Skip to content

A Kentish field (June 6, 2019)

Between the dungheap
and the budding field of rape,
a line of poppies.

Trouble at’ Mill

Notes on the life (and afterlife) of JS Mill, philosopher

The classical liberal philosopher John Stuart Mill was born and died this month – in, respectively, 1806 and 1873 – and in between he wrote (or co-wrote, with his wife, and then his step-daughter) On LibertyUtilitarianism, Principles of Political Economy, Considerations of Representative Government, The Subjection of Women, and A System of Logic, Ratiocinative and Inductive, Being a Connected View of the Principles of Evidence, and the Methods of Scientific Investigation.

I – The Incidental Mill Symposium

Everything I know about John Stuart Mill I learned in a beach hut on the West coast of Sri Lanka.

Some 18 months ago, perhaps, a former thinktank sparring partner got in touch to say that he was on the staff of a new politics-and-culture magazine, and they were looking for somebody to write a ‘Curious Lives’ pen-portrait feature. Possibly regularly. Would I be interested? Well, yes, of course I would.

The rest of the conversation I can broadly summarise as follows:

JS MILL: [writes 33 thick volumes of economics, history, philosophy and earnest journalism]
MARC: ‘Please write 800 words on JS Mill’s life and output. We’d need it in by Tuesday at the latest. Oh, and make it funny.’

That wasn’t space (or time) even to summarise the YouTube Mill tutorials. Also, one cannot, sadly, pop out to a bookshop in Colombo and expect to find a tome on JS Mill. What’s more, my family and I were just about to leave for a long seaside weekend.

So I downloaded Mill’s Autobiography and Richard Reeves’ John Stuart Mill, and set about urgently ‘researching’ the (I suspected) piously steady JS Mill on my daughter’s purple rubberised kids’ Kindle, from a cabana at my friend Dilsiri’s distractingly-beautiful kitesurfing resort outside Kalpitiya.

And when, predictably, my mind began to drift, I flipflopped across the sandy coconut groves to the bar (duh), where I was promptly introduced, both in person and, creepily, by Facebook, to a barrister called Niran, whom I had never met but with whom I had, inexplicably, all of the degrees of Kevin Baconayagam, and so spent much of the evening drunkenly discussing… the philosophy of JS Mill.

The next day’s prep was somewhat slower than the first, but to my surprise – and certainly relief – I found that Mill’s life had indeed been very curious. I got the piece done (OK, 200 words over: Mill was too interesting!), and sent it off, and was quite handsomely remunerated.

And then the mag went bust before it even came into existence.

II – Put through the Mill

When JS Mill was born, his father, the Scots philosopher-historian-economist James Mill, challenged one of his friends to ‘race with you in the education of… the most accomplished and virtuous young man’ – and wasn’t kidding. The name of that other child has not gone down in history; but he may well have dodged a serious bullet.

Learning Greek at 3, writing a history of Rome at 6, and tutoring his own siblings from the age of 8, John Stuart’s childhood quickly became synonymous with intellectual hothouse upbringings.

Groomed to be the strict Utilitarian offspring of his father and Jeremy ‘greatest happiness’ Bentham (Mill’s mother goes resoundingly unmentioned in his Autobiography), he was prevented from associating with kids his own age, was permanently off-games, and was woken up at 5 each day to work, unpaid, on James’s History of British India. If mistakes were made, he got no lunch.

Some of his father’s peers expressed concern – while those merely impressed were kept away from John in case he got a big head. Mill was occasionally allowed such treats as Don Quixote, or Jeremiah Joyce’s Scientific Dialogues; but reading poetry for pleasure was banned, despite the fact the family had once lived for a spell in Milton’s cottage, and that for homework he once wrote a sequel to the Iliad.

