Economics

Perseus Greek · Perseus Greek · 397 sections

16.4.1
If it happens that the land does not declare its own capabilities because the owners are lazy, you can often gather more correct information from a neighbouring plot than from a neighbouring proprietor.
16.5.1
Yes, and even if the land lies waste, it reveals its nature. For if the wild stuff growing on the land is of fine quality, then by good farming the soil is capable of yielding cultivated crops of fine quality. So the nature of the soil can be ascertained even by the novice who has no experience of farming.
16.6.1
Well, I think I am now confident, Ischomachus, that I need not avoid farming from fear of not knowing the nature of the soil.
16.7.1
The fact is, I am reminded that fishermen, though their business is in the sea, and they neither stop the boat to take a look nor slow down, nevertheless, when they see the crops as they scud past the farms, do not hesitate to express an opinion about the land, which is the good and which is the bad sort, now condemning, now praising it. And, what is more, I notice that in their opinion about the good land they generally agree exactly with experienced farmers.
16.8.1
Then, Socrates, let me refresh your memory on the subject of agriculture; but where do you wish me to begin? For I am aware that I shall tell you very much that you know already about the right method of farming.
16.9.1
First, Ischomachus, I think I should be glad to learn, for this is the philosopher’s way, how I am to cultivate the land if I want to get the heaviest crops of wheat and barley out of it.
16.10.1
Well, you know, I take it, that fallow must be prepared for sowing? Yes, I know.
16.11.1
Suppose, then, we start ploughing in winter? Why, the land will be a bog! How about starting in summer? The land will be hard to plough up.
16.12.1
It seems that spring is the season for beginning this work. Yes, the land is likely to be more friable if it is broken up then. Yes, and the grass turned up is long enough at that season to serve as manure, but, not having shed seed, it will not grow.
16.13.1
You know also, I presume, that fallow land can’t be satisfactory unless it is clear of weeds and thoroughly baked in the sun? Yes, certainly; that is essential, I think.
16.14.1
Do you think that there is any better way of securing that than by turning the land over as often as possible in summer? Nay, I know for certain that if you want the weeds to lie on the surface and wither in the heat, and the land to be baked by the sun, the surest way is to plough it up at midday in midsummer.
16.15.1
And if men prepare the fallow by digging, is it not obvious that they too must separate the weeds from the soil? Yes, and they must throw the weeds on the surface to wither, and turn up the ground so that the lower spit may be baked.
17.1.1
You see, then, Socrates, that we agree about the fallow. It does seem so, to be sure. And now as to the time for sowing, Socrates. Is it not your opinion that the time to sow is that which has been invariably found to be the best by past experience, and is universally approved by present practice?
17.2.1
For as soon as autumn ends, all men, I suppose, look anxiously to God, to see when he will send rain on the earth and make them free to sow. Yes, Ischomachus, all men have made up their minds, of course, not to sow in dry ground if they can help it, those who sowed without waiting to be bidden by God having had to wrestle with many losses.
17.3.1
So far, then, said Ischomachus, all the world is of one mind. Yes, said I, where God is our teacher we all come to think alike. For example, all agree that it is better to wear warm clothes in winter, if they can, and all agree on the desirability of having a fire, if they have wood.
17.4.1
But, said Ischomachus, when we come to the question whether sowing is best done early or very late or at the mid-season, we find much difference of opinion, Socrates. And God, said I, does not regulate the year by fixed laws; but in one year it may be advantageous to sow early, in another very late, in another at mid-season.
17.5.1
Then do you think, Socrates, that it is better to select one of these times for sowing, whether you sow much or little, or to begin at the earliest moment and continue sowing to the latest?
17.6.1
For my part, Ischomachus, I think it is best to sow for succession throughout the season. For in my opinion it is much better to get enough food at all times than too much at one time and not enough at another. Here again, then, Socrates, pupil and teacher are of one opinion; and, moreover, you, the pupil, are first in stating this opinion.
17.7.1
Well now, is casting the seed a complicated problem? By all means let us take that also into consideration, Socrates. I presume that you know as well as I that the seed must be cast by the hand? Yes, I have seen it. Ah, he said, but some men can cast evenly, and some cannot. Then sowers no less than lyre-players need practice, that the hand may be the servant of the will. Certainly.
