The Literature of Political Economy

Collected Essays II

Samuel Hollander

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 1997
• eBook ISBN: 9781134823024
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Business
• Subtopic: Business General
• Index: Business

Samuel Hollander is widely recognized as one of the most important and controversial historians of economic thought. This second volume collects together essays extending beyond classical economics, the subject with which he is most associated. This collection includes: * studies in Scholastic, Smithian and Marshallian literature * papers on the Co

Part I
BIOGRAPHICAL PERSPECTIVES

1
‘IT’S AN ILL WIND…’

A memoir*

My candle burns at both ends;

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

It gives a lovely light!

(Edna St Vincent Millay)

I can conceive of few academics presumptuous or foolhardy enough to write an ‘intellectual autobiography’ unless invited to do so.¹ It is no easy assignment. One seeks to protect a core of privacy; there is a residual subjectivity regarding events and persons that cannot be eliminated; one is obliged to tone things down for practical reasons. Even if one can hope to tell the ‘truth’ it will not be the whole truth—certainly not in a mere twenty pages. It must also be said that any linkages that might be suggested between character or experience and professional contribution (and an intellectual autobiography of course seeks out such linkages) can never progress beyond the stage of hypothesis; neither necessary nor sufficient causation is at issue. Yet I myself have learned something from this exercise; perhaps my readers will too.

The present account does not address the so-called New View of Ricardo which has received so much attention over the past twenty years. I have dealt with that matter in a companion piece (Hollander 1995:1–15). My concern here is with rather more intimate matters. And I shall start near the beginning with the emergence of a theme whose persistence comes as rather a surprise even to me.

EARLY DAYS

My first conscious religious experience occurred sometime before age five when I was warned: ‘Get off that horse, or your father will kill you.’ It was a milk-delivery van in Letchworth, Hertfordshire, in the English Home Counties where my family had been evacuated during the London Blitz. And it was the Sabbath, on which day horse riding—and very much else—is forbidden by Jewish religious law.² Thus at a tender age I was inducted into a complex world of social control. The dietary laws are particularly potent as will become clear.³ Those who accept the ‘yoke’ full-heartedly enjoy a profoundly meaningful and comforting existence. But many ‘orthodox’ treat the regulations somewhat selectively. My own childhood was a training in ambivalence, as I shall explain.

My father had left Austrian Galicia with his parents and siblings just before 1914—the males to Holland and the females to Vienna. In 1918 the family joined up in Scheveningen and unsuccessfully tried the diamond business. My father emigrated in 1925 to Britain where he set up a successful clothing factory. He himself had no formal education, but was astute in business and also possessed great intellectual ability, as indicated by his Talmudic competence, attained informally and with extraordinary application at least from his arrival in Letchworth in 1940 until the end of his life in 1991. He was the sole support of his parents and several of his brothers and sisters who in the mid-1930s had emigrated to Palestine. (The one sister who remained behind was murdered in the Nazi clearing of the Jewish hospital in Apeldoorn.) He attached himself closely to religious teachers, relying on their advice in many personal matters; and after our return to London in 1951 he took an active role in the synagogue of a Chassidic rabbi in his father’s tradition, a scholar of considerable distinction with whom I also studied and whose school my son attended many years later. It is not surprising, given his own background and experience, that my father was far from appreciative of the cultural, even the utilitarian, function of secular studies. Certainly the ‘university’ was suspect in the orthodox community at that time.