At 14 he took a gap year (as well one might), which he spent hobnobbing with French politicians and taking university courses in chemistry, zoology, and higher maths. (It was noted, though, that at this advanced stage he could still not comb his hair or tie a tie.) Back in England, he was arrested for distributing frank family-planning literature in poorer areas, and by the age of 20 he had nothing left to do but have his mid-life crisis.

In the circumstances, it is amazing that Mill turned out not merely functional but, in the assessment of Reeves, ‘the greatest public intellectual in the history of Britain – and perhaps even the world.’

With the help of Wordsworth’s verse (indeed), he began to distance himself from the Utilitarians, deciding he should worry less about ‘the greatest happiness’ in the doctrinal sense and more about his – and others’ – personal freedom and bog-standard contentment.

Already educated beyond university, and almost employability, Mill purposely took an untaxing clerical job with the East India Company (he finished work round 1pm), and embarked on the enormous side-career of strident political journalism that would make his name: or, in Edward ‘Clerihew’ Bentley’s wry summary, ‘By a mighty effort of will, / Overcame his natural bonhomie / And wrote Principles of Political Economy‘.

A unembarrassed ‘elitist democrat’, Mill believed that people could and should govern themselves, in the interests both of personal choice and broader social improvement, free from the tyrannies of law or majoritarian social attitudes – but that The People needed education and constraint. His faith in parliamentary democracy was not unqualified.

Individuals should be free to act as they wished, unless it would cause harm to others. ‘Offence’, NB, did not count as ‘harm’. In fact free speech was critical, for the airing of minority opinions and for bringing questionable views into contact with much better ones.

As an indication of the currency of these and other high-minded attitudes, when he was 31 The Spectator included Mill in a fantasy (sic) radical cabinet, though he was not even at that time a politician.

Politically and personally, he was probably a hard man to be friends with. He viewed Coleridge as a poetic genius, but also an ‘arrant driveller’ on economic matters. Macaulay he called a ‘dwarf’, and Carlyle a ‘true voice for the Devil’ – an a/enmity not defrosted by his maid using the only copy of Carlyle’s French Rev vol.1 to light the fire (cf. Blackadder).

He found eccentricity preferable to uniformity and stagnation, and his fallings out with former allies were almost always over their perceived political inflexibility. He had a marked penchant for slaying heroes, including, famously, Jeremy Bentham himself.

Pensioned off after the East India Company’s disbandment, Mill was finally at liberty to put his money where his professional mouth had been for over 40 years. In 1865 the titanic philosopher became a Liberal MP, by the unusual expedient of admitting at the hustings that he had called his working class would-be constituents ‘habitual liars’ (much cheering).

In a typically idiosyncratic and principled career, he prophesied the environmental dangers of unchecked economic development, but referred to the abolition of the death penalty as ‘effeminacy’; he continued to argue against the ‘tyranny of the majority’ in domestic politics, but was at peace with ‘despotism’ (his word) when it came to British rule in, e.g., India; he suggested learned folks should have more votes than the uneducated, but was the first man to bring a parliamentary vote on women’s suffrage.

He was, perhaps surprisingly, willing to compromise in the name of practical governance; but interested neither in party politics nor in ministerial advancement, he used the Commons as a pulpit to speak on as-yet-hopelessly-unpopular progressive issues. Unhelpfully, he also turned out to be an unconvincing public speaker. Having wound up Conservatives and Liberals alike, he lost his seat just three years later.

In 1851 he’d married the widow Harriet Taylor, with whom he had been spending considerable time – ‘platonically’ – for decades, notwithstanding, and sometimes in, the presence of her husband (alive and, well, unstimulating). Tragically for Mill, she died in 1858; but such was the impact, both morally and intellectually, of ‘the most admirable person I had ever known,’ that he dedicated much of the final phase of his life to the National Society for Women’s Suffrage, recruiting Florence Nightingale (originally sceptical) and being hailed by Millicent Fawcett as the ‘principal originator of the women’s movement.’

