Note 253 (M-A [1], report-only, no local English-edition text): This concerns real colonies — virgin soil colonized by free immigrants. The United States, economically speaking, is still a colonial territory of Europe. Old plantations belong here too, wherever the abolition of slavery has completely overturned conditions.
Political economy habitually confuses two very different kinds of private property: one resting on the producer's own labour, the other on the exploitation of another's labour. It forgets that the second is not merely the direct opposite of the first, but grows only on the grave of the first.
In Western Europe, political economy's home ground, the process of original accumulation is more or less complete. Capitalist rule has here either subjected the whole of national production directly, or, where conditions are less developed, it at least indirectly controls the surviving, decaying strata of society that still belong to the older mode of production. Onto this ready-made world of capital, the political economist applies the legal and property notions of the pre-capitalist world — with all the more anxious zeal and unction the louder the facts cry out against his ideology.
It is otherwise in the colonies. There capitalist rule everywhere runs up against the obstacle of the producer who, as owner of his own conditions of labour, enriches himself by his own labour instead of enriching the capitalist. The contradiction between these two diametrically opposed economic systems here plays itself out practically, in struggle between them. Where the capitalist has the power of the mother country at his back, he tries to clear the labour-based mode of production and appropriation forcibly out of his way. The same interest that drives capital's sycophant, the political economist, to declare in the mother country that the capitalist mode of production is theoretically identical with its own opposite, drives him here "to make a clean breast of it" and loudly proclaim the antagonism between the two modes of production. To this end he shows how the development of labour's social productive power — cooperation, division of labour, large-scale machinery, and so on — is impossible without the expropriation of the workers and the corresponding conversion of their means of production into capital. In the interest of so-called national wealth, he hunts for artificial means of manufacturing popular poverty. His apologetic armour crumbles here, piece by piece, like rotten tinder.
It is E. G. Wakefield's great merit to have discovered — not anything new about the colonies themselves, but the truth about the mother country's capitalist relations, discovered in the colonies. Just as the protection system in its origins strove to manufacture capitalists artificially in the mother country, so Wakefield's theory of colonization, which England tried for a time to put into legal effect, strives to manufacture wage-labourers in the colonies. This he calls "systematic colonization." Note 254/[2]: Wakefield's few flashes of insight into the nature of the colonies themselves are fully anticipated by Mirabeau père, the physiocrat, and, still earlier, by English economists. Note 255/[3]: It later becomes a temporary necessity in international competitive struggle. But whatever its motive, the consequences remain the same.
Wakefield first discovered, in the colonies, that owning money, means of subsistence, machines, and other means of production does not yet stamp a person a capitalist if the complement is missing — the wage-labourer, the other person compelled to sell himself voluntarily. He discovered that capital is not a thing, but a social relation between persons, mediated by things. Mr Peel, he complains to us, took means of subsistence and production worth £50,000 from England to the Swan Note 256 (M-A [4], report-only, no local English-edition text): "A Negro is a Negro. Only under certain relations does he become a slave. A cotton-spinning machine is a machine for spinning cotton. Only under certain relations does it become capital. Torn from these relations, it is capital as little as gold is money in and of itself, or sugar the price of sugar... Capital is a social relation of production. It is a historical relation of production." (Karl Marx, "Wage Labour and Capital," Neue Rheinische Zeitung, no. 266, 7 April 1849.)
River, New Holland (Western Australia), along with him. Mr Peel was careful enough also to bring 3,000 persons of the working class — men, women, and children (the Moore–Aveling English edition gives 300). Once he had arrived at his destination, "Mr Peel was left without a servant to make his bed or fetch him water from the river." Unhappy Mr Peel, who provided for everything except the export of English relations of production to the Swan River! Note 257/[5]: E. G. Wakefield, England and America, vol. II, p. 33.
Two preliminary remarks are needed to understand Wakefield's further discoveries. We know that means of production and subsistence, as the property of the immediate producer, are not capital. They become capital only under conditions in which they also serve as means of exploiting and dominating the worker. But in the political economist's head, this capitalist soul of theirs is so intimately wedded to their material substance that he baptizes them capital under all circumstances, even where they are its exact opposite. So it is with Wakefield. Further: he calls the splitting-up of the means of production into the individual property of many independent, self-working labourers an equal division of capital. The political economist behaves just like the feudal jurist, who likewise stuck his feudal legal labels onto purely monetary relations.