My mother in major respects stood at the other pole. She was born in London within sound of Bow bells of immigrants from Galicia, the youngest of eleven children, all except for her born in Cracow. She was educated, of all places, in a German Lutheran school located in east London. She became an accomplished pianist who in the mid-twenties was offered a position by the BBC though forbidden by her father to accept it: ‘Jewish daughters do not play piano for the BBC.’ Yet, strange to relate, her father permitted her to eat milk dishes after meat ‘as soon as she felt hungry’, rather than wait the statutory six (or three or one) hours; here is a pattern I cannot quite appreciate. She was a voracious reader in German and English secular literature with an extraordinary memory. It was in her late eighties that she recommended to me The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall (1928), a Lesbian first, once proscribed in Britain. And she had the sharpest wit and sense of humour. I have been told that at the time of her marriage in 1931 she was more ‘orthodox’ in practice than my father; if this is so then the roles were soon to be reversed. For it was he not she who objected to Sabbath horse riding. Indeed, she was ready to bend the rules. An illustration: the British Rabbinate had issued a ruling that turbot—then thought to be a questionable fish for reasons I need not enter into here—was permitted in wartime. My mother made a simple extension. She would take my sister and myself into the local café for very doubtful cakes on the grounds that ‘there was a war on’, cautioning us to say nothing. I did not at the time appreciate how my father failed to realize that a state of hostilities existed with Germany—everyone was talking about it—but was clever enough to obey instructions.

The adult household was completed by an aunt, my mother’s sister, blind from her teenage years. Her kindly presence counteracted a certain pervasive tension. Yet I cannot afford to be too critical, for the ambivalence and clash of temperaments that I experienced in my parents’ home was later repeated in my own.

I return to the opening episode. It would be painting a misleading picture to leave an impression that the Sabbath was a grey day. It was, for one thing, a day of rest from studying—apart from the dreaded test of the week’s scholarly accomplishments; and there were no injunctions against children’s games. (There was at Letchworth a splendid quarry-like indentation known as the Roman Camp that served as our Sabbath sporting arena.) And paradoxical as it may appear, synagogue decorum is more relaxed the more orthodox the establishment, possibly reflecting a familiarity with and affection for the Deity. The restrictions thus went hand in hand with a surprising degree of freedom; perhaps too much. I also wish to avoid giving an impression that our community was in any way ‘homogeneous’. To the contrary, it was made up largely of refugees from all quarters of Europe, each with his own particular traditions, generating clashes of practice and character. Nonetheless, there was sufficient common ground to allow for the maintenance of a vibrant communal life turning about the tiny synagogue.⁴

One obvious consequence of the orthodox practices is to create obstacles to ‘fraternization’ with the locals. I do not, for example, recall ever visiting the homes of my non-Jewish school friends, primary or secondary. This barrier has existed to some extent until the present day. In any event, there was scarcely time for socializing. As I explain elsewhere in this document, it is common practice in the orthodox community to put a high premium on competence in Talmudic reasoning. My own training began at age seven in two-hour evening sessions held in Yiddish, though I distinctly recall realizing at the time that it was a premature exercise since I still had difficulty with the prayer book and was not yet comfortable with Yiddish.

I have at hand a family tree relating to my mother’s maternal ancestry which conveys an indication of a very extensive rabbinical ‘gene pool’, and shows some late medieval links with Karl Marx, which (when I have alluded to them in the abstract) seem, I cannot imagine why, to upset some of my Sraffian friends. Specifically, Marx and I share common ancestors in Rabbi Jehiel Luria II (d. 1470), head of the ecclesiastical court in Brest-Litovsk, Poland; and in R.Israel Isserlein of Cracow (d. 1558) and his wife DinahMalka (1485–1553). (Students think of Marx as a disembodied spirit, and my chart—which I would happily send to anyone interested in genealogy—should disabuse them.) I might add that my maternal grandmother’s line flows from the great legal codifier R.Moses Isserles of Cracow (circa 1520–72)—a son of R.Isserlein—and his first wife; and the nineteenth-century composer Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy can be traced back to R. Isserles and his second wife. I mention this connection since Felix’s grandfather, Moses Mendelssohn of Dessau (1729–86), figures large in my pantheon of heroes. Notwithstanding a hostile orthodox reaction on doctrinal grounds, Moses insisted always on the importance of the ceremonial law in practice, that is, on conformity in action. He personifies the encounter between rabbinic Judaism and the so-called ‘Enlightenment’.⁵ Since I am still trapped in that time warp, Moses’ dilemmas constitute the real thing for me.

