Cacotopianism, the Paris Commune, and England's Anti-Communist Imaginary, 1870-1900
After the Paris Commune of 1871, the spectre of communism, forgotten for a generation after 1848, once again stalked Europe. The democratic experiment of the Commune lasted only two months, but it had a disproportionate impact on the political imaginary of the European middle classes. In England, panicked reports of its depredations in the daily press helped to shape an anti-communist imaginary that was excitedly reanimated in the 1880s and 1890s, when the domestic working class appeared to threaten insurrection. The distinctive product of this imaginary, I want to argue, was the fictional "cacotopia."
Coined by Jeremy Bentham in 1818, the word "cacotopia" (from the Greek kakos meaning "bad") was used by John Stuart Mill in 1868, only three years before the Commune, during a debate in parliament on the state of Ireland. Mill accused the Conservative government not of being "Utopians" in their policymaking—for that, he said, would be too complimentary—but of being "dys-topians, or cacotopians": "What is commonly called Utopian is something too good to be practicable; but what they appear to favour is too bad to be practicable."1 In this article I use the term "cacotopian" in a slightly different sense, to specify a particular manifestation of the anti-utopian, or dystopian, imagination. While the dominant current of anti-utopianism in the late Victorian period proceeds by satirizing the utopian form itself, "cacotopianism" is concerned less with repudiating the literary expression of utopianism than with combating its practical embodiment in the proletariat.
Cacotopia implies not simply the opposite of utopia but something pernicious in its own right (as Anthony Burgess said, it "sounds worse than dystopia").2 It depicts the working class, in corpore, as dystopian. So its grisly fascination is with chthonic insurrection rather than with the corrupt power structures of the putative socialist state. According to Krishan Kumar, the anti-utopia can be understood "as an invention [End Page 465] to combat socialism, in so far as socialism was seen to be the fullest and most sophisticated expression of the modern worship of science, technology and organization."3 The cacotopia can be understood by contrast as an invention to combat communism, insofar as communism (so Friedrich Engels claimed) was seen to be the "very opposite" of a "respectable" middle-class movement.4 A fiction of social catastrophe, cacotopianism portrays revolution as a sexual and political apocalypse. I deploy the term "cacotopia" in an attempt to reproduce the sheer pungency of the form's anti-communist politics.
In novels and fictional pamphlets, up until the end of the century, the fantastic image of an "English Commune," which one correspondent for the Times rightly regarded as "no sort of danger," was nevertheless fostered.5 The cacotopia, which mapped the menacing figure of an insurgent working class onto the political geography of London, was an effect of the rise of organized labor during the so-called Great Depression as well as of the Commune itself. An imaginary history of the present, in the form of a prospective history, it reflected the intensifying class struggle of the final decades of the nineteenth century. The 1880s and 1890s marked an important moment in the formation of the English working class. As the New Unionism testified, it was increasingly organized and at least seemed alarmingly homogeneous. The emerging socialist movement promised to glue it together all the more securely. It is no accident that Émile de Laveleye's survey of Le socialisme contemporain (1881)—which warned that "we may see our capitals ravaged by dynamite and petroleum in a more ruthless and systematic manner than even that which Paris experienced at the hands of the Commune"—was translated into English in the mid-1880s.6 Domestic anxieties about social conflict oxidized the residues deposited in the European political imagination by the events in Paris of the early 1870s.
In this article, I anatomize the anti-communist or anti-insurrectionary imagination identifiable in England after the Commune and show how it shaped the body of literary texts which I designate "cacotopian." Its second section examines the cacotopia's conditions of possibility from the late 1860s and early 1870s, with reference to seminal imaginary histories by George Chesney and Samuel Bracebridge Hemyng. Section three, on the Paris Commune and the crisis of metropolitan experience, maps the characteristic topos of the cacotopia, sketching a number of fictional narratives from the 1880s and 1890s that contribute to the gothic geography of a city haunted by class conflict. Section four turns to the cacotopia's propagandist function and concludes that, in [End Page 466] depicting revolution as a traumatic encounter with the Real, the form represents a surreptitious utopian appeal to its imagined community of readers, an appeal for a new bourgeois consciousness centred on the need for defence against the common class enemy. In conclusion, I analyse When All Men Starve, a striking cacotopia published in the final years of the century.
II. The Emergence of the Cacotopian Genre
"The last four or five years," wrote James Presley, the director of the Cheltenham Library, in 1873, "have been remarkably fruitful in works of a Utopian character." The cacotopia's emergence as a genre or subgenre coincided with the sudden resurgence of utopian fiction in the early 1870s. The year 1871 was in effect the founding moment of turn-of-the-century utopian fiction. Edward Bulwer-Lytton's The Coming Race was published on the first of May, the same day that Samuel Butler submitted the manuscript of Erewhon (1872) to Chapman and Hall. Coincidentally, this was also the date on which The Battle of Dorking (1871), Colonel George Chesney's fictional account of a Prussian invasion of England, appeared in Blackwood's Magazine. Rapidly reprinted to appease the swelling appetite of its middle-class readership, this geopolitical fantasy lent credence to Presley's claim that the turn to utopian fiction was caused, in part, by "the new political influences resulting from the late Franco-German war."7 The bibliographer's coy allusion to the Paris Commune, which pressed hard on the heels of the Prussian siege of the French capital, occludes the scene of insurrection even as it manifests an implicit awareness of its influence on the collective imagination.
In the second half of the 1890s H. G. Wells used The Time Machine (1895) and other novels to question the naively optimistic prophecies of much early science fiction. But the cacotopias grew out of a slightly earlier climate of pessimism. The first stirrings of a cacotopian impulse were responses to the "visionary ideas" taking hold of the working class, bred in what Lord Salisbury called the "seething imaginations of the foreign conspirators" who implemented them in the Commune.8 The Times referred to "the Utopia which the Commune of Paris have undertaken to introduce into the domain of practical ideas."9 The momentary materialization of utopia in the spectre of Parisian socialism helps to explain the traumatic impact of the Commune. The Commune ruptured the bourgeoisie's faith in progress. Matthew Arnold's diagnosis, that "the Paris convulsion [was] an explosion of that fixed [End Page 467] resolve of the working class to count for something and live, which [was] destined to make itself so much felt in the coming time, and to disturb so much which dreamed it would last forever," was a perspicacious one.10 The reactionary propaganda that proliferated in England from 1871 tried to stitch together that ruptured dream.