"If," says Wakefield, "capital were distributed among all members of society in equal portions, no one would have an interest in accumulating more capital than he could employ with his own hands. This is, to some degree, the case in new American colonies, where the passion for landed property prevents the existence of a class of wage-labourers." Note 258/[6]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, p. 17.
So long, then, as the worker can accumulate for himself — and he can, so long as he remains owner of his means of production — capitalist accumulation and the capitalist mode of production are impossible. The class of wage-labourers indispensable to them is missing. How, then, was the worker's expropriation from his conditions of labour — and hence capital and wage-labour — brought about in old Europe? Through a contrat social, a social contract, of a quite original kind.
Wakefield writes: "Mankind... adopted a simple method for promoting the accumulation of capital" — which, naturally, had hovered before it since Adam's time as the last and only purpose of its existence — "they divided themselves into owners of capital and owners of labour... this division was the result of voluntary understanding and combination." Note 259/[7]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, p. 18.
In a word: the mass of humanity expropriated itself in honour of the "accumulation of capital." Now one would think the instinct of this self-denying fanaticism would give itself free rein above all in the colonies, where alone people and circumstances exist that could translate a contrat social out of dreamland into reality. But then what need was there at all for "systematic colonization," as against colonization that simply grows on its own? But, but —
Wakefield writes: "in the northern states of the American Union it is doubtful whether a tenth of the population belongs to the category of wage-labourers... In England... the great mass of the people consists of wage-labourers." Note 260/[8]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, pp. 42, 43, 44.
Indeed, the drive toward self-expropriation among labouring humanity, in honour of capital, exists so little that slavery, even by Wakefield's own account, is the sole naturally-grown basis of colonial wealth. His systematic colonization is a mere pis aller — a mere stopgap — since he happens to be dealing with free people instead of slaves.
Wakefield writes: "The first Spanish settlers in Santo Domingo obtained no labourers from Spain. But without labourers" (that is, without slavery) "capital would have perished, or at least shrunk down to the small quantities that each individual could employ with his own hands. This actually occurred in the last colony founded by the English, where a great capital in seed, cattle, and implements perished for want of wage-labourers, and where no settler possesses much more capital than he can employ with his own hands." Note 261 (M-A [9], report-only, no local English-edition text): Wakefield, England and America, vol. II, p. 5.
We have seen that the expropriation of the mass of the people from the soil forms the basis of the capitalist mode of production. The essence of a free colony consists, conversely, in this: that the bulk of the land is still common land, public property of the people, so that every settler can turn part of it into his own private property and individual means of production, without hindering later settlers from doing the same. This is the secret both of the colonies' flourishing and of their canker — their resistance to capital's settling in. Note 262/[10]: "Land, to become an element of colonization, must not only be uncultivated, but public property, capable of being converted into private property." (Wakefield, England and America, vol. II, p. 125.)
Wakefield writes: "Where land is very cheap and all people are free, where anyone who wishes can readily obtain a plot of land for himself, labour is not only very dear, so far as the worker's share of the product goes, but the difficulty is to obtain combined labour at any price." Note 263/[11]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, p. 247.
Since in the colonies the separation of the worker from the conditions of labour, and from their root, the land, does not yet exist — or only sporadically, on much too narrow a scale — neither does the separation of agriculture from industry yet exist, nor the destruction of rural domestic industry. So where is capital's internal market supposed to come from?
Wakefield writes: "No part of the population of America is exclusively agricultural, except the slaves and their employers, who combine capital and labour for large-scale works. Free Americans who cultivate the land themselves pursue many other occupations at the same time. Some of the furniture and tools they use is usually made by themselves. They frequently build their own houses, and carry the product of their own industry to market however far off it may be. They are spinners and weavers; they make soap and candles, and often shoes and clothes, for their own use. In America, farming is often the secondary business of a blacksmith, a miller, or a shopkeeper." Note 264/[12]: Wakefield, England and America, pp. 21, 22.
