Why didn’t New Harmony become—as Owen hoped it would—the seed colony of a new social order for the country and the world?
For those that say socialism has never been done right and believe it would succeed if it was
It has been tried here and it was done correctly. It failed due to the inherent flaws in human nature, and it will never work because of those inherent flaws. Here is an interesting little tidbit of history that no one really knows or talks about.
Certainly not those Social Democrats that want to fundamentally transform our way of life. Their snake oil must be resisted at all costs.
While up in Scotland, my Auntie took me on a sightseeing trip to New Lanark, a UNESCO World Heritage site and a milestone of urban planning. New Lanark was one of the earlier mill towns that sprung up along the Clyde in the late 19th century, and under the management of Robert Owen became a pioneer of an enlightened working environment where workers were treated well and their welfare was looked after, in contrast to the pitiless conditions suffered elsewhere during the industrial revolution. It reminded me of the sort of philanthropic utopias Walt Disney was fond of planning, whereby a kind-hearted rich person took it upon themselves to build the world of tomorrow where everyone would be happy. Of course, I have my own thoughts on such apparently benevolent enterprises:
ExPerimental Community Of Tomorrow
Over there? No, no good. The dandelion needed to hang a liiitle bit to the left…perfect! A lunchtime well spent, Molly thought. The lane outside Mill #7 was in a brilliant state to greet the Midsummer’s Feast. Just in time, too, she was worried it wasn’t going to be ready. Now there was only one more thing to fix…
Messy-haired Molly descended the rungs and hitched up the ladder, wobbling a little under its weight. It was beautiful weather for the feast, she hoped it would hold for tomorrow. A lot of scones had been baked, a lot of ribbons tied, a lot of chairs requisitioned, it would be a damn shame if all that effort fell victim to the weather. It was out of her control, and Molly didn’t like that. She loved organising things, it gave her a buzz. She was definitely better at it than that stuttering boy of a supervisor, but she didn’t begrudge poor MacGleish, he just needed confidence, that’s all. That was the Beverstoun way, after all: every rude seedling, properly nurtured and cared for, could bloom into a beautiful flower. Everyone was proud of what they’d built here, and rightly so, but some wanted their loved ones to share in their pride. Hopefully, she might be able to arrange just that.
‘Molly!’ stick-thin Susie waved from the top floor, ‘Bevers is doon fuir an inspection. If ye wan tae talk tae him, now’s the time!’
‘Thanks!’ Molly waved back. The boss spent most of his time in the big house up on the hill, but he was always coming down into the valley to check up on his workforce. He was keen to find out if the machines were working properly and safe to use, if the patients in the village clinic were being treated well, how the children were doing in school, if any of the supervisors were up to any funny business…he held a firm belief that a happy, healthy, educated workforce was a productive workforce. Beverstoun was his idea of what the whole world should be like, a little corner of Eden on the River Forth.
‘This strap is looking a wee bit threadbare, is it not, MacLeish?’ Adam Bevers, the young clean-shaven spitting image of his kindly father, caressed the leather strap of a threading machine between his fingertips.
‘W-we were w-waiting fuir a n-new batch o’ straps t-tae arrive, s-sir!’ gangly MacGleish stood stiffly in the idle row of Mill #7.
‘I see. Well, till they get here, take this machine out of service,’ Bevers released his grip and sauntered up the machine row, ‘wouldnae want a wee lass losing her arms, would we?’
‘Naw, sir…’ MacGleish started unstrapping the machine sheepishly.
Molly slid the ladder back into its usual hidey-hole behind the machines and squeezed through the ranks of the other millworking girls, ‘oh, Mister Bevers! Mister Bevers, sir!’
‘Molly!’ Bevers paused, smiling, ‘how may I help you?’
‘I was wondering…sir…whit ye ken about the idea I had?’ Molly curtseyed, ‘fuir the Midsummer’s Feast, sir!’