And so, while Bentham sat in state in his ‘auto-icon’ pickle-jar at UCL, Mill – later described by the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy as ‘the most influential English-speaking philosopher of the nineteenth century’ – died an outsider, thrown out of one last club, just months before his death, for his outspoken views on land redistribution.

As the man himself wrote, there is ‘a tinge of melancholy in all biographies; the more interested we are in the hero, the sadder is our foreknowledge of the inevitable fifth act.’ Despite Monty Python‘s slanderous assertion that Mill became particularly ill on half a pint of shandy, it was actually a skin disorder what got him: erysipelas, or ‘holy fire’ (fittingly or otherwise, for an avowed agnostic in the former papal state of Avignon). He received the diagnosis with consummate dignity – “I have done my work” – and went to his grave believing his life had been ‘uneventful’, leaving one stepdaughter, Helen, and one godson (surely not the mot juste), Bertrand Russell.

He is commemorated by an unremarkable statue in Embankment Gardens, a portrait by GF Watts, an austere and lumpy-headed photo by the London Stereoscopic Company, and no small number of caricatures.

III – Chair of philosophy

Last weekend, I was unpacking the final boxes of my stuff laboriously imported from South Asia, and found my (highly collectible!) proof copy of S—- magazine. For a couple of minutes I leafed idly through it – looking wistfully at the frankly excellent piece on Mill, as well as all the other names like Tom Holland, Matt Ridley, Joy Lo Dico and Vernon Bogdanor, and wondering what might have been if only whichever oligarch/trustafarian had not gone bust and/or withdrawn his funding – before realising I really didn’t have time for this, as we’d a dinner obligation (not at all the right word) across the racecourse, in just under half an hour.

Our date being with a philosopher (three quarters of his immediate family are philosophers, in fact – or, at any rate, Philosophers), it was really no more than expected that when we arrived Ru thrust a glass of Bollinger in my direction and invited me to sit down in a characterful antique, mahogany, upholstered armchair. “Of course,” he mentioned, casually, “you do know this was JS Mill’s chair?”

I nearly leapt up out of it. Why the hell would I have known that?? And what in the System of Logic could Mill’s chair possibly be doing in the damn Falkland Islands, anyway!?

Well, I’m glad you asked. It turns out the chair more directly belongs to mine host’s wife Eliza (an educationalist in her own right), whose great great uncle – Frederick Langmead FRCP – purchased it, while in France, from a sale of Mill’s Avignon household effects, most likely in the years following Helen Taylor’s departure and death in the early 1900s.

Despite being one of the medical profession’s first paediatric specialists, in one of life’s sad ironies, Langmead and his wife were themselves unable to have children. So when he died he left the chair to his niece, Eliza’s grandmother, who in turn gave it to them as a wedding present, since Ru had (indeed still has) a degree in Philosophy as well as – nice triangulation – a professional interest at the time in medical ethics.

A couple of days later, Eliza dropped round with a copy of great great uncle Fred’s obituary, and a 1960 Times article about the Avignon house.

Travelling through France with her husband in November 1858, Harriet Mill suddenly fell ill, and died in a room at the Hotel d’Europe, Avignon. The story goes that the bereft JS promptly bought all the furniture from her hotel room (so it’s quite possible – likely even? – that Ru’s chair first belonged to the hotel), and re-established it in a small, two-storey, tile-roofed house bought for this purpose, from the study window of which he could look out and see Harriet’s grave (and indeed, from 1873, his own), fashioned from the same marble as the Pantheon.

The piece goes on to mention that, besides the Mills’ two ‘ghosts’, the house perhaps contained a third, that of Mill’s friend, the entomologist Jean-Henri Fabre, whom Darwin called ‘inimitable’ and whose ‘free thinking’ (teaching girls biology) got him into trouble at the local university. Sacked and turfed out of his accommodation, Fabre was aided, both financially and emotionally, by the militant defender of the conscience Mill. They became good friends, and went on various bugs-and-botany trips together (on which Helen proved a historically-important assistant). And, as if to demonstrate that philosophers, too, are not immune to Fate’s cruel humour (no good deed going unpunished, etc.), it was on one of these trips that Mill caught his fatal disease.

