3 June: Boreham on the Census

Counting Heads
Once more the time has come for counting heads.[1] Nobody would seriously attempt to underrate the value and importance of the census; yet nobody can reflect upon it without feeling that it is, of necessity, a ridiculously superficial affair. It counts heads, but it is totally unable to weigh them. "There are," as George Gissing declares, "individuals who outweigh, in every kind of value, generations of ordinary people." Schiller, too, snaps his fingers at the census when he asks:

What are mere numbers? Numbers are but nonsense!
Wisdom is never found but with the few:
Votes should be rightly weighed, not only counted;
Sooner or later that State must go under
Where numbers rule and foolishness determines.

The pity of it is that the census is doomed to failure in one most important respect. It cannot tabulate the real wealth of the nation because it makes no attempt to assess our individual worth. Jack is as good as his master—physically, morally, and industrially. It is recorded of De Quincey that when, in 1851, the officer in charge of the census called upon him for his paper he was at a loss as to how the required particulars should be given. Where was he to sign? What was his occupation? At length, he inscribed his own name and entered himself as a "writer to the magazines," but when he came to the occupations of his family he was completely floored. What could the avocations of his three daughters be said to be? Finally, in sheer desperation, he seized a pen, and, putting a bracket round the three names, wrote against them: "These are like the lilies of the field: they toil not, neither do they spin."

The Personal Equation Overshadowed
But of this aspect of the case the census takes no cognisance. The personal equation does not fall within its province. With the callous indifference of a mathematical machine, it heartlessly ignores the individual factor. The honoured grandfather who, when last the census was taken, beamed with pride as he saw his name inscribed at the very top of the form, is represented now only by a vacant armchair in the corner, and by a picture on the wall. But, as against this, the prattle and laughter of a little child is starting all the echoes of the place; he was not here when the official count was last made: his name makes its initial appearance on the national records. The number is the same and, after all, that is the only thing with which the census is concerned.

We wandered in the village, Tom,
And sat beneath the tree
Upon the schoolhouse playing-ground
That sheltered you and me,
But none were there to greet me, Tom,
And few are left to know,
Who played with us upon the green
Just twenty years ago.

But other boys are there: what does it matter? The figures look just as well in the returns!

In one sense, imposing statistics are a snare and a delusion. In a small state, each citizen recognises how much depends upon his individual fidelity: in a vast empire each man is tempted to underestimate the importance of his own exertion and to lean upon the crowd. Moreover, since the temptation occurs with equal force to each, the danger is likely to be alarmingly widespread: and a sensible reduction of the average value may easily and imperceptibly take place. Fortunately, another law comes into play, which operates in a diametrically opposite direction. With the increase in population, internal competition becomes keener, and the necessity of keeping abreast of one's rivals tends to maintain the average ability at a certain standard. Both processes emphasise, each in its own way, the fact that a nation's greatest asset lies in the fibre and quality of its manhood: but this is the factor that escapes classification.

The Units That Will Not Aggregate
The census is a valiant attempt to compass the impossible. There are things that, differing fundamentally in their very nature, cannot be added together. Some time ago, with seven judges on the bench, an important insurance case was being argued in London. The evidence consisted of a welter of statistics. Whilst a mass of figures was being read, Lord Craighill quietly intervened with the disconcerting remark: "But two and two, you know, do not always make four!" Everybody stared in incredulous astonishment; but the situation was at length relieved by Lord Madaren. "There must," he said, "be a certain unity and conformity between the first two and the second two: you could scarcely say that two candles and two tons of coal make four!" The air was cleared. And the point is pertinent today. If you cannot add candles to coal, you cannot add patriotism to perfidy, you cannot add John to Judas. The staggering discovery that the Church made was that eleven and one do not make twelve.

The truth has never been more tellingly stated than in the Parable of the Talents. The merchant, before setting out on his journey, committed to three of his agents eight talents with which to trade. On his return, they handed him fifteen. Presented in that way, the situation seems extremely satisfactory and the three agents appear to deserve the highest commendation. But the parable is not presented in those terms. The totals—three and eight and fifteen—are never mentioned. To one agent the merchant entrusted five talents: to another two, and to another one. From the first he received ten on the day of reckoning: from the second four, and from the third only the solitary talent that had been confided to his care. He therefore applauded the first and second, condemning the third. The parable is given to demonstrate the futility of totals. Service and sloth can no more be added together than coal and candles or John and Judas.

F W Boreham

Image: A relief on the taking of the census; circa end 2nd century from Campus Martius, Rome. Paris, Louvre Museum.

[1] This editorial about the census appears in the Hobart Mercury on June 28, 1947.