Among such queer customers as these, where is left the capitalist's "field of abstinence"?
The great beauty of capitalist production lies in this: it not only constantly reproduces the wage-worker as wage-worker, but always produces, in proportion to the accumulation of capital, a relative surplus-population of wage-workers. In this way the law of supply and demand for labour is kept on the right track, wage-fluctuation is confined within limits satisfactory to capitalist exploitation, and finally the so indispensable social dependence of the worker on the capitalist is guaranteed — an absolute relation of dependence which the political economist at home, in the mother country, can smugly lie into a free contractual relation between buyer and seller, between equally independent owners of commodities, the owner of the commodity capital and the owner of the commodity labour. But in the colonies this pretty illusion is torn apart. The absolute population grows here much faster than in the mother country, since many workers come into the world already grown up, and yet the labour-market remains constantly understocked. The law of supply and demand for labour breaks down. On the one hand, the old world is constantly throwing in capital greedy for exploitation and needing to "abstain"; on the other hand, the regular reproduction of the wage-worker as wage-worker runs into the most unruly and, in part, insuperable obstacles. And then there is the production of wage-workers superfluous in proportion to the accumulation of capital! Today's wage-worker becomes tomorrow's independent, self-working farmer or artisan. He vanishes from the labour-market — but not into the workhouse. This constant transformation of wage-workers into independent producers, who work for themselves instead of for capital, and enrich themselves instead of their capitalist master, reacts in turn quite ruinously on conditions in the labour-market. Not only does the wage-worker's degree of exploitation remain indecently low; he also loses, along with the relation of dependence, the very feeling of dependence on the abstaining capitalist. Hence all the ills that our E. G. Wakefield describes so worthily, so eloquently, and so touchingly.
The supply of wage-labour, he complains, is neither constant, nor regular, nor sufficient. It "is always not only too small, but uncertain."
"Although the product to be divided between worker and capitalist is large, the worker takes so large a share of it that he quickly becomes a capitalist himself... Few, on the other hand, even if they live unusually long, can accumulate great masses of wealth."
The workers simply do not allow the capitalist to forgo payment for the greater part of their labour. It does him no good even if he is cunning enough to import, with his own capital, his own wage-workers from Europe.
"They soon cease to be wage-workers; they soon turn into independent farmers, or even into competitors of their old masters in the very wage-labour market."
Just grasp the horror of it! The worthy capitalist has imported, with his own good money, his own flesh-and-blood competitors, straight from Europe! That really is the last straw! No wonder Wakefield complains of the colonial wage-worker's lacking relation of dependence, and lacking feeling of dependence. Because of high wages, says his disciple Merivale, there exists in the colonies a passionate longing for cheaper and more submissive labour — for a class to whom the capitalist can dictate terms, instead of having terms dictated to him... In long-civilised countries the worker, though free, is by a law of nature dependent on the capitalist; in colonies this dependence has to be created by artificial means.
What, then, is the consequence of this unfortunate state of affairs in the colonies, according to Wakefield? A "barbarising system of dispersion" of the producers and of the national wealth. The splitting-up of the means of production among countless, self-working owners destroys, along with the centralisation of capital, every foundation for combined labour. Every long-drawn-out undertaking, stretching over years and requiring an outlay of fixed capital, meets with obstacles to its execution. In Europe capital hesitates not a moment, for the working class forms its living appendage, always there in excess, always at its disposal. But in the colonial countries! Wakefield tells an extremely painful anecdote. He had been talking with some capitalists of Canada and the state of New York, where, besides, the waves of immigration often stagnate and deposit a sediment of "supernumerary" workers.
"Our capital," sighs one of the characters in the melodrama, "our capital lay ready for many operations that need a considerable stretch of time to complete; but could we begin such operations with workers whom, we knew, would soon turn their backs on us? Had we been sure of being able to keep hold of such immigrants' labour, we would gladly have engaged them at once, and at a high price. Indeed, despite the certainty of losing them, we would still have engaged them, had we been sure of a fresh supply whenever we needed it."