17.8.1
But suppose that some of the land is rather light and some rather heavy? What do you mean by that? I interrupted. By light do you mean weak, and by heavy, strong? Yes, I do; and I ask you whether you would give the same quantity of seed to both kinds, or to which you would give more?
17.9.1
Well, my principle is this: the stronger the wine, the more water I add; the stronger the bearer, the heavier the burden I put on his back; and if it is necessary to feed others, I should require the richest men to feed the greatest number. But tell me whether weak land, like draught animals, becomes stronger when you put more corn into it.
17.10.1
Ah, you’re joking, Socrates, he said, laughing, but allow me to tell you that, if after putting in the seed you plough it in again as soon as the blade appears when the land is obtaining plenty of nourishment from the sky, it makes food for the soil, and strengthens it like manure. If, on the other hand, you let the seed go on growing on the land until it is bolled, it’s hard for weak land to yield much grain in the end. It’s hard, you know, for a weak sow to rear a big litter of fine pigs.
17.11.1
Do you mean, Ischomachus, that the weaker the soil the less seed should be put into it? Yes, of course, Socrates; and you agree when you say that your invariable custom is to make the burden light that is to be borne by the weak.
17.12.1
But the hoers, now, Ischomachus, why do you put them on the corn? I presume you know that in winter there is a heavy rainfall? Of course. Let us assume, then, that part of the corn is waterlogged and covered with mud, and some of the roots are exposed by flooding. And it often happens, you know, that in consequence of rain weeds spring up among the corn and choke it.
17.13.1
All these things are likely to happen. Then don’t you think that in such circumstances the corn needs prompt succour? Certainly. What should be done, do you think, to succour the part that is under the mud? The soil should be lifted. And the part that has its roots exposed? It should be earthed up.
17.14.1
What if weeds are springing up, choking the corn and robbing it of its food, much as useless drones rob bees of the food they have laid in store by their industry? The weeds must be cut, of course, just as the drones must be removed from the hive.
17.15.1
Don’t you think, then, that we have good reason for putting on men to hoe? No doubt; but I am reflecting, Ischomachus, on the advantage of bringing in an apt simile. For you roused my wrath against the weeds by mentioning the drones, much more than when you spoke of mere weeds.
18.1.1
However, I continued, after this comes reaping, I fancy. So give me any information you can with regard to that too. Yes—unless I find that you know just what I do about that subject too. You know, then, that the corn must be cut. I know that, naturally. Are you for standing with your back to the wind when you cut corn, or facing it? Not facing it, no! I think it is irritating both to the eyes and to the hands to reap with cornstalks and spikes blowing in your face.
18.2.1
And would you cut near the top or close to the ground? If the stalk is short, I should cut low down, so that the straw may be more useful; but if it is long, I think it would be right to cut in the middle, in order that the threshers and winnowers may not spend needless trouble on what they don’t want. I imagine that the stubble may be burnt with advantage to the land, or thrown on the manure heap to increase its bulk.
18.3.1
Do you notice, Socrates, that you stand convicted of knowing just what I know about reaping too? Yes, it seems so; and I want to know besides whether I understand threshing as well. Then you know this much, that draught animals are used in threshing?
18.4.1
Yes, of course I do; and that the term draught animals includes oxen, mules and horses. Then do you not think that all the beasts know is how to trample on the corn as they are driven? Why, what more should draught animals know?
18.5.1
And who sees that they tread out the right corn, and that the threshing is level, Socrates? The threshers, clearly. By continually turning the untrodden corn and throwing it under the animal’s feet they will, of course, keep it level on the floor and take least time over the work. So far, then, your knowledge is quite as good as mine.
18.6.1
Will not our next task be to clean the corn by winnowing, Ischomachus? Yes, Socrates; and tell me, do you know that if you start on the windward side of the floor, you will find the husks carried right across the floor? It must be so.
18.7.1
Is it not likely, then, that some will fall on the grain? Yes, it is a long way for the husks to be blown, right over the grain to the empty part of the floor. But what if you start winnowing against the wind? Clearly the chaff will at once fall in the right place.
