of effort and a saving of force, sprawls like an octopus over the
land. It has become like a dead weight upon us. Wherever it touches
industry it cripples it. It runs railways and makes a heavy deficit:
it builds ships and loses money on them: it operates the ships and
loses more money: it piles up taxes to fill the vacuum and when it
has killed employment, opens a bureau of unemployment and issues
a report on the depression of industry.

Now, the only way to restore prosperity is to give back again to the
individual the opportunity to make money, to make lots of it, and when
he has got it, to keep it. In spite of all the devastation of the war
the raw assets of our globe are hardly touched. Here and there, as in
parts of China and in England and in Belgium with about seven hundred
people to the square mile, the world is fairly well filled up. There
is standing room only. But there are vast empty spaces still.
Mesopotamia alone has millions of acres of potential wheat land with a
few Arabs squatting on it. Canada could absorb easily half a million
settlers a year for a generation to come. The most fertile part of the
world, the valley of the Amazon, is still untouched: so fertile is it
that for tens of thousands of square miles it is choked with trees, a
mere tangle of life, defying all entry. The idea of our humanity sadly
walking the streets of Glasgow or sitting mournfully fishing on the
piers of the Hudson, out of work, would be laughable if it were not
for the pathos of it.

The world is out of work for the simple reason that the world has
killed the goose that laid the golden eggs of industry. By taxation,
by legislation, by popular sentiment all over the world, there has
been a disparagement of the capitalist. And all over the world
capital is frightened. It goes and hides itself in the form of an