‘Oh…’ Bevers stepped back, looking askance, ‘…eh…sorry, I dinnae know what you mean.’
Molly froze in her curtsey, squinting at the floor, ‘I sent ye a letter ‘boot it, sir.’
‘A letter, did ye? Ooh aye…’ said Bevers, ‘tell you what, why don’t you tell me all about it in the office? There’s a good lass. MacGleish, you come too.’
‘Aye, s-sir…’ MacGleish stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, ‘all bonnie! B-back tae work!’
The machines restarted their clacking, but Molly, flanked by Bevers and MacLeish, was herded elsewhere. The instant the office door went click, the rest of the factory felt a thousand miles away. Bevers requisitioned MacGleish’s deskchair and made himself comfortable.
‘Righty-ho, what can I do for ye?’ Bevers laid his feet on the plan-strewn desk.
‘It isna fuir me, sir, but some o’ the other lasses,’ Molly appreciated the boss taking the time out to talk to her during work hours, ‘we been told tae take oor husbands and bairns tae the Midsummer’s Feast, but some o’ their auld fogies are out really far. We just need sam time tae gather ‘em up!’
Bevers steepled his fingers, ‘everyone has the afternoon off for the Feast taemorrow. That isnae enough time?’
‘Naw, sir, some o’ these biddies live oot in Glasgow an’ Edinburgh…few in Perth, even,’ Molly was wondering if this tingling up her neck was a sense of unease or MacGleish heavy-breathing on her shoulder, ‘we need the whole day, everyone’s taking a train.’
‘And o’ course you will be going with them?’ Bevers swivelled his back to Molly.
‘…nnnooooo?’ Molly cringed. Something in his tone was making her nervous, ‘Susie has a grannie in Dundee, she and a few others’ll be tackling tha whos and wherefores. We pooled our wages t’gither tae buy tha tickets.’
‘Very commendable, aye, but not practical, regrettably,’ Bevers threw up a hand, ‘Wellerby’s of Leith needs twa thousand yards by the end of the month, I cannae spare any more indulgences. I hate penny-pinching much as you do, but it’s out o’ my hands, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s only a ha’dozen lasses need tae go, sir, I dinna ken t’would throw us off tha much,’ Molly was detecting a disturbing undercurrent with all this ‘indulgence’ talk, ‘an’ t’would mean so much tae the gels, sir!’
‘Really? That so?’ Bevers swivelled back, fixing his eyes on Molly, ‘if there were such a grand clamouring amongst your co-workers, why did ye only bring it this year? The day before on top of that?’
‘Well, it…it dinnae look possible afore…’ Molly’s eyes fell to the floor. What was she doing, giving up like this? A prideful swell in her chest lifted her eyes back up, ‘but with the new railway open, we ken-!’
‘”We”, “we”, I dinnae see anyone else in the office, do you?’ Bevers leant on the chair arms to push himself up, ‘I sympathise, I do, but Beverstoun is the place it is today because hard workers like you forwent self-indulgencies and worked together tae build a newer, better place to be. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’
Molly saw what Bevers was playing at, hand on his hip and arching an eyebrow. He was trying to convince her that this was a flight of fancy, that no one cared about this little thing except her. Well she’d show him before the day was out! She curtseyed, ‘not fer niuw, sir. I’ll let ye ken if onything comes tae mind.’
‘Please do,’ Bevers waved at the supervisor, ‘MacGleish? The door?’
The factory sounds battered in as soon as the door swung open. MacGleish, with his hand on the knob, nodded semi-politely at her as she retreated. She’d show them both.
Molly went the long way back to her machine, passing by the clerk’s desk. The old master handed over a blank sheet of paper and a pencil just to make her stop bugging him. She jotted a header on the move: “We, the Workers of Beverstoun, make this petition to Mr Adam Bevers Esq. to grant Holiday to six volunteers on the morning of the Midsummer Feast for the purpose of gathering our distant relations, so that we may celebrate Beverstoun’s prosperity together”. Once back at the machine, clearing tufts from the rakes, Molly elbowed Susie once the two were close enough to each other.