Alas, the article – capped with a weird black-and-white photo that appears to show three ‘types’ breaking into the already fire-ruined house through the perimeter fence, like some piece of Chapman Brothers art – turns out to be about the post-war population boom in France, and the drive for far more social housing.

Although ‘Our Own Correspondent’ allows that in many cases French cities and towns desperately needed to ‘throw off their nineteenth century aspect’, and that such changes ‘are welcome to the working class families’, the main thrust of his article is that ‘the new wave of housing means that the homes of France’s famous visitors, which have for years been places of pilgrimage for foreign travellers, are gradually disappearing.’

The following year, just over a century after Mill himself moved into it, the house was bulldozed and replaced by a large block of flats. How terribly Utilitarian.

For Falklands Radio

Beneath the mountains

Review of Alexandria: the Quest for the Lost City, by Edmund Richardson.

For The Spectator

She’s a lumberjack – and she’s not OK

Review of Finding the Mother Tree: Uncovering the Wisdom and Intelligence of the Forest, by Suzanne Simard.

For Geographical

(Re)building a library

Confessions of a bibliomaniac in the South Atlantic.

For The Critic

The Very Old New Normal

An ancient livery company celebrates St George’s Day and a year of successful ‘virtual’ operation in the teeth of Covid-19

A year ago today, around the swelteringest part of the Sri Lankan year, I clambered to the roof of our apartment building in Colombo, donned my lairiest tropical shirt, cracked a Lion ‘larger’, and, as the sun plunged into the Indian Ocean (GMT+4.5), drank a toast “to the Queen, St George, The Worshipful Company of Skinners root and branch, may they continue and flourish for ever,” as well as to all frontline workers, and our disappointed guests.

The Skinners’ Company’s (rightly renowned) annual St George’s Day lunch had, of course, been cancelled, thanks to Covid, and replaced with a forgivably ad hoc ‘virtual’ toast, centred on Facebook.

Well, I’m not in Sri Lanka any more; but it’s St George’s Day AD 2021, and once again the lunch is off – and in the intervening year that’s pretty much been the consistent pattern, even the venerable ‘Great Twelve’ livery companies of the City of London forced to bend before the onslaught of the abiding international crisis.

Bend – but not break. Incorporated by Royal Charter in 1327, the Skinners’ Company and its Dowgate Hill HQ have seen much worse. Blitz spirit, and all that. I mean, for one thing, it survived the actual Blitz. And the Fire of London. Even the construction of Cannon Street station. ‘The postponement or cancellation of our gatherings,’ the then-Master wrote, ‘is a relatively small inconvenience; nor is it unprecedented. The Beadle alerted us to a Court minute in 1625 that accompanied the election of William Cockayne as Master for the third time: “Dinner was forborne by reason of God’s visitation of ye plague of pestilence.”’

At just a few years shy of seven centuries old, a lot of the Company’s traditions and whatnot are ‘very old’ at least – if not perhaps technically ‘ancient’. Ermine gowns, seriously antique loving cups and sung graces still generally obtain. And while the Company has long since registered the prevailing need to modernise – we’ve been on Facebook for five years, you know – I think it’s fair to say that even at the start of 2020, probably no-one was expecting ever to read the sentence ‘today’s Corpus Christi church service premieres on YouTube’.

But over the ensuing annus horribilis the Company has done a remarkable job (as have, for sure, thousands of comparable organisations of every size and stripe) of not only keeping its head above water, but of continuing – perhaps even improving – its delivery of both core charitable functions and social engagements for the Skinners membership. In this regard, matters were helped, no doubt, by the fortuitous incumbency of a tech-positive Master, whose social media posts (and love of Austrian desserts, protracted puns, and the odd liturgical bonfire) had already been going down a treat in several quarters.