EDUCATION CIRCA 1941–59

My primary secular education (1941–8) was at a small private school in Letchworth run by two liberated and progressive ladies. (I use the term ‘lady’ deliberately; to me it is not a four-letter word.) Those were splendid times, rather easy-going with much attention given to dramatics (Shakespeare in particular), music and exercise with emphasis on country dancing. I worshipped my teachers—a general trait that only ended when I became a teacher myself. There was no interfaith tension whatsoever; Jewish pupils simply left the room when ‘All things bright and beautiful’ was sung each morning. School was an oasis—from domestic tensions and also from tension on the street, where it was sometimes dangerous for Jewish children to walk alone because of stone-throwing louts (for Letchworth is in a chalky area with many stones at hand) shouting: ‘Go back to Palestine!’ Ironically, the Royal Navy was at this time placing severe obstacles in the way of this particular solution. I might add too that some synagogue members (mainly the Hungarians) were opponents of Zionism on religious grounds and had no wish to go to godless Palestine.

I am better able to interpret my experiences after discussions with an undergraduate student of Indian extraction whose family had emigrated from East Africa and settled in a small English town. His account duplicates my own. It is also certain that were, for example, some non-Chassidic group to settle in Jerusalem’s Mea Shearim quarter they would not be made welcome. Individuals are one thing, groups another; especially if the newcomers are highly visible and successful into the bargain. I stray into a most difficult area, and will say no more except that I think of Britain with deep affection. In a sense, I never left the country in 1959 since, apart from my professional activities, much of my leisure reading revolves about British rather than North American themes. My perspective is perhaps filtered through lenses tinted by those two ladies mentioned above. But there ismuch more to it than that. Children were affected in the manner described above; adults might scarcely have been aware of any hostility. In any event, the rule of law prevailed.

The transition at age eleven to the local grammar school proved less satisfactory, for the bully boys (including a few of the staff) were more in evidence. But the standard of instruction was, on the whole, surprisingly good for so small a town. Physics proved a disaster; this subject was taught late on Friday afternoons and Jewish students were obliged to leave early in the winter months, generating an unholy muddle in my mind regarding the physical sciences. History, fortunately, was not taught on Friday, or I might not be writing this particular record.

By this time (1948–9) most Jewish families had returned to London. Consequently I lost the company of several cousins with whom I was (and to this day remain) very close. So my social life was now extremely limited— almost non-existent in fact, having in mind the obstacles in the way of interfaith contact. A premature seriousness was thus imposed on me by events. My ambition to spend the future as a bus driver (I was quite normal in that regard) was now replaced by more bookish interests. I certainly recall being impressed by the gravity of the atmosphere upon the announcement of the 1949 devaluation; and was exercised by the observation that dried bananas, available in wartime, were no longer to be had for love or money, whereas the reverse held true of racing cycles.

Our own return to London was delayed until 1951, when I attended what was then Hendon County School. There the standard of teaching extended from the very poor—in one case amounting to the copying of remarkably written copper-plate notes from the board (remarkable because the teacher was often drunk) with not a word of explanation or discussion—to the outstanding, especially (as far as I was concerned) in literature and history. I much appreciate the instruction I received from those dedicated teachers, brief as it was. For my formal secondary schooling ended in 1953 at age sixteen, as I shall now explain.

It is customary for orthodox Jewish families to send their sons away for Talmudical training, though not necessarily to the end of entering the rabbinate. I did not resist this practice for myself, but did take Alfred Marshall with me (having learned of Marshall from an advisor at school since it was expected that I would return to enter the sixth form) to Gateshead-on-Tyne, where is located the most prominent Talmudical academy in Europe. I do not know what Gateshead looks like today; but it was certainly not very inviting in 1953. I would not be surprised if the location in a coal-mining area was chosen for that very reason, to minimize ‘distractions’. Of course there were distractions. I was tested with one such on the train down in the shape of a nurse from the Royal Newcastle Infirmary; it was not a difficult test to pass considering the large number of academy students on that particular train.