There was not the remotest chance of working-class revolution in England in the early 1870s, when the politics of the labor movement were largely defined by the Liberals' agenda. We have to look beyond the scant signs of socialist organization at the time in order to understand the excessive reaction of the dominant class. Its causes lie in the fact that, from the Reform Act of 1867, the Liberal and Tory parties found themselves compelled to compete on the terrain of mass politics. A recomposition of the political settlement consequently took place, and a widespread sense of insecurity attended it. Forced in part from below, as the unsettling impact of the riots in Hyde Park in 1866 implies, the Act was a very limited extension of the franchise, largely to skilled workers. It embodied a dual strategy: it attempted to harness the voting power of a portion of the working class in order to preserve the status quo; and it sought to retard the political growth of the labor movement and forestall the potential revolutionary force of the proletariat. But despite its preemptive intention, it actually compounded ruling-class suspicions of a link between suffrage and revolution. Even Thomas Macaulay had been against democratization, on the grounds that it "sooner or later" led to the destruction of "liberty, or civilization, or both."11 Thus the bourgeoisie's relationship with the working class was acutely contradictory. Pushed into closer proximity with the propertied class, the working class seemed more incomprehensible and unknowable to its rulers than ever before, and this "alienation from the people," in Georg Lukács's useful formulation, "constantly change[d] into hostility towards the people."12
Fear of foreign invasion served to reinforce the middle class's fear of insurrection. As the Annual Register of 1871 put it in its report on the Franco-Prussian war: "The foreign enemy pacified, Government became aware that an enemy more formidable, because more fatal to all patriotic bonds of sympathy, existed in the heart of Paris."13 In Britain, the dual dread of the enemy within and the enemy without obtruded into middle-class consciousness during the Franco-Prussian War, and became implacable as the first siege of Paris culminated in the Commune. It is this mood that was caught by The Battle of Dorking. Chesney's portentous attack on the myopia of contemporary military planning—a polemic against national complacency—exploited [End Page 468] more than just the widespread fear of conflict with Germany. It also capitalized on a deeper sense of social disquiet by locating the causes of the imaginary Prussian invasion in the fact that "power was then passing away from the class which had been used to rule, and to face political dangers, and which had brought the nation with honour unsullied through former struggles, into the hands of the lower classes, uneducated, untrained to the use of political rights, and swayed by demagogues."14 Chesney's reference to a postwar France subject to "foolish communism" implicitly points to a similar fate for Britain unless the necessary action is taken (B, 5), confirming Darko Suvin's speculation, in his account of Victorian science fiction, that "in some subterranean ways . . . much of the force of this text comes from an unacknowledged equation between fear of foreign invasion and of revolutionary uprising."15
The author of The Battle of Dorking is in addition troubled by the prospect of impending economic decline, and this fear, fulfilled especially in the mid 1880s, is also symptomatic of the state of social flux characteristic of the late 1860s and early 1870s. For Chesney, England's wealth is the result of free trade, which "had been working for more than a quarter of a century," such that "there seemed to be no end to the riches it was bringing us" (B, 3). But Britain is merely "a big workshop" dependent on the needs of other nations, and it is the failure to build some kind of safety mechanism into the economy, in order "to insure our prosperity," that precipitates the collapse of the City when the threat of invasion arises (B, 4–5). "We thought we were living in a commercial millennium, which must last for a thousand years at least," the narrator ruefully observes (B, 63).
The first fiction directly to register the impact of the Commune is a pamphlet entitled The Commune in London (1871). Its author was Samuel Bracebridge Hemyng, the writer of a series of aristocratic adventure novels, who had contributed the account of prostitution in Henry Mayhew's London Labour and the London Poor (1861–1862). Hemyng's "Chapter of Anticipated History" is a roughly made repository for the apocalyptic fears evoked by Chesney. The threats of a working class stirred into sedition by the cumulative impact of the Reform Bill, a German invasion, and an imminent economic depression are all played out in its pages. Its nightmare vision of an English revolution inspired by the Commune locates the causes of social upheaval in a laboring population "intoxicated by their successes in obtaining the suffrage and the ballot," in a Prussian invasion at Harwich and Dorking in 1871, and in "a decreasing trade."16 Set in the imaginary aftermath of Victoria's [End Page 469] reign, it looks back with nostalgia to the "Victorian Era"—if not quite a "commercial millennium," still a time of flourishing trade and peace (C, 4). This order is shattered by the uprising of a bloodthirsty working-class mob that, led by cosmopolitan demagogues and backed by demonic female insurgents, sets up a despotic state only overthrown by the Prince of Wales's counter-offensive. Although formally unoriginal (in fact, derivative of The Battle of Dorking), this text signals the repopulation of a distinct literary topos, the class war as living nightmare. As a financially and politically opportunistic narrative which, as Suvin says, "threw together an 'Anticipated History' . . . and the red-hot theme of the day in a hasty concoction mixing gory Paris-style street carnage with muddled political disquisitions," it is the prototype of those cacotopian texts of the 1880s and 1890s which, in one way or another, recast the nursery tale of the spectre of communism for the late Victorian middle classes.17
If Chesney furnished the Victorian bourgeoisie with a new mythology of imaginary wars that played out the fantasies of Western nationalism, then Hemyng traced out a terrifying fantasy of revolution in order to dramatize dreams of a ruling-class hegemony secured by disciplined class oppression. In effect, he advocates conservative reform of the status quo. "What suffices it that the insurrection was put down, that the gutters ran blood, and that the Communists were hunted down and destroyed like rats?" his narrator asks, concluding that "there must have been something radically wrong in the government of the nation to make the establishment of a Commune possible" (C, 42). This fantastical rhetoric is instrumental to the propagandist function of the narrative. "It seemed as if the end of the world was come, and the whole of London toppling down in one common ruin," he intones with vengeful satisfaction (C, 40).
The first formulation of the propagandist function of this prophetic technique is perhaps the Imaginary History of the Next Thirty Years (1857), which in a different political climate had recommended "writing history before [rather] than after the facts," in order to "throw a light forward into the darkness and prevent danger."18 This narrative's appeal to preventative action was obeyed by several anti-radical writers of the late Victorian period. Typically, a later cacotopia, "England's Downfall:" or, the Last Great Revolution (1893), by "An Ex-Revolutionist," addresses itself to "the rising generation," upon which "everything depends." Its message is a predictably conservative and paternalistic one: "The destinies of England are in your hands. Show the world what you can do. Think of what England was once [End Page 470] and what it is now, and remember that it is never too late to mend."19 Paradoxically, cacotopias construct themselves as false prophecies. And their status as false prophecies depends on the hopeful assumption that their readers have the power and the will to execute the political responsibility ascribed to them.