‘Tha boss says naw,’ Molly hissed over the sound of the textile rack.
‘Whit?!’ rakish Susie stooped lower, ‘why?!’
‘He disnae think ye exist, Susie,’ Molly sneaked the petition out of her blouse, ‘want tae tell him ye do?’
‘Ah Jezo! O’course I will!’ Susie squiggled a mark on the page under Molly’s.
Molly kept an eye on the petition’s progress as it rounded Mill #7, right under MacGleish’s hapless nose. Some passed it on without looking at it, but most felt compelled to sign. They’d been talking about it for weeks, after all, since Molly first proposed the fund at the Beverstoun Easter Dance. It’d never occurred to anyone that Bevers would have a problem with it. She made any excuse to introduce it to the other mills…repairing spools, getting grease for the joints, checking to see what was holding up the wool runners even though they weren’t held up. For the rest of the afternoon, chunking and shuttling and lever-pulling, all she could think about was that slowly expanding list of names. When the whistle blew and the machines wound down, she was worried that someone had finally taken offence to the list and had either chucked it or given it to their supervisor. But as she walked out the mill amidst the other workers, one of the mousy new girls ran up, slapped the sheet in her hands, smiled and flew off.
Staring at the document in her fingers, the other girls swept around Molly like a river coursing around a rock. A few brushed her back as they passed, congratulating her, but she was too busy boggling in amazement at how her appeal had exceeded her wildest imaginings. Names were sketched across both sides of the page, so many that some had to be squeezed into the margins, the names at the bottom shrinking and shrinking until they formed a compacted layer of sediment. Tonight was poetry night in Beverstoun Hall, but Molly’s eyes soared skyward to the big house overlooking the valley: she had bigger plans.
Molly’s boots crunched through the driveway stones. The big house looked much like the sandstone tenements they all lived in, although obviously the two-storey pile was for one man and his family rather than a dozen workers. She patted her skirt and tried in vain to unrustle her hair before pulling the bell chord, feeling at once severely underdressed. She smiled at the stone-faced butler that answered the varnished door. He didn’t smile back.
‘Ah…hello! I’m Molly…one o’ tha mill-workers?’ Molly made a little wave.
The butler didn’t answer. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought his name was Souter.
‘I wuir just wanting tae talk tae Mister Bevers?’ Molly leant aside to peek into the door crack, ‘…’boot a…proposition…earlier…?’
Souter, scowling a belittling scowl, was staring to close the door again.
‘Souter?’ Bevers’ young voice trilled from within the pile, ‘who is at the door?’
‘Och, that’s quite all right! Let her in, let her in!’ Bevers waved cheerfully from inside, ‘come through tae the study, Molly! We can talk there.’
Souter opened the door begrudgingly. Molly stepped into the warm interior, bathed in candlelight, and immediately felt self-conscious that her mere presence was staining the place. Oak panelling, thick crimson carpets, miniature portraits battling for wall-space with dead animal heads…the light and roomy tenements of Beverstoun had felt palatial compared to the grimy square-foot cupboards she’d grown up in back in Edinburgh’s Old Town, but the big house was another universe completely. It was strange, Mister Bevers had always felt like one of them, but seeing the size of this place…
‘Dawdle as much as you like, lass, the wife’s up in Stirling,’ Bevers held the study door open for her. He was smiling and indulgent, but Molly felt her feet skip a little quicker anyway. He bowed as she entered, ‘I take it something has come to mind after all?’
‘Aye, sir…’ Molly curtseyed once they were both inside. The door closed with a quiet clack, and the fireplace crackled in the silence that followed. She was gawking at the all-surrounding library that vastly outclassed the collection in the village school until she pinched herself and remembered why she was here, ‘ah…being honest, sir, it’s tha same thing that came tae mind as last time. I think ye were saying, sir, that ye didnae ken there wuir a clamouring fuir bringing relations here fuir Midsummer?’