18.8.1
And as soon as you have cleaned the corn over one half of the floor, will you at once go on throwing up the rest of the chaff while the corn lies about just as it is, or will you first sweep the clean corn towards the edge, so as to occupy the smallest space? Of course I shall first sweep the clean corn up, so that my chaff may be carried across into the empty space, and I may not have to throw up the same chaff twice.
18.9.1
Well, Socrates, it seems you are capable of teaching the quickest way of cleaning corn. I really wasn’t aware that I understood these things; and so I have been thinking for some time whether my knowledge extends to smelting gold, playing the flute, and painting pictures. For I have never been taught these things any more than I have been taught farming; but I have watched men working at these arts, just as I have watched them farming.
18.10.1
And didn’t I tell you just now that farming is the noblest art for this among other reasons, because it is the easiest to learn? Enough, Ischomachus; I know. I understood about sowing, it seems, but I wasn’t aware that I understood.
19.1.1
However, is the planting of fruit trees another branch of agriculture? I continued. It is, indeed, answered Ischomachus. Then how can I understand all about sowing, and yet know nothing of planting?
19.2.1
What, don’t you understand it? How can I, when I don’t know what kind of soil to plant in, nor how deep a hole to dig, nor how broad, nor how much of the plant should be buried, nor how it must be set in the ground to grow best?
19.3.1
Come then, learn whatever you don’t know. I am sure you have seen the sort of trenches they dig for plants. Yes, often enough. Did you ever see one more than three feet deep? No, of course not—nor more than two and a half. Well, did you ever see one more than three feet broad? Of course not, nor more than two feet. Come then, answer this question too.
19.4.1
Did you ever see one less than a foot deep? Never less than a foot and a half, of course. For the plants would come out of the ground when it is stirred about them if they were put in so much too shallow.
19.5.1
Then you know this well enough, Socrates, that the trenches are never more than two and a half feet deep, nor less than a foot and a half. A thing so obvious as that can’t escape one’s eyes.
19.6.1
Again, can you distinguish between dry and wet ground by using your eyes? Oh, I should think that the land round Lycabettus and any like it is an example of dry ground, and the low-lying land at Phalerum and any like it of wet.
19.7.1
In which then would you dig the hole deep for your plant, in the dry or the wet ground? In the dry, of course; because if you dug deep in the wet, you would come on water, and water would stop your planting. I think you are quite right. Now suppose the holes are dug; have you ever noticed how the plants for each kind of soil should be put in? Oh, yes.
19.8.1
Then assuming that you want them to grow as quickly as possible, do you think that if you put some prepared soil under them the cuttings will strike sooner through soft earth into the hard stuff, or through unbroken ground? Clearly, they will form roots more quickly in prepared soil than in unbroken ground.
19.9.1
Then soil must be placed below the plant? No doubt it must. And if you set the whole cutting upright, pointing to the sky, do you think it would take root better, or would you lay part of it slanting under the soil that has been put below, so that it lies like a gamma upside down?
19.10.1
Of course I would; for then there would be more buds underground; and I notice that plants shoot from the buds above ground, so I suppose that the buds under the ground do just the same; and with many shoots forming underground, the plant will make strong and rapid growth, I suppose.
19.11.1
Then it turns out that on these points too your opinion agrees with mine. But would you merely heap up the earth, or make it firm round the plant? I should make it firm, of course; for if it were not firm, I feel sure that the rain would make mud of the loose earth, and the sun would dry it up from top to bottom; so the plants would run the risk of damping off through too much water, or withering from too much heat at the roots.
19.12.1
About vine planting then, Socrates, your views are again exactly the same as mine, too? I asked. Yes, and to all other fruit trees, I think; for in planting other trees why discard anything that gives good results with the vine?
19.13.1
But the olive—how shall we plant that, Ischomachus? You know quite well, and are only trying to draw me out again. For I am sure you see that a deeper hole is dug for the olive (it is constantly being done on the roadside); you see also that all the growing shoots have stumps adhering to them; and you see that all the heads of the plants are coated with clay, and the part of the plant that is above ground is wrapped up.