This cannot of course be guaranteed. So the anti-socialist prophecies of the late nineteenth century are scored with insecurity about their own ideological efficacy. The naive optimism of the Imaginary History—which announces that "Histories of the Future could hardly fail to influence the future, for the mere proclamation of oracles often ensures their fulfilment"—is qualified as the narrative form matures under altered domestic circumstances in the later cacotopias.20 The final polemical appeal of Edgar Welch's Monster Municipality (1882)—"May the recital of the horrors I suffered prove sufficiently deterrent to prevent their ultimate realization!"—is plaintive by comparison.21 Writing a book is a gesture uncomfortably similar to sending a message in a bottle: it is not always possible to predict who will read it and how it will be interpreted. E. H. Berens and I. Singer, joint authors of The Story of My Dictatorship (1894), seem to be aware of the difficulty that they face when, in a contradictory conclusion to their vision of a political future ruined by populism and pluralism, they invite each reader to "put on it his own interpretation," and then insist that in fact it "has but one meaning and one moral."22
These cacotopian writers tend to displace their own sense of political helplessness onto their readers. The narrator of The Commune in London, after describing the insurrection, exclaims: "Would to heaven it could be torn out of the book, but there it stands, red and forbidding, a warning for all time to come" (C, 42). He betrays Hemyng's sense of isolation as a writer. Only the text's readership, he implies, is in a position to tear the leaf from the book, to efface the traumatic image of a future revolution, by taking political action in the present. But it is just this implicit notion of a readership that compounds the problem, for it is based on a false, wish-fulfilment identification of the fiction's audience as an effectual collectivity. Hemyng's book dreams of a kind of Primrose League of readers. Symptomatic of all cacotopias, this is an embattled response to the advance of a mass politics in Britain, to a nightmare peopled with ignorant voters at the ballot box and insurgent workers taking concerted action in the streets, the world of the second and third Reform Acts and of the Paris Commune. The authors of these novels and pamphlets waged a fictional offensive by forging the rhetorical tools of an anti-revolutionism that, by filling their readers' [End Page 471] imaginations with the spectral symbols of a fictional socialist menace, sought expressly to influence bourgeois class-consciousness.
III. Cacotopia and the Crisis of Metropolitan Experience
The irruption of the Paris insurrection into middle-class consciousness at the end of the century, and its indelible impact on the incipient anti-communist imaginary, was to a critical degree conditioned by what Raymond Williams called the "crisis of metropolitan experience" at the end of the nineteenth century.23 Lord Salisbury diagnosed something like this when he wrote the following in his article on the Commune: "It is the destiny of France to exhibit, for the benefit of others, the special dangers of modern civilization in their most aggravated form. Among these, not the least serious is the obstacle to peaceable government which the growth of large cities has created."24 The population of London increased from 2.5 to 3.9 million between 1851 and 1881, leading directly to chronic overcrowding and slum conditions, but the social effects of this urban concentration were exacerbated by the displacement of the metropolitan population as a result of the commercial expansion and demolition of the city. In the second half of the century, the labor force was brutally evicted from the central districts, still the source of work, in a reorganization of urban space which, as the arbitrary consequence of railway and dock development, warehouse building, and street clearance, led to evictions comparable to the more systematic Haussmannization of mid-century Paris. According to Gareth Stedman Jones, by the early 1870s the English capital "was haunted by the spectre of Parisian barricades," conjured up by a housing problem that "comprised a direct threat to social stability."25 The realization of urban space as the space of revolution in Paris placed the city at the center of the cacotopian project.
An open letter printed in The Republican of 1 May 1871, entitled "Paris Today—London Tomorrow," underlined the point. "Is not London seething with the same spirit of discontent?" it demanded, insisting that "it only wants a combination of circumstances—say a bad harvest, and a run for gold to bring the battle between property and labour to the same issue in this country."26 Little more than a decade later, this collision of circumstances occurred. The severe economic depression of the mid 1880s, compounded by industrial decline and acute housing shortages, led, on the one hand, to the demoralization and impoverishment of the artisans at the respectable end of the working class, and, more dramatically, on the other, to the expansion [End Page 472] of the so-called residuum, the mass of desperately poor unemployed or sporadically employed people. The latter stratum, closely associated with criminal corruption and socialist agitation in the imagination of the middle classes, found its most famous literary expression in the lumpen, animalized Morlocks of Wells's dystopia, The Time Machine. By the mid 1890s, it was already established as the collective villain of cacotopian fiction, especially after the unemployed riots in central London of 1886 and 1887. Like the Paris Commune, imported memories of which were now pressed into service again, this rioting was significant for the British bourgeoisie less because of what happened than because of "the strength of middle-class reaction to it and the extent of the fear of the casual residuum that it revealed."27
The cacotopian texts of this time form a part of this defensive response in the face of the revelation of a potentially imminent social crisis. Their capacity to propagandize in this way was primarily dependent on the skill with which, conjoining realist and anti-realist literary devices, they gothicized the sociopolitically charged topography of the capital, in order to impart a ghoulish immediacy to the prospect of revolution. The Times pioneered a fantastical naturalism in 1871, when, in a passage reminiscent of Barnaby Rudge (1841), it mapped "the political geography of the Revolution" directly onto London: "The Reds are at the Mansion-house; their army is in ruined forts about Clapham; the other army is about Sydenham and Wimbledon; the other Government is at Richmond; and the invaders are at Highgate and Harrow, and all over the north."28 Cacotopian fiction sophisticated this technique, depicting a faceless urban mass flattening central London in an offensive against imperial and ruling-class culture. In The Commune in London, the unruly mob mimics the destruction of the Vendôme Column during the Commune in Paris when it demolishes the Albert Memorial (C, 27). In The Decline and Fall of the British Empire (1890), to take a typical later cacotopia, "a dirty unwashed crowd" demonstrating in Trafalgar Square proceeds to burn down Buckingham Palace, Kensington Palace, and all the gentlemen's clubs, ultimately reducing London to a post-revolutionary wasteland of poverty, incomparably worse than that of the nineteenth century.29
Two cacotopian novels that allegorize the impact of an English revolution, although they are not overtly concerned with an insurrectionary urban working class, portray the capital in a state of particularly eerie gothic devastation. The Last Man in London (1887) tells the story of a man who, for one feverish week, experiences London as "a City of the Dead."30 In a revealing passage at the center of the [End Page 473] narrative, he runs amok in the empty streets, smashing the symbols of capitalist civilization—windows of shops like Liberty's, busts of the great poets—and proclaiming himself monarch. He has been infected with a virulent strain of revolutionism. The Year of Miracle (1891) sensationally relates the impact of a plague that, germinated in the squalid recesses of Whitechapel, wreaks havoc among the population until Trafalgar Square, the scene of a later riot, looks "like one vast charnel house."31 Such imagery served to convince its middle-class readers that the social chaos of the city was the creation of the urban poor and that this degenerate class stratum was alone responsible for the barbaric prospect of revolution. Catastrophic images conduct the cacotopia's polemical charge.
