To whom, then, is this wealth of England wealth? Who is it that
it blesses; makes happier, wiser, beautifuller, in any way
better? Who has got hold of it, to make it fetch and carry for
him, like a true servant, not like a false mock-servant; to do
him any real service whatsoever? As yet no one. We have more
riches than any Nation ever had before; we have less good of
them than any Nation ever had before. Our successful industry is
hitherto unsuccessful; a strange success, if we stop here! In
the midst of plethoric plenty, the people perish; with gold
walls, and full barns, no man feels himself safe or satisfied.
Workers, Master Workers, Unworkers, all men, come to a pause;
stand fixed, and cannot farther. Fatal paralysis spreading
inwards, from the extremities, in St. Ives workhouses, in
Stockport cellars, through all limbs, as if towards the heart
itself. Have we actually got enchanted, then; accursed by
some god?--

Midas longed for gold, and insulted the Olympians. He got gold,
so that whatsoever he touched became gold,--and he, with his long
ears, was little the better for it. Midas had misjudged the
celestial music-tones; Midas had insulted Apollo and the gods:
the gods gave him his wish, and a pair of long ears, which also
were a good appendage to it. What a truth in these old Fables!




Chapter II