After Wakefield has grandly contrasted English capitalist agriculture and its "combined" labour with the dispersed American farming economy, the other side of the medal also slips out from him. He depicts the mass of the American people as prosperous, independent, enterprising, and relatively educated, while —
— "the English agricultural labourer is a miserable wretch, a pauper... In what country, except North America and some new colonies, do the wages of free labour employed on the land notably exceed the labourer's barest means of subsistence?... Beyond doubt, farm-horses in England, being valuable property, are much better fed than the English farm labourer."
But never mind — national wealth is, by its very nature, simply identical with popular misery.
How, then, to cure the colonies' anti-capitalist canker? If one wanted to turn all land at a single stroke from public into private property, one would indeed destroy the root of the evil — but also the colony. The trick is to kill two birds with one stone. Let the government set on virgin soil, by law, a price independent of the law of supply and demand — an artificial price that compels the immigrant to work for wages for a longer time, until he can earn enough money to buy land and turn himself into an independent farmer. The fund that flows from selling the land at a price relatively prohibitive for the wage-worker — that is, this money fund extorted from wages by violating the sacred law of supply and demand — the government should then use, on the other hand, to import, in the same measure as it grows, have-nothings from Europe into the colonies, and so keep the wage-labour market full for the capitalist gentleman. Under these circumstances, tout sera pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles — all is arranged for the best in the best of all possible worlds. This is the great secret of "systematic colonization."
"Under this plan," Wakefield cries out triumphantly, "the supply of labour must be constant and regular; for, first, since no worker is able to acquire land before he has worked for money, all immigrant workers, by working in combination for wages, would produce capital for their employer to set more labour to work; and second, everyone who hangs up wage-labour and becomes a landowner would, precisely by purchasing the land, secure a fund for bringing fresh labour over to the colonies."
The land price imposed by the state must of course be a "sufficient price" — that is, so high "as to prevent the workers from becoming independent farmers until others are there to take their place in the wage-labour market." This "sufficient land price" is nothing but a euphemistic paraphrase for the ransom that the worker pays the capitalist for permission to withdraw from the wage-labour market onto the land. First he must create "capital" for his capitalist master, so that the latter can exploit more workers, and then provide a "substitute" on the labour-market, whom the government ships overseas to his former capitalist master at the worker's own expense.
It is highly characteristic that the English government carried out, for years, this method of "primitive accumulation" that Mr Wakefield had prescribed expressly for use in colonial countries. The fiasco was, of course, just as disgraceful as that of Peel's Bank Act. The stream of emigration was merely diverted from the English colonies to the United States. Meanwhile, the advance of capitalist production in Europe, accompanied by growing government pressure, has made Wakefield's recipe superfluous. On the one hand, the huge and continuous stream of people driven, year in, year out, to America, leaves behind stagnant deposits in the eastern United States, since the wave of emigration from Europe throws people onto the labour-market there faster than the wave of emigration westward can wash them away. On the other hand, the American Civil War brought a colossal national debt in its train, and with it tax pressure, the breeding of the most vulgar financial aristocracy, and the giving-away of a huge part of the public lands to speculator-companies for the exploitation of railways, mines, and so on — in short, the most rapid centralisation of capital. The great republic has therefore ceased to be the promised land for emigrating workers. Capitalist production advances there with giant strides, even though the lowering of wages and the wage-worker's dependence are still far from having been brought down to the normal European level. The shameless squandering of uncultivated colonial land on aristocrats and capitalists by the English government, so loudly denounced by Wakefield himself, has, particularly in Australia, together with the stream of people the gold-diggings draw in, and the competition that the import of English goods creates even for the smallest artisan, produced a sufficient "relative surplus-population of workers" — so much so that almost every mail-steamer brings the bad news of a glut of the Australian labour-market, and prostitution there flourishes in places as luxuriantly as in London's Haymarket.
However, the condition of the colonies is not what concerns us here. What alone interests us is the secret, discovered in the New World and proclaimed aloud by the Old World's political economy: that the capitalist mode of production and accumulation, and hence also capitalist private property, require the annihilation of private property founded on one's own labour — that is, the expropriation of the worker.