If the physical business of building barricades, as Kristin Ross suggests, is a species of bricolage, since it entails wrenching everyday objects from their habitual context in order to use them for radically different ends, then something analogous to this process is at work in the late Victorian cacotopias, which redeploy familiar literary tropes, like natural and biblical metaphors, and use them as blocks with which to build the anti-socialist imagination and so shore up bourgeois ideology.32 They help to construct the political myth that working-class action is inherently destructive, to the point of being apocalyptic. And as with the political myths that proliferated on the right at the time of the Commune, they are composed not so much of theories and doctrines as of "bundles of images and evocations" which exercise "a cumulative and collective power to sway emotions."33
The middle class's incomprehension in the face of an amoebic Populace is typically imaged in terms of a dangerous natural or infernal force over which supposedly rational human agents, like the state, have no control. This metaphoric strategy is indebted to the rhetoric of fictional and non-fictional accounts of the French Revolution, like Thomas Carlyle's French Revolution (1837) and Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities (1859). It is also mediated through the experiences of the last uprising of the masses in living memory, the Commune. Volcanic imagery, to take one example, is particularly popular. Francis Kilvert, that quintessentially mild-mannered country curate, wrote in March 1871 that "those Parisians are the scum of the earth, and Paris is the crater of the volcano, France, and a bottomless pit of revolution and anarchy."34 One author of a travel narrative about a journey "[t]hrough France and Spain in 1871" entitled it Over Volcanoes.35 But if English residents of Paris felt themselves "to be living on the side of a volcano" in the days leading up to the insurrection at Montmartre, [End Page 474] as the Methodist William Gibson put it, then the experience of respectable Londoners during and after the extreme social tension of the mid 1880s was a comparable one.36 H. Herman Chilton, a Staffordshire lock manufacturer, dramatizes this comparison in his cacotopian fiction, Woman Unsexed (1892), mocking British complacency. The narrator's premature declaration that "here in England, eruptions of the substratum have been few and short, owing chiefly to the triumphant commonsense of the middle classes" is later ironically overturned by the spectacle of revolution in central London: "That mass of seething humanity surged away towards the West-End as lava, after labouring in the bowels of the earth, boils over its crater."37
These images are freighted with infernal associations. And revolution itself, specifically the actual moment of insurrection, is frequently figured as a vision of hell in the cacotopias. The Commune once more provides the most recent and compelling precedent. Pope Pius IX's description of the Communards as "devils risen up from hell bringing the inferno to the streets of Paris" was echoed by historians and journalists fascinated by the dramatic incendiary destruction of the city.38 These impressions of "a hell, with death for a girdle," as John Leighton put it, were still being invoked two decades later in Britain.39 In an article on "Recollections of the Commune in Paris" published in Blackwood's in 1894, the anonymous author, a friend of Laurence Oliphant, remembered the French capital as "the universal furnace," and recalled that the "lurid, lowering, looming awfulness" of the burning buildings created an effect "that could only be called hellish."40
The dominant experience of anarchy in the last days of May 1871, in fact, comes to substitute for the events of two months earlier, when the Parisian working class took power in a spirit of comparative calm. In the subsequent fictional representations of revolutionary uprisings in England, it is the working class who, in a cruelly ironic reversal, are blamed for the bloody saturnalia that should have been associated with the Versailles army. Condensing and displacing the history of the Commune, the author of The Doom of the County Council of London (1892), for example, describes the regimented ranks of ten thousand constables defending the nation's honour in Trafalgar Square, which is peopled by "a shrieking, plundering mob of demons incarnate, rushing frantically hither and thither, as though the very gates of Hell had been broken down and its occupants let loose."41 These bloody scenes of plunder and destruction, most of them set in the West End, restage the middle-class melodrama of the Commune even as they play out and repress the chthonic forces of contemporary London. [End Page 475]
Miasmic imagery, dense with moral meaning, links these two topoi. If during the May fighting "Paris scarcely knew day from night," and a "thick, black cloud of smoke . . . obscured and intensified the horrors of an awful drama," then this revolutionary cityscape was to resonate with the pre-revolutionary experience of middle-class Londoners, for whom the infamous industrial smog concealed and revealed the lurking presence of the residuum.42 William Delisle Hay, author of the Social-Darwinist utopia Three Hundred Years Hence (1881), explored the allegorical potential of pollution a year earlier in a short cacotopian fiction expressing bourgeois fear of the urban masses. The Doom of the Great City (1880) is ostensibly about the destruction of London's entire population by fog, a natural phenomenon (though, as the opening passage of Bleak House  reminds us, urban fog tended to obscure the difference between the natural and the social). In fact, it is about the poisonous influence of "the black enormity of London sin," the crucible of which is of course the impoverished classes.43 The real subject of this grimly gothic tale is glimpsed in a number of narrative and descriptive devices. Its very format is telling, for the narrative is presented as a letter from a survivor of this holocaust to his grandchildren, which immediately positions it within the formal tradition of The Battle of Dorking and The Commune in London. Also, it is set at a time of bad harvests, economic depression, and "continual strife between capital and labour" (D, 15).