‘Aye…that I did…’ Bevers walked to the fireplace, not looking once at Molly. His smile was gone, and his hands were clasped behind his back.
‘Well…ah…I made a wee whip round and it seems there is a “clamouring”, right enough!’ Molly pulled the petition from her blouse and handed it over. Seeing so many names of so many of his workers backing the plan, it just had to melt his prickly heart. She grinned excitedly, ‘hundreds of workers hae signed this ‘ere petition! And no just those wi relations, neither, everyone wants their friends’ grandparents and uncles and cousins tae come and celebra-!’
The petition was snatched out of her hand. She’d been holding it pretty tightly, she was still gripping a corner shred between thumb and forefinger. Bevers held the sheet of paper fiercely, scrunching the top and staring at it in firelight upside-down.
‘I told ye this was out of the question,’ Bevers snorted, ‘I told ye, and you deliberately ignore me. You’ve put me in a very difficult position, lass.’
Molly’s chest tightened. Her eyes grew smudgy. Why was he acting like this? What did she do to anger him? No…she breathed in, stiffened, kept her pride in her lungs. She was in the right, indisputably in the right, he couldn’t treat her like this, ‘everyone wants it and it’s such a wee thang…whit’s so bad ‘boot the idea, sir?’
‘I couldna give two hoots about the idea, lass, I might even take it up someday,’ Bevers crushed the sheet of names between his palms, ‘what’s so bad is that ye went behind my back and undermined me in cahoots with other workers. The effrontery, the ingratitude of it. That’s unforgiveable, lass, and if ye don’t want tae risk slinking back to the slums without a penny to your name, you’ll give up this silly idea.’
The scrunched up wad fell into the flames and erupted. Molly clutched her breast, feeling every pencil mark of every squiggle as they were consumed by the fire. As if each signature was a part of the souls of every worker in Beverstoun, and these souls were linked through her. Every name that went up felt like a part of someone’s soul dying. Soon there was nothing left but a blackened rosebud, twinkling in Bevers’ stooped eyes.
‘When I said workers like you made Beverstoun what it is, I meant every word,’ Bevers’ young scalp was nestled in his arm, resting against the wall, ‘but remember its name, lass. When my father laid the first brick of Beverstoun, he was laying the first brick of himself, and myself through him. You are a part of Beverstoun, and that makes you a part of me. And like an ear…or a big toe…or a right kidney…you do only what I tell you to do. A non-functioning limb is grounds for amputation, so that the whole body may stay healthy and content. Is this getting through tae you, lass?’
Molly stiffened her shaking arms against her sides, trying her damnedest not to snarl, ‘aye, sir.’
‘Good,’ Bevers turned and rang a bell on the pristine desk. He was all smiles again when the study door reopened, ‘Souter! Please escort my guest to the kitchens and have the cook rustle up a fine meal for her! Only the best for my favourite worker!’
Souter scowled, bowed, and lingered for Molly to exit. Her insides were still broiling. She kept her hands pressed into her sides and locked gazes with Bevers’ extremely slappable face as she left the study.
This wasn’t over, Molly promised, not by a long way.
Can we just talk about how freaking AWESOME Tripping Over You is?? I mean, obviously it’s completely cute as balls, but the character development is just CRAZY good. It’s so subtle and well written, I’m just… Yeah. I love it. If you haven’t read it just, stop what you’re doing and just… OK?
Reposting some earlier "Thank You" pieces I doodled up for a variety of comic artists who gave me awesome advice in the past!
Int he center are Milo and Liam from the absolutely gorgeous webcomic Tripping Over You. Click the link and check it out if you haven't before, because it's worth your attention. :)
Thank you, again, SO MUCH, for your wonderful advice!