The regime was strict, with relentless pressure to study; but self-imposed discipline pushed me to work sixteen hours a day six days a week—the main term lasting from October to April with no break—and this far surpassed anything imposed upon me. Because it was known that I had the capacity and willingness to work, I was allowed considerable freedom to follow a routine of my own making, a flexibility on the part of the staff which made the entire episode tolerable. Thus, for example, I had permission to swim daily—and this in place of public prayers—provided of course there were no females in the pool (at the unearthly hour I chose to exercise there were no males either). I also read a daily newspaper; and I wore ‘unorthodox’ clothing. For a short period I even had a picture of Joseph Stalin on the wall. (This last was too much for my roommate, so Stalin came down.) I might add here that my admiration for this monster went back much further. In fact, as a young boy—the precise date escapes me—I made my way to the Soviet Embassy in London to make enquiries regarding visitor regulations and vividly recall the stolid faces of the embassy staff staring at me through the windows on my retreat to the gates. I put this infatuation down inter alia to unhappiness with my own domestic situation (the ‘push’ factor) coupled with admiration for the Soviet Union in its defeat of Nazi Germany (the ‘pull’ factor). I did not fully shake off this regrettable attitude until 1968, though at no time was I ever inclined to attach myself to a political party. It was all in the realm of theory.

Despite all this, I fitted in surprisingly well. The average level of intelligence at Gateshead was extraordinarily high. But the training was narrow. There was an absence of any historical dimension, for time is filtered out in traditional method (about which more presently); and Bible study and religious law— ethics somewhat less so—were secondary to Talmudic logic with a premium on the devising of innovatory logical glosses. None of this, of course, came as a surprise; I had been brought up on it.

There were certainly those who went beyond the bounds of all reason in their hostility to the twentieth century—I recall one such exclaiming: ‘Einstein! Let his name and memory be erased’; and those whose practice was quite medieval—one roommate wore gloves at night and dipped his right arm up to his elbow in icy water upon awakening (happily after removing his gloves). But such types were a source of entertainment and I regretted there were not more of them to brighten my life. Certainly the rabbis were not of this sort, and for them I had enormous respect.

My decision to leave Gateshead earlier than I now think was desirable— having in mind the objective of the training, which is to feel at home with any Talmudic text—reflected a concern to assure myself a university place, for there was some doubt as to how long and to what extent my father would be prepared to finance my secular studies. Thus it was that late in 1954 I returned to London to attend (in succession) Hendon Technical College and Kilburn Polytechnic where I satisfied in short order, and with some distinction, the then ‘Advanced Level’ requirements for university entrance. The transition was an easy one: I was self-motivated and hugely industrious; and delighted with the range of young men and women and the mature students from varied parts of the world who were seeking educational advancement outside the regular school system. I was, I think, ready for university.

My only regret, in recalling this period, is the waste of some nine months between the completion of the entrance exams and the commencement of my first academic year at the London School of Economics in October 1956. (My late friend, the economic historian Karl Helleiner, liked to call me a Puritan, and of course he was right.) Those months might have been spent to good purpose back in Gateshead or some equivalent establishment. In fact, I spent them in my father’s factory endlessly sticking labels on parcels. For all that, there was some benefit. I was in the unskilled work force engaged in repetitive specialized acts so that Adam Smith’s pin factory was to have meaning. And I made new friends among my co-workers; I was certainly made to feel comfortable on my necessarily surreptitious visits to their homes.

It was also during this pre-university hiatus that I first read Robbins’ Nature and Significance of Economic Science, though I do not recall who introduced me to it; I may have found it by accident at the library. The idea that I might actually be privileged to see its author, even if at a distance, boggled the mind. That I gave private lessons in economic history, and bought a cat which we called ‘Ricardo’ ...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Notes on Chapters
• Preface
• Acknowledgements
• Part I: Biographical Perspectives
• Part II: Three Early Papers
• Part III: Adam Smith
• Part IV: Nineteenth-Century Literature
• Part V: Malthus
• Part VI: Short Reviews