It is an important aside on class, however, that makes the polemical purpose of the piece quite clear. Hay's narrator hymns the middle class as the "real life" of the city, but warns that this life is threatened because, on the one hand, degenerate aristocratic habits have filtered down to it and, on the other, "up from the lowest depths there [have] constantly ar[isen] a stream of grosser, fouler moral putrescence" (D, 15). The splenetic references to republicanism and socialism following this passage leave no doubt that it is the latter which is truly to blame for the impending cataclysm. This is further confirmed by the plot that unfolds once the initial scene-setting has ended in an analysis of the industrial causes and social effects of a fog that afflicts London in February 1882. This fog originates in the East End, where it chokes to death its first victims, before spreading to the suburbs. The first casualty encountered by the narrator as he walks into an apparently deserted city center from Dulwich, where he happens to be staying, is (scarcely coincidentally) a policeman. And "the very heart and home of Horror itself" (D, 46), he finally discovers, is the West End—a scene of genocide. [End Page 476]
The post-apocalyptic landscape of London imaged here evokes descriptions of Paris after the Commune, which All the Year Round likened to a desert, and which occasioned the Fortnightly Review's declaration that the sheer lifelessness of the city proved "that Paris has outlived its prime."44 By chance, it also anticipates the choking smog of February 1886, in which the unemployment riots took place, at the height of the depression. The "wild phantasmagoria of frightful dreams" that afflict the narrator of The Doom of the Great City are fulfilled not only in the ensuing narrative but in the class conflict of the following years (D, 31).
IV. Cacotopianism and the Utopian Impulse
Gustave Flaubert allegedly found it difficult to recover from what he called the "Gothicity" of the Commune.45 To the English middle classes, too, it seemed to have realized a nightmare. Its haunting power added a feverish intensity to fears of a domestic uprising throughout the remainder of the century. A contemporary article in Leisure Hour identified it as "an ugly dream of the past—a nightmare of terror as to what discontented democrats would bring about in this country if they were only given the time and opportunity to work out their crude schemes."46
This trope, common in pseudo-objective accounts of the Commune, proved even more influential in fictional representations: their discursive register licensed them to subjectify the impact of the insurrection, fleshing out its proportions to the point of surreal grotesqueness. In A Young Girl's Adventures in Paris During the Commune (1881), Mrs. John Waters's heroine sums up the months of the Commune "as a troubled and horrible dream," the climax of which is the implausible murder of members of her family by a group of Communards.47 And in another adventure story on the same subject, Herbert Hayens's Paris at Bay (1897), the hero has a dream about the deaths of the French military officers Lecomte and Thomas, who were executed during the Commune: as their corpses stir uneasily, he ascertains with horror that their faces have his own and his fellow adventurer's features.48 The cacotopias themselves—many of which, in addition to depicting revolution in some detail, systematically set out the terrible democratic reforms of their demonic socialist anti-heroes—are governed by the (il)logic of the nightmare at a molar as well as a molecular level of the text. Some merely characterize their image of the socialist state in terms of "the hideous horrors of a prolonged nightmare."49 Others, like The Monster Municipality (1882), use the narrative device of a dream to [End Page 477] imagine the "dreadful nightmare" of "London under the process of a certain reform."50 Just as utopia is the organized expression of a social dream, so cacotopia has its own unconscious: the social nightmare.
English commentators reached for something like this connection between cacotopianism and the bad dream of the Commune in 1871. A piece in the Times of 29 May 1871, entitled "The Horrors of Civil War," described the atmosphere of Paris in the preceding days as a paranoid one, in which the correspondent is "oppressed ever by the scenes of destruction and desolation" that surround him. It produces, he says, "a sensation more nearly allied to nightmare than to any psychological experience with which I am familiar, but yet requiring some new word to define it."51 The new word for which he grasps, I propose hypothetically, is "cacotopian."
The historical precedence of the Commune was, for the bourgeoisie, who deemed it both impracticable and appalling in its implications, cacotopian par excellence. The philanthropist James Tuke, lecturing on the events of 18 March at the time, admitted as much. Imagining a recent riot in Hyde Park being played out to its Communal conclusion (London usurped by workers with "little respect for anybody's life," troops fraternizing with them, "judges and all persons in authority" exiled or imprisoned), he concludes that "that would be an analogous position to Paris on that day—a state about as dreadful as could be."52 It is this symptomatic response, the anxious introjection of the Commune by the English middle classes, and its fantastic projection, that explains the presence of the cacotopia as a literary form at this juncture, contemporaneous as it is with the origins of that more inclusive genre, the imaginary history.
The late nineteenth-century cacotopia is a perverse expression of what the Marxist philosopher of utopia Ernst Bloch called the "Novum." This concept is used by Bloch to signify a new consciousness engendered by "the mandate of the time"—here, the ascendancy of the working class at the time of an incipient crisis of confidence in the advance of capitalism. As we have seen, anxiety and fear characterize the bourgeois response to the Novum, the collective apprehension of a new historical possibility: proletarian revolution in the metropolitan center. And Bloch classifies these reactions as "expectant emotions." Like all manifestations of fear, the late Victorian fear of revolution is an expectant emotion that "extends beyond its 'founding' idea-content; the expectant content shows a greater 'depth' than the given idea-content." The terrified imagination, in other words, elaborates the object of its fear as it projects it into the future. "Every fear implies, as a fulfilment [End Page 478] correlate, total destruction such as there has not yet been before, hell let loose," Bloch writes.53 The "fulfilment correlate" of the fear of revolution in the late nineteenth century is the socialist society raised on the dead bodies of the bourgeoisie: in Caesar's Column (1890), by the American Populist senator Ignatius Donnelly, the eponymous monument to the civilization ushered in by insurrection is a pyramid built by pouring cement onto a vast pile of pestilential corpses.54 If the reactionary myth of the Paris Commune, for the English middle classes, is the "'founding' idea-content" of the fear of revolution, then, stimulated by domestic turmoil, the cacotopian imagination extends this object to its apocalyptic conclusion.