Note 253 (M-A [1], report-only, no local English-edition text): This concerns real colonies — virgin soil colonized by free immigrants. The United States, economically speaking, is still a colonial territory of Europe. Old plantations belong here too, wherever the abolition of slavery has completely overturned conditions.
Political economy habitually confuses two very different kinds of private property: one resting on the producer's own labour, the other on the exploitation of another's labour. It forgets that the second is not merely the direct opposite of the first, but grows only on the grave of the first.
In Western Europe, political economy's home ground, the process of original accumulation is more or less complete. Capitalist rule has here either subjected the whole of national production directly, or, where conditions are less developed, it at least indirectly controls the surviving, decaying strata of society that still belong to the older mode of production. Onto this ready-made world of capital, the political economist applies the legal and property notions of the pre-capitalist world — with all the more anxious zeal and unction the louder the facts cry out against his ideology.
It is otherwise in the colonies. There capitalist rule everywhere runs up against the obstacle of the producer who, as owner of his own conditions of labour, enriches himself by his own labour instead of enriching the capitalist. The contradiction between these two diametrically opposed economic systems here plays itself out practically, in struggle between them. Where the capitalist has the power of the mother country at his back, he tries to clear the labour-based mode of production and appropriation forcibly out of his way. The same interest that drives capital's sycophant, the political economist, to declare in the mother country that the capitalist mode of production is theoretically identical with its own opposite, drives him here "to make a clean breast of it" and loudly proclaim the antagonism between the two modes of production. To this end he shows how the development of labour's social productive power — cooperation, division of labour, large-scale machinery, and so on — is impossible without the expropriation of the workers and the corresponding conversion of their means of production into capital. In the interest of so-called national wealth, he hunts for artificial means of manufacturing popular poverty. His apologetic armour crumbles here, piece by piece, like rotten tinder.
It is E. G. Wakefield's great merit to have discovered — not anything new about the colonies themselves, but the truth about the mother country's capitalist relations, discovered in the colonies. Just as the protection system in its origins strove to manufacture capitalists artificially in the mother country, so Wakefield's theory of colonization, which England tried for a time to put into legal effect, strives to manufacture wage-labourers in the colonies. This he calls "systematic colonization." Note 254/[2]: Wakefield's few flashes of insight into the nature of the colonies themselves are fully anticipated by Mirabeau père, the physiocrat, and, still earlier, by English economists. Note 255/[3]: It later becomes a temporary necessity in international competitive struggle. But whatever its motive, the consequences remain the same.
Wakefield first discovered, in the colonies, that owning money, means of subsistence, machines, and other means of production does not yet stamp a person a capitalist if the complement is missing — the wage-labourer, the other person compelled to sell himself voluntarily. He discovered that capital is not a thing, but a social relation between persons, mediated by things. Mr Peel, he complains to us, took means of subsistence and production worth £50,000 from England to the Swan Note 256 (M-A [4], report-only, no local English-edition text): "A Negro is a Negro. Only under certain relations does he become a slave. A cotton-spinning machine is a machine for spinning cotton. Only under certain relations does it become capital. Torn from these relations, it is capital as little as gold is money in and of itself, or sugar the price of sugar... Capital is a social relation of production. It is a historical relation of production." (Karl Marx, "Wage Labour and Capital," Neue Rheinische Zeitung, no. 266, 7 April 1849.)
River, New Holland (Western Australia), along with him. Mr Peel was careful enough also to bring 3,000 persons of the working class — men, women, and children (the Moore–Aveling English edition gives 300). Once he had arrived at his destination, "Mr Peel was left without a servant to make his bed or fetch him water from the river." Unhappy Mr Peel, who provided for everything except the export of English relations of production to the Swan River! Note 257/[5]: E. G. Wakefield, England and America, vol. II, p. 33.
Two preliminary remarks are needed to understand Wakefield's further discoveries. We know that means of production and subsistence, as the property of the immediate producer, are not capital. They become capital only under conditions in which they also serve as means of exploiting and dominating the worker. But in the political economist's head, this capitalist soul of theirs is so intimately wedded to their material substance that he baptizes them capital under all circumstances, even where they are its exact opposite. So it is with Wakefield. Further: he calls the splitting-up of the means of production into the individual property of many independent, self-working labourers an equal division of capital. The political economist behaves just like the feudal jurist, who likewise stuck his feudal legal labels onto purely monetary relations.