19.14.1
Yes, I see all this. You do! Then what is there in it that you don’t understand? Is it that you don’t know how to put the crocks on the top of the clay, Socrates? Of course there is nothing in what you have said that I don’t know, Ischomachus. But I am again set thinking what can have made me answer No to the question you put to me a while ago, when you asked me briefly, Did I understand planting? For I thought I should have nothing to say about the right method of planting. But now that you have undertaken to question me in particular, my answers, you tell me, agree exactly with the views of a farmer so famous for his skill as yourself!
19.15.1
Can it be that questioning is a kind of teaching, Ischomachus? The fact is, I have just discovered the plan of your series of questions! You lead me by paths of knowledge familiar to me, point out things like what I know, and bring me to think that I really know things that I thought I had no knowledge of.
19.16.1
Now suppose I questioned you about money, said Ischomachus, whether it is good or bad, could I persuade you that you know how to distinguish good from false by test? And by putting questions about flute-players could I convince you that you understand flute-playing; and by means of questions about painters and other artists—— You might, since you have convinced me that I understand agriculture, though I know that I have never been taught this art. No, it isn’t so, Socrates.
19.17.1
I told you a while ago that agriculture is such a humane, gentle art that you have but to see her and listen to her, and she at once makes you understand her.
19.18.1
She herself gives you many lessons in the best way of treating her. For instance, the vine climbs the nearest tree, and so teaches you that she wants support. And when her clusters are yet tender, she spreads her leaves about them, and teaches you to shade the exposed parts from the sun’s rays during that period.
19.19.1
But when it is now time for her grapes to be sweetened by the sun, she sheds her leaves, teaching you to strip her and ripen her fruit. And thanks to her teeming fertility, she shows some mellow clusters while she carries others yet sour, so saying to you: Pluck my grapes as men pluck figs,—choose the luscious ones as they come.
20.1.1
And now I asked, How is it then, Ischomachus, if the operations of husbandry are so easy to learn and all alike know what must needs be done, that all have not the same fortune? How is it that some farmers live in abundance and have more than they want, while others cannot get the bare necessaries of life, and even run into debt? Oh, I will tell you, Socrates.
20.2.1
It is not knowledge nor want of knowledge on the part of farmers that causes one to thrive while another is needy.
20.3.1
You won’t hear a story like this running about: The estate has gone to ruin because the sower sowed unevenly, or because he didn’t plant the rows straight, or because someone, not knowing the right soil for vines, planted them in barren ground, or because someone didn’t know that it is well to prepare the fallow for sowing, or because someone didn’t know that it is well to manure the land.
20.4.1
No, you are much more likely to hear it said: The man gets no corn from his field because he takes no trouble to see that it is sown or manured. Or, The man has got no wine, for he takes no trouble to plant vines or to make his old stock bear. Or, The man has neither olives nor figs, because he doesn’t take the trouble; he does nothing to get them.
20.5.1
It is not the farmers reputed to have made some clever discovery in agriculture who differ in fortune from others: it is things of this sort that make all the difference, Socrates.
20.6.1
This is true of generals also: there are some branches of strategy in which one is better or worse than another, not because he differs in intelligence, but in point of carefulness, undoubtedly. For the things that all generals know, and most privates, are done by some commanders and left undone by others.
20.7.1
For example, they all know that when marching through an enemy’s country, the right way is to march in the formation in which they will fight best, if need be. Well, knowing this, some observe the rule, others break it.
20.8.1
All know that it is right to post sentries by day and night before the camp; but this too is a duty that some attend to, while others neglect it.
20.9.1
Again, where will you find the man who does not know that, in marching through a defile, it is better to occupy the points of vantage first? Yet this measure of precaution too is duly taken by some and neglected by others.
20.10.1
So, too, everyone will say that in agriculture there is nothing so good as manure, and their eyes tell them that nature produces it. All know exactly how it is produced, and it is easy to get any amount of it; and yet, while some take care to have it collected, others care nothing about it.