"The only crime of the Commune," one Communard mournfully remarked, "was to have anticipated the future."55 For the English middle classes, its comminatory power outstripped its material impact. In England in the 1870s, the proleptic impact of the revolution in Paris represented what Walter Benjamin might have called the bourgeoisie's "moment of awakening," which "would be identical with the 'now of recognizability,' in which things put on their true—surrealist—face."56 The drama of the Commune seemed to be the phantasmagoria of a more or less imminent future. The indeterminacy of the spectre of communism imported to England from France, its undated prediction of social disaster, inspired not despair, which for Bloch is "expectation of something negative about which there is no longer any doubt," but, as I have indicated, fear and anxiety, which are "still questioning, hovering, still determined by mood and by the undetermined, unresolved element of its Object." The Commune, and the events of the 1880s that reactivated its memory in England, provoked an "anticipatory" response. The cacotopia, in fact, incorporates a "utopian function."57
The cacotopian text of the late nineteenth century, depicting revolution as an infernal state of social flux, conscripts reactionary political instincts in support of a utopian model of capitalism supposedly implicit in the present. At the end of The Commune in London, Hemyng's narrator, after briefly recounting the Commune's defeat, concludes that now England can finally "begin to look forward with hope to the future" (C, 45). The future to which he refers, a dimly luminous image of a triumphant capitalist system, might be termed "Utopia (Limited)" (in W. S. Gilbert's operetta Utopia (Limited); or, The Flowers of Progress (1893), Utopia is floated as a company). Like the progressive utopian function, this conservative one is conditioned by what Jean Pfaelzer calls "the incentives of utopia." But Pfaelzer undervalues the dialectic of incentives that typifies the form. The "incentives" of the late Victorian [End Page 479] utopia do not "represent either a stimulus to or a digression from praxis."58 They simultaneously stimulate and dampen the impulse to act politically. Partly because of the irreducibly contradictory nature of the bourgeois notion of progress—its vision of a capitalist society emancipated from class conflict—the cacotopia both encourages and discourages practical activity. Between the nightmare of proletarian dictatorship and the dream of a perfect, peaceful social hierarchy, these futurist fictions can only gesture, tentatively, towards a world freed from immediate class antagonisms.
This gesture is inscribed into the form's almost structural appeal to the interpellated readership that these cacotopias project as a political collective. At the end of "England's Downfall," the "Ex-Revolutionist" narrator makes a plea that is typical of the form. I now want to quote it in full:
Let us go back to our old ways. Equality and fraternity may be all very well to talk about; but they won't do in practice, and the sooner we admit this the better. But everything depends on you, the rising generation. The destinies of England are in your hands. Show the world what you can do. Think of what England was once and of what it is now, and remember that it is never too late to mend.59
The "Ex-Revolutionist"'s appeal is a utopian one in the sense that, as Fredric Jameson claims, any manifestation of class consciousness that figures to itself the unity of a collectivity is utopian. But according to Jameson this utopian impulse must be premised on a prior moment of class consciousness, that of the oppressed classes grasping their own solidarity. In the late nineteenth century, this prior moment is embodied in the uprising in Paris of 1871. The Commune provided the crucial glimpse of the danger of the "unification of the laboring population," so necessary to the formation of that "mirror image of class solidarity among the ruling groups." In this way it not only shaped the anti-communist imagination of the time but marked its most elaborate and sensationalistic mode of expression. The cacotopia describes the dialectical indissociability of an ideological function and a utopian one. By depicting the horrifying consequences of working-class power, it operates as "a hegemonic work whose formal categories as well as its content secure the legitimation . . . of class domination." And by promoting the ideal of a capitalist order exempt from internal contradictions, it attempts "to resonate a universal value inconsistent with the narrower limits of class privilege which inform its more immediate ideological vocation."60 [End Page 480]
The ideological force of these cacotopian texts depends on their belief that capitalism can abolish class conflict, and that the working class can be rendered quiescent. So long as they subscribe to this conviction, they are only subject to anxiety and fear, "expectant" emotions that enable their polemical strategy. W. A. Watlock concludes his account of the Terror of an English revolution, The Next 'Ninety-Three (1886), with a comforting moral: "This revolution has caused infinite sorrow, suffering and mischief; but it has not been entirely without good effect in proving the abject folly of those mad schemes, which, for their own self-seeking purposes, the canting crew has advocated." "This being so," he announces, "there yet seems hope for England."61
V. Conclusion: The Fin de Siècle
At the point at which this potentially happy ending no longer seems feasible, the propagandist agenda of the cacotopian form is undermined by its own narrative structure. Charles Gleig's novel When All Men Starve (1898), written in the tradition of The Battle of Dorking and The Commune in London, ends abruptly, during a revolution set in London at the turn of the twentieth century. The novel purports to be a "brief sketch of the political and social events of the last months of the English monarchy," the downfall of which follows swiftly from the decline of Britain's economic and military supremacy in the face of a famine, on the one hand, and a hopeless naval conflict against the combined forces of Russia, Germany, and France, on the other.62 In these inauspicious conditions, after riots over bread shortages, a revolutionary force of some 30,000 rebels is assembled. It marches on London, and in "the Wimbledon massacre," in which 6000 policemen are butchered, it secures its first significant victory: "[T]he last bulwark of Capital was shattered; Society and the sacred rights of property were no longer protected by so much as a single truncheon" (W, 177, 178–79). In a "carnival of license," the rebels sweep on through Wandsworth, Clapham, Battersea, and Vauxhall, before crossing the river and conquering Westminster, Mayfair, the West End, and, finally, "the city of gold" (W, 182, 183).
Like a number of cacotopian fictions, including The Doom of the Great City, the author's vengeful invective has two specific targets. The first of these is the working class, which assumes the form of a "great surging mob of yelling devils" (W, 183). Gleig undoubtedly manifests some sympathy for the poor, so long as they are deserving and duly passive; but he reserves a visceral hatred for them when [End Page 481] they take matters into their own hands. Describing the morning after a night of looting, he notes with gleeful disgust that, "gorged with plunder, the scum of the great city retreat[ed] to its foul lairs, leaving the dead to taint the air and strike terror to the heart of trembling women" (W, 172). The second of the book's targets is the aristocracy and the plutocracy, the dereliction of whose social responsibility is a contributing cause of the revolutionary uprising. Gleig blames them for being decadent and parasitic. He berates them for their refusal to offer proof of a capacity for reform, and for compromise, after the massacre at Wimbledon Common:
Even at this desperate crisis, Respectability might have restrained the advancing tide of anarchy had there been any cohesion between the upper and middle classes of society. . . . [But] society—using the term in the broader sense—had been based upon a rotten edifice of money-bags, it had too long been content to hire troops and police to enforce its selfish laws upon the workers. . . . The luxury of an effete civilisation had emasculated the moneyed classes and left them defenceless against the thews and sinews of sturdy Labour.(W, 181)
The crime of the capitalist class is to have failed to forge an alliance with the middle class in the face of their common enemy. The crime of the proletariat is to have made history on its own terms.