Advertorial as it may be, I was particularly proud of the Marsh Academy in Romney, Kent (where I was formerly a governor), which promptly redistributed unneeded food and toilet rolls – the school being shut – to local residents. Tonbridge School and Skinners’ School in Tunbridge Wells manufactured and donated PPE directly to healthcare professionals. And the Company en tout has, in a joint Livery Kitchens Initiative, been providing meals for NHS workers and deprived communities in the East End of London, to the tune of £630,000 so far. This against a background of routine provision of grants and awards administered to the Company’s seven schools, two almshouses, and a host of otherscholarships and charities.

In terms of internal Company business – as has been said for years by all right-thinking people everywhere – it turns out many meetings can be had without the trouble of stepping out of one’s bedroom study. The first Zoom Court meeting of the Worshipful Company of Skinners duly took place, and everybody dressed more-or-less appropriately for the occasion, albeit one was in slippers, the senior active member was in his garden, and the soon-to-be-Past-Master solemnly gavelled in proceedings with a schnitzel-basher.

At the final Master and Wardens Committee meeting of the year (July), the usual boisterous do was ‘distanced’ across at least three venues: the Hall’s roof garden, the Courtroom, and several members’ own domestic dining tables. Once the new Master was sworn in, his predecessor put the ceremonial gongs down on the desk, retreated a few steps, and watched as the incomer picked them up and put them round his own neck.

A little low-key. But in time, the membership received a video of the new Master’s maiden speech, along with stills of an event not normally witnessed by those not in the livery (or even the court, perhaps?). All this and more, facilitated by a revamped website/membership portal which the Hall staff suddenly found themselves ‘blessed’ with time to work on.

Other things, of course, are rather harder to pull off remotely.

Our cricket grudge match v. the Merchant Taylors’ (all 6s count as 7s) was scrubbed, as was the inter-livery real tennis, the Great Twelve quiz, and even the annual sheep drive over London Bridge.

Most of the standing social events in the calendar fell victim to a rolling month-by-month ‘postponement’ barrage – the worst of all, for my money, being the loss of the Summer Drinks Reception, a light-hearted, champagne-flute-clinking event, open to all ranks and their guests. The 2019 incarnation was my last Skinning act before I left the country, and that evening alone I met, just off the top of my head, a sky diver, a professor, at least one senior partner at John Lewis, a minerals broker, about a dozen teachers, several members of the cricket team, our first lady Master (whose name, impeccably, is ‘Dudley’), a Lord, a General, a specialist in Romanian music, one of the animators of Peppa Pig, a sometime organist at Hereford Cathedral, a man who’s been to Antarctica, a dabbler in/on Renaissance lute, and no end of other top chaps and chapesses, all in their finery (humorous socks optional).

But here too the Company bounced back.

There was nothing to stop even the lowliest member from joining in a week or so after the Corpus Christi feast (sic), when a condensed highlights reel was made ‘public’ (although having to cook one’s own grub could be viewed as something of a minus point). The inter-livery shooting competition did manage to take place. The Company annual review got itself compiled and sent out both digitally and on paper, despite trying working conditions for such a team production. Then there was a virtual wine-tasting (the wine was real enough) in November, followed by the carol service (a surprisingly recent ‘tradition’) at St James’, Garlickhythe, in early December. Numbers were capped, needless to say, so even though I unexpectedly found myself in England for the ‘festive’ season, I watched it on the internet, somewhat disconsolately, along with a couple of hundred other people.

The new year has had its ups and downs, but distanced visits, competitions and other fun have all been had at the Skinners’ alms houses. The mid-May golf against the MT’s is still scheduled to go ahead. A late-June ‘lunch on the Thames’ has been merely moved to September, rather than cancelled. And so wildly popular was last night’s online British-salmon-and-wine-tasting evening that a second, overflow event had to be scheduled before the first had even taken place.