20.11.1
Yet the rain is sent from heaven, and all the hollows become pools of water, and the earth yields herbage of every kind which must be cleared off the ground by the sower before sowing; and the rubbish he removes has but to be thrown into water, and time of itself will make what the soil likes. For every kind of vegetation, every kind of soil in stagnant water turns into manure.
20.12.1
And again, all the ways of treating the soil when it is too wet for sowing or too salt for planting are familiar to all men—how the land is drained by ditches, how the salt is corrected by being mixed with saltless substances, liquid or dry. Yet these matters, again, do not always receive attention.
20.13.1
Suppose a man to be wholly ignorant as to what the land can produce, and to be unable to see crop or tree on it, or to hear from anyone the truth about it, yet is it not far easier for any man to prove a parcel of land than to test a horse or to test a human being? For the land never plays tricks, but reveals frankly and truthfully what she can and what she cannot do.
20.14.1
I think that just because she conceals nothing from our knowledge and understanding, the land is the surest tester of good and bad men. For the slothful cannot plead ignorance, as in other arts: land, as all men know, responds to good treatment.
20.15.1
Husbandry is the clear accuser of the recreant soul. For no one persuades himself that man could live without bread; therefore if a man will not dig and knows no other profit-earning trade, he is clearly minded to live by stealing or robbery or begging—or he is an utter fool.
20.16.1
Farming, he added, may result in profit or in loss; it makes a great difference to the result, even when many labourers are employed, whether the farmer takes care that the men are working during the working hours or is careless about it. For one man in ten by working all the time may easily make a difference, and another by knocking off before the time;
20.17.1
and, of course, if the men are allowed to be slack all the day long, the decrease in the work done may easily amount to one half of the whole.
20.18.1
Just as two travellers on the road, both young and in good health, will differ so much in pace that one will cover two hundred furlongs to the other’s hundred, because the one does what he set out to do, by going ahead, while the other is all for ease, now resting by a fountain or in the shade, now gazing at the view, now wooing the soft breeze;
20.19.1
so in farm work there is a vast difference in effectiveness between the men who do the job they are put on to do and those who, instead of doing it, invent excuses for not working and are allowed to be slack.
20.20.1
In fact, between good work and dishonest slothfulness there is as wide a difference as between actual work and actual idleness. Suppose the vines are being hoed to clear the ground of weeds: if the hoeing is so badly done that the weeds grow ranker and more abundant, how can you call that anything but idleness?
20.21.1
These, then, are the evils that crush estates far more than sheer lack of knowledge. For the outgoing expenses of the estate are not a penny less; but the work done is insufficient to show a profit on the expenditure; after that there’s no need to wonder if the expected surplus is converted into a loss.
20.22.1
On the other hand, to a careful man, who works strenuously at agriculture, no business gives quicker returns than farming. My father taught me that and proved it by his own practice. For he never allowed me to buy a piece of land that was well farmed; but pressed me to buy any that was uncultivated and unplanted owing to the owner’s neglect or incapacity.
20.23.1
Well farmed land, he would say, costs a large sum and can’t be improved; and he held that where there is no room for improvement there is not much pleasure to be got from the land: landed estate and livestock must be continually coming on to give the fullest measure of satisfaction. Now nothing improves more than a farm that is being transformed from a wilderness into fruitful fields.
20.24.1
I assure you, Socrates, that we have often added a hundredfold to the value of a farm. There is so much money in this idea, Socrates, and it is so easy to learn, that no sooner have you heard of it from me than you know as much as I do, and can go home and teach it to someone else, if you like.
20.25.1
Moreover, my father did not get his knowledge of it at secondhand, nor did he discover it by much thought; but he would say that, thanks to his love of husbandry and hard work, he had coveted a farm of this sort in order that he might have something to do, and combine profit with pleasure.
20.26.1
For I assure you, Socrates, no Athenian, I believe, had such a strong natural love of agriculture as my father. Now on hearing this I asked, Did your father keep all the farms that he cultivated, Ischomachus, or did he sell when he could get a good price? He sold, of course, answered Ischomachus, but, you see, owing to his industrious habits, he would promptly buy another that was out of cultivation.