The narrative's concluding scene, of the nocturnal burning and looting of Buckingham Palace, depicts an "Eldorado of drink and plunder" that revises the myth of the carnivalesque destruction of the Tuileries at the end of the Commune (W, 184). "From all corners," the narrator reports with cold contempt, "come men and women and slatternly, drunken girls, until thousands are gathered round the glowing building, shouting, cursing, dancing a mad can-can in the flicker of the leaping flames" (W, 192). The final sentence of the novel conjures up an image of the mob dancing "till the grey dawn steals up from the east and the burnt palace looms black and haggard in the cold light of morning" (W, 192). There is no restoration of bourgeois order. The book does not contain a postscript in which this dystopian prospect is redeemed. The ruling class, Gleig's book aggressively argues, has destroyed civilization itself by failing to make any concession to the working class that, bent and brutalized, has acted as its gravediggers. The middle class, its property plundered, is a victim both of the plutocracy and the insurrectionary poor. It has absconded from its heroic, restorative role in this epic clash between classes, between these Eloi and Morlocks of the fin de siècle. [End Page 482]
"Is this reality, or is it all a hideous nightmare?" the protagonist of "England's Downfall" had asked, mesmerized by the sight of Londoners looting and burning.63 The response offered by most utopian fiction and by most cacotopian fiction is to proclaim that this experience of social anarchy, prefigurations of which can be glimpsed in the battles between capital and labor that scarify the late-nineteenth century, is a nightmare from which we will awake to reality in the future. In the last and most powerful chapter of Edward Bellamy's bestseller Looking Backward (1888), the hero Julian West suddenly fears that twentieth-century Boston, the utopian city in which he happily lives after having slept for an entire century, is merely a chimera. Unaccountably, he finds himself wandering through the streets of Boston at the turn of the twentieth century, horrified by "the festering mass of human wretchedness" that he thought he had left behind him. In fact, this return to West's past present, so to speak, is a hideous nightmare; and to his relief he wakes up again in the future present: "As with an escaped convict who dreams that he has been recaptured and brought back to his dark and reeking dungeon, and opens his eyes to see the heaven's vault spread above him, so it was with me, as I realized that my return to the nineteenth century had been the dream, and my presence in the twentieth the reality."64 In the late nineteenth century, history is truly a nightmare from which West, and the more conservative authors of social dreams, is trying to awake.
Gleig's answer to the "Ex-Revolutionist"'s question is less slippery and ambiguous: the social cataclysm is not a hideous nightmare from which there can ultimately be a reprieve but an imminent future from which it is impossible to escape, a historical reality. Despite its rhetorical vitality, When All Men Starve is politically depressive because it appears to commemorate the political failure of reform as a means of heading off revolution. This is the prophylactic programme of reform that, for example, the Freethinker Charles Bradlaugh, referring explicitly to the Paris Commune, had outlined in 1884:
I desire to avoid encouragement of revolution in this country. The memories of 1870–1 in France are too close and too terrible, and the echoes of 1848 on the Continent have scarcely died away. I desire to avoid a revolution which in some of our overcrowded cities might awaken monstrous passions, and involve shocking consequences.65
Overwhelmed by the echoes and memories of events on the continent, When All Men Starve cannot think beyond the shocking consequences of the revolution it imagines. It inscribes a vengeful warning of the [End Page 483] dangers courted by the ruling class but without much confidence in its own propagandist function. In its imaginary realization of the spectre of communism, it buries the utopian impulse that formerly characterized even the cacotopian form.
By the turn of the twentieth century, the certainties of capitalist society were in a state of potentially terminal corrosion—not least because of the insurrection in Paris in 1871 and the domestic disturbances of the end of the following decades. It was no longer self-evident, if indeed it ever had been, that, as one commentator put it with desperate optimism in 1885, "the English people have arrived at the highest known pitch of social happiness and national prosperity hitherto realised in the world's history."66 The cataclysmic final image of When All Men Starve, frozen for futurity, testifies to this fact. "To the privileged classes," Old Hammond records with grim satisfaction in his account of "How the Change Came" in the revolutionist William Morris's News from Nowhere (1891), "it seemed as if the end of the world were come."67 Ironically, however, it was not of course socialist revolution that precipitated the expected apocalypse in the early twentieth century, but the crisis of capitalism marked by the First World War.
1. John Stuart Mill, quoted in Hansard Parliamentary Debates, 3rd ser., vol. 190 (1868), col. 1517.
2. Anthony Burgess, "Cacotopia," in 1985 (London: Hutchinson, 1978), 52.
3. Krishan Kumar, Utopia and Anti-Utopia in Modern Times (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987), 49.
4. Friedrich Engels, "Preface to the 1888 English Edition [of the Communist Manifesto]," in Collected Works, 45 vols. (London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1975-), 26:517.
5. Times, 10 April 1871, 8.
6. Émile de Laveleye, The Socialism of To-Day, trans. Goddard H. Orpen (London: Field and Tuer, 1884), xliv.
7. James T. Presley, "Bibliography of Utopias and Imaginary Travels and Histories," Notes and Queries, 4th ser., 12 July 1873, 12:22.
8. [Lord Salisbury], "The Commune and the Internationale," Quarterly Review 131 (October 1871): 568, 555.
9. Times, 29 March 1871, 5.
10. Matthew Arnold, Letters of Matthew Arnold 1848-1888, ed. George W. E. Russell, 2 vols. (London: Macmillan, 1895), 2:57.
11. T. B. Macaulay, The Selected Letters of Thomas Babington Macaulay, ed. Thomas Pinney (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1982), 284.
12. Georg Lukács, The Historical Novel, trans. Hannah and Stanley Mitchell (London: Merlin Press, 1989), 238. [End Page 484]
13. The Annual Register: A Review of Public Events at Home and Abroad, for the Year 1871 (London: Rivingtons, 1872), 175.
14. G. T. Chesney, The Battle of Dorking: Reminiscences of a Volunteer (London: Blackwood, 1871), 63-64. Hereafter abbreviated B and cited parenthetically by page number.