"If," says Wakefield, "capital were distributed among all members of society in equal portions, no one would have an interest in accumulating more capital than he could employ with his own hands. This is, to some degree, the case in new American colonies, where the passion for landed property prevents the existence of a class of wage-labourers." Note 258/[6]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, p. 17.
So long, then, as the worker can accumulate for himself — and he can, so long as he remains owner of his means of production — capitalist accumulation and the capitalist mode of production are impossible. The class of wage-labourers indispensable to them is missing. How, then, was the worker's expropriation from his conditions of labour — and hence capital and wage-labour — brought about in old Europe? Through a contrat social, a social contract, of a quite original kind.
Wakefield writes: "Mankind... adopted a simple method for promoting the accumulation of capital" — which, naturally, had hovered before it since Adam's time as the last and only purpose of its existence — "they divided themselves into owners of capital and owners of labour... this division was the result of voluntary understanding and combination." Note 259/[7]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, p. 18.
In a word: the mass of humanity expropriated itself in honour of the "accumulation of capital." Now one would think the instinct of this self-denying fanaticism would give itself free rein above all in the colonies, where alone people and circumstances exist that could translate a contrat social out of dreamland into reality. But then what need was there at all for "systematic colonization," as against colonization that simply grows on its own? But, but —
Wakefield writes: "in the northern states of the American Union it is doubtful whether a tenth of the population belongs to the category of wage-labourers... In England... the great mass of the people consists of wage-labourers." Note 260/[8]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, pp. 42, 43, 44.
Indeed, the drive toward self-expropriation among labouring humanity, in honour of capital, exists so little that slavery, even by Wakefield's own account, is the sole naturally-grown basis of colonial wealth. His systematic colonization is a mere pis aller — a mere stopgap — since he happens to be dealing with free people instead of slaves.
Wakefield writes: "The first Spanish settlers in Santo Domingo obtained no labourers from Spain. But without labourers" (that is, without slavery) "capital would have perished, or at least shrunk down to the small quantities that each individual could employ with his own hands. This actually occurred in the last colony founded by the English, where a great capital in seed, cattle, and implements perished for want of wage-labourers, and where no settler possesses much more capital than he can employ with his own hands." Note 261 (M-A [9], report-only, no local English-edition text): Wakefield, England and America, vol. II, p. 5.
We have seen that the expropriation of the mass of the people from the soil forms the basis of the capitalist mode of production. The essence of a free colony consists, conversely, in this: that the bulk of the land is still common land, public property of the people, so that every settler can turn part of it into his own private property and individual means of production, without hindering later settlers from doing the same. This is the secret both of the colonies' flourishing and of their canker — their resistance to capital's settling in. Note 262/[10]: "Land, to become an element of colonization, must not only be uncultivated, but public property, capable of being converted into private property." (Wakefield, England and America, vol. II, p. 125.)
Wakefield writes: "Where land is very cheap and all people are free, where anyone who wishes can readily obtain a plot of land for himself, labour is not only very dear, so far as the worker's share of the product goes, but the difficulty is to obtain combined labour at any price." Note 263/[11]: Wakefield, England and America, vol. I, p. 247.
Since in the colonies the separation of the worker from the conditions of labour, and from their root, the land, does not yet exist — or only sporadically, on much too narrow a scale — neither does the separation of agriculture from industry yet exist, nor the destruction of rural domestic industry. So where is capital's internal market supposed to come from?
Wakefield writes: "No part of the population of America is exclusively agricultural, except the slaves and their employers, who combine capital and labour for large-scale works. Free Americans who cultivate the land themselves pursue many other occupations at the same time. Some of the furniture and tools they use is usually made by themselves. They frequently build their own houses, and carry the product of their own industry to market however far off it may be. They are spinners and weavers; they make soap and candles, and often shoes and clothes, for their own use. In America, farming is often the secondary business of a blacksmith, a miller, or a shopkeeper." Note 264/[12]: Wakefield, England and America, pp. 21, 22.
