William Morris (1834-1896), an artist and poet was an involved
in early English Social Democracy. He joined the Social Democratic
Federation 1883, but, after fighting with Henry Hyndman, the founder
of the group, he founded his own group, the Socialist League.
From William Morris. How I Became a Socialist
I am asked by the Editor to give some sort of a history of the above conversion, and I feel that it may be of some use to do so, if my readers will look upon me as a type of a certain group of people, but not so easy to do clearly, briefly and truly. Let me, however, try. But first, I will say what I mean by being a Socialist, since I am told that the word no longer expresses definitely and with certainty what it did ten years ago. Well, what I mean by Socialism is a condition of society in which there should be neither rich nor poor, neither master nor master's man, neither idle nor overworked, neither brainslack brain workers, nor heartsick hand workers, in a word, in which all men would be living in equality of condition, and would manage their affairs unwastefully, and with the full consciousness that harm to one would mean harm to all-the realisation at last of the meaning of the word COMMONWEALTH .
Now this view of Socialism which I hold today, and hope to die holding, is what I began with; I had no transitional period, unless you may call such a brief period of political radicalism during which I saw my ideal clear enough, but had no hope of any realisation of it. That came to an end some months before I joined the (then) Democratic Federation, and the meaning of my joining that body was that I had conceived a hope of the realisation of my ideal. If you ask me how much of a hope, or what I thought we Socialists then living and working would accomplish towards it, or when there would be effected any change in the face of society, I must say, I do not know. I can only say that I did not measure my hope, nor the joy that it brought me at the time....
Before the uprising of modern Socialism almost all intelligent people either were, or professed themselves to be, quite contented with the civilisation of this century. Again, almost all of these really were thus contented, and saw nothing to do but to perfect the said civilisation by getting rid of a few ridiculous survivals of the barbarous ages. To be short, this was the Whig frame of mind, natural to the modern prosperous middleclass men, who, in fact, as far as mechanical progress is concerned, have nothing to ask for, if only Socialism would leave them alone to enjoy their plentiful style.
But besides these contented ones there were others who were not really contented, but had a vague sentiment of repulsion to the triumph of civilisation, but were coerced into silence by the measureless power of Whiggery. Lastly there were a few who were in open rebellion against the said Whiggery-a few, say two, Carlyle and Ruskin. The latter, before my days of practical Socialism, was my master towards the ideal aforesaid, and, looking backward, I cannot help saying, by the way, how deadly dull the world would have been twenty years ago but for Ruskin! It was through him that I learned to give form to my discontent, which I must say was not by any means vague. Apart from the desire to produce beautiful things, the leading passion of my life has been and is hatred of modern civilisation. What shall I say of it now, when the words are put into my mouth, my hope of its destruction-what shall I say of its supplanting by Socialism?
What shall I say concerning its mastery of and its waste of mechanical
power, its commonwealth so poor, its enemies of the commonwealth
so rich, its stupendous organisation-for the misery of life! Its
contempt of simple pleasures which everyone could enjoy but for
its folly? Its eyeless vulgarity which has destroyed art, the
one certain solace of labour? All this I felt then as now, but
I did not know why it was so. The hope of the past times was gone,
the struggles of mankind for many ages had produced nothing but
this sordid, aimless, ugly confusion; the immediate future seemed
to me likely to intensify all the present evils by sweeping away
the last survivals of the days before the dull squalor of civilisation
had settled down on the world. This was a bad lookout indeed,
and, if I may mention myself as a personality and not as a mere
type, especially so to a man of my disposition, careless of metaphysics
and religion, as well as of scientific analysis, but with a deep
love of the earth and the life on it, and a passion for the history
of the past of mankind. Think of it! Was it all to end in a countinghouse
on the top of a cinderheap, with Podsnap's drawingroom
in the offing, and a Whig committee dealing out champagne to the
rich and margarine to the poor in such convenient proportions
as would make all men contented together, though the pleasure
of the eyes was gone from the world, and the place of Homer was
to be taken by Huxley? Yet believe me, in my heart, when I really
forced myself to look towards the future, that is what I saw in
it, and, as far as I could tell, scarce anyone seemed to think
it worth while to struggle against such a consummation of civilisation.
So there I was in for a fine pessimistic end of life, if it had
not somehow dawned on me that amidst all this filth of civilisation
the seeds of a great chance, what we others call Social Revolution,
were beginning to germinate. The whole face of things was changed
to me by that discovery, and all I had to do then in order to
become a Socialist was to hook myself on to the practical movement,
which, as before said, I have tried to do as well as I could.
From William Morris, How I Became a Socialist (London:
Twentieth Century Press Ltd., 1896), pp. 9, 1113.
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(c)Paul Halsall Aug 1997