15. Darko Suvin, Victorian Science Fiction in the UK: The Discourses of Knowledge and Power (Boston: Hall, 1983), 342.
16. Samuel Bracebridge Hemyng, The Commune in London; or, Thirty Years Hence: A Chapter of Anticipated History (London: Clarke ), 4. Hereafter abbreviated C and cited parenthetically by page number.
17. Suvin, 328.
18. Imaginary History of the Next Thirty Years (London: Sampson Low, 1857), 5.
19. "An Ex-Revolutionist," "England"s Downfall:" or, the Last Great Revolution, 2nd ed. (London: Digby and Long, 1893), 174-75.
20. Imaginary History, 6.
21. [Edgar Welch], The Monster Municipality, or, Gog and Magog Reformed. A Dream. By "Grip" (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, and Rivington, 1882), 128.
22. E. H. Berens and I. Singer, The Story of My Dictatorship (London: Bliss, Sands, and Foster, 1894), 220-21.
23. Raymond Williams, The Country and the City (London: Chatto and Windus, 1973), 272.
24. [Salisbury], 566.
25. Gareth Stedman Jones, Outcast London: A Study in the Relationship between Classes in Victorian Society (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), 178.
26. "Paris Today—London Tomorrow" (from The Republican, 1 May 1871), in The English Defence of the Commune 1871, ed. Royden Harrison (London: Merlin Press, 1971), 160.
27. Jones, 292.
28. Times, 10 April 1871, 8.
29. [Henry Crocker Marriot Watson], The Decline and Fall of the British Empire: or, The Witch's Cavern (London: Trischler, 1890), 220.
30. Delaval North, The Last Man in London (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1887), 103.
31. Fergus Hume, The Year of Miracle: A Tale of the Year One Thousand Nine Hundred (London: Routledge, 1891), 79.
32. Kristin Ross, The Emergence of Social Space: Rimbaud and the Paris Commune (London: Macmillan, 1988), 36.
33. J. M. Roberts, "The Paris Commune from the Right," in The English Historical Review,
34. Francis Kilvert, Kilvert's Diary 1870-1879: Selections from the Diary of the Rev. Francis Kilvert, ed. William Plomer (London: Cape, 1944), 113.
35. A. Kingsman, Over Volcanoes: or, Through France and Spain in 1871 (London: King, 1872).
36. William Gibson, Paris during the Commune, 1871: Being Letters from Paris and its Neighbourhood, Written Chiefly During the Time of the Second Siege (London: Whittaker, 1872), 25.
37. H. Herman Chilton, Woman Unsexed: A Novel (London: Foulsham, 1892), 99, 279. [End Page 485]
38. Pope Pius IX, quoted in David Harvey, "Monument and Myth: The Building of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart," in Consciousness and the Urban Experience: Studies in the History and Theory of Capitalist Urbanization, 2 vols. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1985), 1:237.
39. John Leighton, Paris Under the Commune: or, The Seventy-Three Days of the Second Siege. With Numerous Illustrations, Sketches Taken on the Spot, and Portraits (From the Original Photographs) (London: Bradbury, Evans, 1871), 331.
40. "Recollections of the Commune of Paris," Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 155 (January 1894): 9.
41. The Doom of the County Council of London (London: Allen, 1892), 10.
42. Thomas March, The History of the Paris Commune of 1871 (London: Swan Sonnenschein, 1896), 309.
43. William Delisle Hay, The Doom of the Great City; Being the Narrative of a Survivor, Written A.D. 1942 (London: Newman ), 10. Hereafter abbreviated D and cited parenthetically by page number.
44. See "Paris Vignettes," All the Year Round 6 (23 September 1871): 390; Edward Dicey, "Paris after the Peace," Fortnightly Review 15 (1 April 1871): 494.
45. Gustave Flaubert, quoted in Frank Jellinek, The Paris Commune of 1871 (London: Gollancz, 1937), 417.
46. "Of the Commune and On Communism," Leisure Hour: A Family Journal of Instruction and Recreation 20 (30 September 1871): 621.
47. Mrs. John Waters, A Young Girl's Adventures in Paris (London: Remington, 1881), 224.
48. Herbert Hayens, Paris at Bay: A Story of the Siege and the Commune (London: Blackie, 1897), 232.
49. The Doom of the County Council, 38.
50. [Welch], 6.
51. Times, 29 May 1871, 5.
52. James Hack Tuke, A Visit to Paris in the Spring of 1871, on behalf of the War Victims' Fund of the Society of Friends, Being a Lecture Delivered at the Town Hall, Hitchin, April 4, 1871 (London: Kitto, 1871), 25-26.
53. Ernst Bloch, The Principle of Hope, trans. Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice, and Paul Knight (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1995), 124, 108.
54. Edmund Boisgilbert [Ignatius Donnelly], Caesar's Column: A Story of the Twentieth Century (London: Ward, Lock, 1891), chapters 36 and 37.
55. C. Barrère, The Story of the Commune, by "A Communalist" (London: Chapman and Hall, 1871), 33.
56. Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project, trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin (Cambridge: Belknap, Harvard Univ. Press, 1999), 463-64.
57. Bloch, 111, 113.
58. Jean Pfaelzer, The Utopian Novel in America 1886-1896: The Politics of Form (Pittsburgh: Univ. of Pittsburgh Press, 1984), 4 (my emphasis).
59. "England's Downfall," 174.
60. Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (London: Methuen, 1981), 290, 288, 288.
61. W. A. Watlock, The Next 'Ninety-Three: or, Crown, Commune, and Colony, Told in a Citizen's Diary (London: Field and Tuer, 1886), 36.
62. Charles Gleig, When All Men Starve: Showing How England Hazarded Her Naval Supremacy, and the Horrors which Followed the Interruption of Her Food [End Page 486] Supply (London: Lane, 1898), 97. Hereafter abbreviated W and cited parenthetically by page number.
63. "England's Downfall," 111.
64. Edward Bellamy, Looking Backward (2000-1887); or, Life in the Year 2000 A.D. (London: Reeves, 1895), 116, 119.
65. Charles Bradlaugh, How Are We to Abolish the Lords? (London: Freethought, 1884), 6-7.
66. C. Litton Falkiner, The New Voyage to Utopia (Dublin: Univ. Press, 1885), 14.
67. William Morris, News from Nowhere; or, An Epoch of Unrest: Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance, in Collected Works of William Morris, 24 vols. (London: Longmans, Green, 1910-1915), 16:109. [End Page 487]