Among such queer customers as these, where is left the capitalist's "field of abstinence"?
The great beauty of capitalist production lies in this: it not only constantly reproduces the wage-worker as wage-worker, but always produces, in proportion to the accumulation of capital, a relative surplus-population of wage-workers. In this way the law of supply and demand for labour is kept on the right track, wage-fluctuation is confined within limits satisfactory to capitalist exploitation, and finally the so indispensable social dependence of the worker on the capitalist is guaranteed — an absolute relation of dependence which the political economist at home, in the mother country, can smugly lie into a free contractual relation between buyer and seller, between equally independent owners of commodities, the owner of the commodity capital and the owner of the commodity labour. But in the colonies this pretty illusion is torn apart. The absolute population grows here much faster than in the mother country, since many workers come into the world already grown up, and yet the labour-market remains constantly understocked. The law of supply and demand for labour breaks down. On the one hand, the old world is constantly throwing in capital greedy for exploitation and needing to "abstain"; on the other hand, the regular reproduction of the wage-worker as wage-worker runs into the most unruly and, in part, insuperable obstacles. And then there is the production of wage-workers superfluous in proportion to the accumulation of capital! Today's wage-worker becomes tomorrow's independent, self-working farmer or artisan. He vanishes from the labour-market — but not into the workhouse. This constant transformation of wage-workers into independent producers, who work for themselves instead of for capital, and enrich themselves instead of their capitalist master, reacts in turn quite ruinously on conditions in the labour-market. Not only does the wage-worker's degree of exploitation remain indecently low; he also loses, along with the relation of dependence, the very feeling of dependence on the abstaining capitalist. Hence all the ills that our E. G. Wakefield describes so worthily, so eloquently, and so touchingly.
The supply of wage-labour, he complains, is neither constant, nor regular, nor sufficient. It "is always not only too small, but uncertain."
"Although the product to be divided between worker and capitalist is large, the worker takes so large a share of it that he quickly becomes a capitalist himself... Few, on the other hand, even if they live unusually long, can accumulate great masses of wealth."
The workers simply do not allow the capitalist to forgo payment for the greater part of their labour. It does him no good even if he is cunning enough to import, with his own capital, his own wage-workers from Europe.
"They soon cease to be wage-workers; they soon turn into independent farmers, or even into competitors of their old masters in the very wage-labour market."
Just grasp the horror of it! The worthy capitalist has imported, with his own good money, his own flesh-and-blood competitors, straight from Europe! That really is the last straw! No wonder Wakefield complains of the colonial wage-worker's lacking relation of dependence, and lacking feeling of dependence. Because of high wages, says his disciple Merivale, there exists in the colonies a passionate longing for cheaper and more submissive labour — for a class to whom the capitalist can dictate terms, instead of having terms dictated to him... In long-civilised countries the worker, though free, is by a law of nature dependent on the capitalist; in colonies this dependence has to be created by artificial means.
What, then, is the consequence of this unfortunate state of affairs in the colonies, according to Wakefield? A "barbarising system of dispersion" of the producers and of the national wealth. The splitting-up of the means of production among countless, self-working owners destroys, along with the centralisation of capital, every foundation for combined labour. Every long-drawn-out undertaking, stretching over years and requiring an outlay of fixed capital, meets with obstacles to its execution. In Europe capital hesitates not a moment, for the working class forms its living appendage, always there in excess, always at its disposal. But in the colonial countries! Wakefield tells an extremely painful anecdote. He had been talking with some capitalists of Canada and the state of New York, where, besides, the waves of immigration often stagnate and deposit a sediment of "supernumerary" workers.
"Our capital," sighs one of the characters in the melodrama, "our capital lay ready for many operations that need a considerable stretch of time to complete; but could we begin such operations with workers whom, we knew, would soon turn their backs on us? Had we been sure of being able to keep hold of such immigrants' labour, we would gladly have engaged them at once, and at a high price. Indeed, despite the certainty of losing them, we would still have engaged them, had we been sure of a fresh supply whenever we needed it."
