormous selfishness in all those people above us. They cared about nothing but pleasure and possessions. But I saw how inevitable that was. If the richest and poorest had changed places, things would certainly have been the same. What else can happen when men use science and every new thing it gives them to produce wealth and machines? They put all their available intelligence and energy into that work. Yet they leave government and education to the crumbling traditions of hundreds of years ago. Those traditions come from the dark ages, when there really wasn’t enough for everyone. Life was a fierce struggle that could be hidden but not escaped. Of course people grab what they can, as if facing famine, and fiercely take things from others. That must follow when material conditions and people’s training are so badly out of step. Of course the rich were vulgar and the poor grew savage. Every new power men gained made the rich richer and the poor less necessary and less free. The men I met in the casual wards and relief offices were all simmering with thoughts of revolt. They talked of justice, injustice, and revenge. I saw no hope in that talk, or in anything but patience....’

But he did not mean a passive patience. He meant that the method of social reconstruction was still a riddle, that no effectual rearrangement was possible until this riddle in all its tangled aspects was solved. ‘I tried to talk to those discontented men,’ he wrote, ‘but it was hard for them to see things as I saw them. When I talked of patience and the larger scheme, they answered, “But then we shall all be dead”—and I could not make them see, what is so simple to my own mind, that that did not affect the question. Men who think in lifetimes are of no use to statesmanship.’

But he did not mean that people should wait passively. He meant that the way to rebuild society was still a puzzle. No effective reorganization was possible until every tangled part of that puzzle was solved. ‘I tried to talk to those discontented men,’ he wrote, ‘but they found it hard to see things as I did. When I spoke of patience and the larger plan, they replied, “But then we shall all be dead.” I could not make them see that their deaths did not affect the question. That seems simple enough to me. Men who think only in terms of lifetimes are no use to statesmanship.’

He does not seem to have seen a newspaper during those wanderings, and a chance sight of the transparency of a kiosk in the market-place at Bishop’s Stortford announcing a ‘Grave International Situation’ did not excite him very much. There had been so many grave international situations in recent years.

He does not seem to have seen a newspaper during his wanderings. By chance, he saw an illuminated sign on a kiosk in the market-place at Bishop’s Stortford. It announced a ‘Grave International Situation’, but this did not excite him much. There had been so many grave international situations in recent years.

This time it was talk of the Central European powers suddenly attacking the Slav Confederacy, with France and England going to the help of the Slavs.

This time, people talked of the Central European powers suddenly attacking the Slav Confederacy. France and England would come to the Slavs' aid.

But the next night he found a tolerable meal awaiting the vagrants in the casual ward, and learnt from the workhouse master that all serviceable trained men were to be sent back on the morrow to their mobilisation centres. The country was on the eve of war. He was to go back through London to Surrey. His first feeling, he records, was one of extreme relief that his days of ‘hopeless battering at the underside of civilisation’ were at an end. Here was something definite to do, something definitely provided for. But his relief was greatly modified when he found that the mobilisation arrangements had been made so hastily and carelessly that for nearly thirty-six hours at the improvised depôt at Epsom he got nothing either to eat or to drink but a cup of cold water. The depôt was absolutely unprovisioned, and no one was free to leave it.

But the next night, he found an adequate meal waiting for the vagrants in the workhouse’s casual ward. The workhouse master told him that all fit, trained men would be sent back to their mobilisation centres the next day. The country was on the brink of war. He was to travel through London to Surrey. His first feeling, he records, was immense relief. His days of ‘hopeless battering at the underside of civilisation’ were over. Here was something definite to do, something that had definitely been arranged for. But his relief faded considerably when he discovered how hastily and carelessly the mobilisation had been arranged. At the makeshift depot in Epsom, he had nothing to eat or drink for almost thirty-six hours except a cup of cold water. The depot had no provisions at all, and no one was allowed to leave.