There have also been announcements of adjustments to the rules of apprenticeship, so that potential later generations will not miss out on anything courtesy of arbitrary deadlines. And last month, for the first time, Bindings and Freedoms themselves took place online: ceremonies which, under normal circumstances, would involve exchange of peppercorns, oaths in Latin, and the use of vellum. I’m pleased to read these new members will be the first in line for hearty welcomes at the Hall, when Covid restrictions finally are lifted.

Meanwhile, the Company’s active approach to social media means that one can maintain links (or indeed ‘lynx’ – our furry mascots) with Skinners all around the world, learn about opportunities to get involved in the committees and governing bodies, read personal Instagram accounts of Skinning life (@skinnerstories), see footage of various school events and online performances by Skinners’-sponsored Guildhall music students, watch online lectures about the history of the Company, get updates on, e.g., the artefacts being unearthed by excavations in the building (a jug’s just been found, dating to the time of the Great Fire of 1666), and even – in an avowed attempt to get folks off their screens – enter a paint-by-numbers competition to win tickets for this year’s Autumn Dinner. The current Master is also hosting regular online ‘Meet the Master’ events for recent members, an opportunity for the sort of face-time which genuinely might not, in previous generations, have presented itself to a new Skinner for several decades.

Today, I write from Stanley, in the Falkland Islands. We’re four hours behind the UK, now (no daylight saving) so the ‘lunchtime’ toasts did feel a smidgen early, and for the life of me, I couldn’t locate my Hawaiian shirt. Not that that’s a problem here, mind, where autumn temperatures are already pushing zero, and winds routinely gust at over 40 miles an hour. The Master tells me that the weather’s aptly glorious in England. But since the Company’s St George’s celebrations are of course again online, that meant that I could join in, cost-free, howsoever clad, and same as anybody.

Last June, his predecessor rightly prophesied the Corpus Christi service would be better attended virtually than it has been, historically, in person. Perhaps counter-intuitively, Covid has opened up a range of Skinners interactions and involvements to many of us too junior, skint, or distant to otherwise participate. It may also prove to have been beneficial when it comes to the Hall’s imminent closure for a two-year renovation marathon – another sign of the regenerative spirit of the Company, ancient and modern. Far be it from me to suggest that many a British institution might have the turning circle of an oil tanker; but, undesirable as the situation is for now, who knows if one day we won’t look back and see this as an accidentally helpful boost into new ways of functioning?

But that silver lining, obviously, implies the cloud, and the lack of company – not to say Company – is still a heartfelt problem. An institution that exists solely for fraternal charity and fellowship cannot realistically be operating at full-throttle where people aren’t allowed to congregate. No-one would claim the current circs are anything other than suboptimal.

So it is heartening to read in monthly e-news, mailouts, and the rest of it that spring is in bloom at the Hall, the staff are back, real-life events are being pencilled in to diaries, and if I colour in my rampant lynxes very carefully, I might yet be there for the Autumn Dinner.

As broadcast on Falklands Radio

Zooming windows

Interview with members of the George Formby Society, as they attempt to break an online ukulele-playing record.

For The Critic

Antarctic adventure

From the submarine service to the world’s southernmost post office: Q&A with dentist Sally Owen, in the sub-Antarctic.

For The Critic

Research and rescue

The Falkland Islands bids farewell to the RRS James Clark Ross, and a Marylebone gallery hosts a virtual exhibition of Antarctic photographs.

For The Critic

The coast of Hisperica

i.m. Umberto Eco (1932-2016)

This frothing sea surrounds the world
and beats earth’s borders with its rushing waves.
Its storm-wall slams the rocky foreshore,
ploughs the bed with thumping crests,
strewing shingled foam in starry furrows,
ever-shaken by its thunderous blast.