THE SCIENCE AND ART OF POLITICS

Political Science means nothing else than the devizing of the best ways

of fulfilling the will of the world; and, I repeat, it is skilled work.

Once the way is discovered, the methods laid down, and the machinery

provided, the work of the statesman is done, and that of the official

begins. To illustrate, there is no need for the police officer who

governs the street traffic to be or to know any better than the

people who obey the wave of his hand. All concerted action involves

subordination and the appointment of directors at whose signal the

others will act. There is no more need for them to be superior to the

rest than for the keystone of an arch to be of harder stone than the

coping. But when it comes to devizing the directions which are to be

obeyed: that is, to making new institutions and scraping old ones, then

you need aristocracy in the sense of government by the best. A military

state organized so as to carry out exactly the impulses of the average

soldier would not last a year. The result of trying to make the Church

of England reflect the notions of the average churchgoer has reduced it

to a cipher except for the purposes of a petulantly irreligious

social and political club. Democracy as to the thing to be done may

be inevitable (hence the vital need for a democracy of supermen); but

democracy as to the way to do it is like letting the passengers drive

the train: it can only end in collision and wreck. As a matter of act,

we obtain reforms (such as they are), not by allowing the electorate

to draft statutes, but by persuading it that a certain minister and his

cabinet are gifted with sufficient political sagacity to find out how to

produce the desired result. And the usual penalty of taking advantage of

this power to reform our institutions is defeat by a vehement "swing of

the pendulum" at the next election. Therein lies the peril and the glory

of democratic statesmanship. A statesman who confines himself to popular

legislation--or, for the matter of that, a playwright who confines

himself to popular plays--is like a blind man's dog who goes wherever

the blind man pulls him, on the ground that both of them want to go to

the same place.

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