After Wakefield has grandly contrasted English capitalist agriculture and its "combined" labour with the dispersed American farming economy, the other side of the medal also slips out from him. He depicts the mass of the American people as prosperous, independent, enterprising, and relatively educated, while —
— "the English agricultural labourer is a miserable wretch, a pauper... In what country, except North America and some new colonies, do the wages of free labour employed on the land notably exceed the labourer's barest means of subsistence?... Beyond doubt, farm-horses in England, being valuable property, are much better fed than the English farm labourer."
But never mind — national wealth is, by its very nature, simply identical with popular misery.
How, then, to cure the colonies' anti-capitalist canker? If one wanted to turn all land at a single stroke from public into private property, one would indeed destroy the root of the evil — but also the colony. The trick is to kill two birds with one stone. Let the government set on virgin soil, by law, a price independent of the law of supply and demand — an artificial price that compels the immigrant to work for wages for a longer time, until he can earn enough money to buy land and turn himself into an independent farmer. The fund that flows from selling the land at a price relatively prohibitive for the wage-worker — that is, this money fund extorted from wages by violating the sacred law of supply and demand — the government should then use, on the other hand, to import, in the same measure as it grows, have-nothings from Europe into the colonies, and so keep the wage-labour market full for the capitalist gentleman. Under these circumstances, tout sera pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles — all is arranged for the best in the best of all possible worlds. This is the great secret of "systematic colonization."
"Under this plan," Wakefield cries out triumphantly, "the supply of labour must be constant and regular; for, first, since no worker is able to acquire land before he has worked for money, all immigrant workers, by working in combination for wages, would produce capital for their employer to set more labour to work; and second, everyone who hangs up wage-labour and becomes a landowner would, precisely by purchasing the land, secure a fund for bringing fresh labour over to the colonies."
The land price imposed by the state must of course be a "sufficient price" — that is, so high "as to prevent the workers from becoming independent farmers until others are there to take their place in the wage-labour market." This "sufficient land price" is nothing but a euphemistic paraphrase for the ransom that the worker pays the capitalist for permission to withdraw from the wage-labour market onto the land. First he must create "capital" for his capitalist master, so that the latter can exploit more workers, and then provide a "substitute" on the labour-market, whom the government ships overseas to his former capitalist master at the worker's own expense.
It is highly characteristic that the English government carried out, for years, this method of "primitive accumulation" that Mr Wakefield had prescribed expressly for use in colonial countries. The fiasco was, of course, just as disgraceful as that of Peel's Bank Act. The stream of emigration was merely diverted from the English colonies to the United States. Meanwhile, the advance of capitalist production in Europe, accompanied by growing government pressure, has made Wakefield's recipe superfluous. On the one hand, the huge and continuous stream of people driven, year in, year out, to America, leaves behind stagnant deposits in the eastern United States, since the wave of emigration from Europe throws people onto the labour-market there faster than the wave of emigration westward can wash them away. On the other hand, the American Civil War brought a colossal national debt in its train, and with it tax pressure, the breeding of the most vulgar financial aristocracy, and the giving-away of a huge part of the public lands to speculator-companies for the exploitation of railways, mines, and so on — in short, the most rapid centralisation of capital. The great republic has therefore ceased to be the promised land for emigrating workers. Capitalist production advances there with giant strides, even though the lowering of wages and the wage-worker's dependence are still far from having been brought down to the normal European level. The shameless squandering of uncultivated colonial land on aristocrats and capitalists by the English government, so loudly denounced by Wakefield himself, has, particularly in Australia, together with the stream of people the gold-diggings draw in, and the competition that the import of English goods creates even for the smallest artisan, produced a sufficient "relative surplus-population of workers" — so much so that almost every mail-steamer brings the bad news of a glut of the Australian labour-market, and prostitution there flourishes in places as luxuriantly as in London's Haymarket.
However, the condition of the colonies is not what concerns us here. What alone interests us is the secret, discovered in the New World and proclaimed aloud by the Old World's political economy: that the capitalist mode of production and accumulation, and hence also capitalist private property, require the annihilation of private property founded on one's own labour — that is, the expropriation of the worker.