20.27.1
You mean, Ischomachus, that your father really loved agriculture as intensely as merchants love corn. So deep is their love of corn that on receiving reports that it is abundant anywhere, merchants will voyage in quest of it: they will cross the Aegean, the Euxine, the Sicilian sea;
20.28.1
and when they have got as much as possible, they carry it over the sea, and they actually stow it in the very ship in which they sail themselves. And when they want money, they don’t throw the corn away anywhere at haphazard, but they carry it to the place where they hear that corn is most valued and the people prize it most highly, and deliver it to them there. Yes, your father’s love of agriculture seems to be something like that.
20.29.1
You’re joking, Socrates, rejoined Ischomachus; but I hold that a man has a no less genuine love of building who sells his houses as soon as they are finished and proceeds to build others. Of course; and I declare, Ischomachus, on my oath that I believe you, that all men naturally love whatever they think will bring them profit.
21.1.1
But I am pondering over the skill with which you have presented the whole argument in support of your proposition, Ischomachus. For you stated that husbandry is the easiest of all arts to learn, and after hearing all that you have said, I am quite convinced that this is so.
21.2.1
Of course it is, cried Ischomachus; but I grant you, Socrates, that in respect of aptitude for command, which is common to all forms of business alike—agriculture, politics, estate-management, warfare—in that respect the intelligence shown by different classes of men varies greatly.
21.3.1
For example, on a man-of-war, when the ship is on the high seas and the rowers must toil all day to reach port, some boatswains can say and do the right thing to sharpen the men’s spirits and make them work with a will, while others are so unintelligent that it takes them more than twice the time to finish the same voyage. Here they land bathed in sweat, with mutual congratulations, boatswain and seamen. There they arrive with a dry skin; they hate their master and he hates them.
21.4.1
Generals, too, differ from one another in this respect. For some make their men unwilling to work and to take risks, disinclined and unwilling to obey, except under compulsion, and actually proud of defying their commander: aye, and they cause them to have no sense of dishonour when something disgraceful occurs.
21.5.1
Contrast the genius, the brave and scientific leader: let him take over the command of these same troops, or of others if you like. What effect has he on them? They are ashamed to do a disgraceful act, think it better to obey, and take a pride in obedience, working cheerfully, every man and all together, when it is necessary to work.
21.6.1
Just as a love of work may spring up in the mind of a private soldier here and there, so a whole army under the influence of a good leader is inspired with love of work and ambition to distinguish itself under the commander’s eye.
21.7.1
Let this be the feeling of the rank and file for their commander; and I tell you, he is the strong leader, he, and not the sturdiest soldier, not the best with bow and javelin, not the man who rides the best horse and is foremost in facing danger, not the ideal of knight or targeteer, but he who can make his soldiers feel that they are bound to follow him through fire and in any adventure.
21.8.1
Him you may justly call high-minded who has many followers of like mind; and with reason may he be said to march with a strong arm whose will many an arm is ready to serve; and truly great is he who can do great deeds by his will rather than his strength.
21.9.1
So too in private industries, the man in authority —bailiff or manager—who can make the workers keen, industrious and persevering—he is the man who gives a lift to the business and swells the surplus.
21.10.1
But, Socrates, if the appearance of the master in the field, of the man who has the fullest power to punish the bad and reward the strenuous workmen, makes no striking impression on the men at work, I for one cannot envy him. But if at sight of him they bestir themselves, and a spirit of determination and rivalry and eagerness to excel falls on every workman, then I should say: this man has a touch of the kingly nature in him.
21.11.1
And this, in my judgment, is the greatest thing in every operation that makes any demand on the labour of men, and therefore in agriculture. Mind you, I do not go so far as to say that this can be learnt at sight or at a single hearing. On the contrary, to acquire these powers a man needs education; he must be possessed of great natural gifts; above all, he must be a genius.
21.12.1
For I reckon this gift is not altogether human, but divine—this power to win willing obedience: it is manifestly a gift of the gods to the true votaries of prudence. Despotic rule over unwilling subjects they give, I fancy, to those whom they judge worthy to live the life of Tantalus, of whom it is said that in hell he spends eternity, dreading a second death.

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