Now this masculine love of an open and level camaraderie is the life
within all democracies and attempts to govern by debate; without it the
republic would be a dead formula. Even as it is, of course, the spirit
of democracy frequently differs widely from the letter, and a pothouse
is often a better test than a Parliament. Democracy in its human sense
is not arbitrament by the majority; it is not even arbitrament by
everybody. It can be more nearly defined as arbitrament by anybody. I
mean that it rests on that club habit of taking a total stranger for
granted, of assuming certain things to be inevitably common to yourself
and him. Only the things that anybody may be presumed to hold have the
full authority of democracy. Look out of the window and notice the
first man who walks by. The Liberals may have swept England with an
over-whelming majority; but you would not stake a button that the man is
a Liberal. The Bible may be read in all schools and respected in all law
courts; but you would not bet a straw that he believes in the Bible. But
you would bet your week’s wages, let us say, that he believes in wearing
clothes. You would bet that he believes that physical courage is a fine
thing, or that parents have authority over children. Of course, he might
be the millionth man who does not believe these things; if it comes
to that, he might be the Bearded Lady dressed up as a man. But these
prodigies are quite a different thing from any mere calculation
of numbers. People who hold these views are not a minority, but a
monstrosity. But of these universal dogmas that have full democratic
authority the only test is this test of anybody. What you would observe
before any newcomer in a tavern--that is the real English law. The first
man you see from the window, he is the King of England.
The decay of taverns, which is but a part of the general decay of
democracy, has undoubtedly weakened this masculine spirit of equality. I
remember that a roomful of Socialists literally laughed when I told them
that there were no two nobler words in all poetry than Public House.
They thought it was a joke. Why they should think it a joke, since they
want to make all houses public houses, I cannot imagine. But if anyone
wishes to see the real rowdy egalitarianism which is necessary (to
males, at least) he can find it as well as anywhere in the great
old tavern disputes which come down to us in such books as Boswell’s
Johnson. It is worth while to mention that one name especially because
the modern world in its morbidity has done it a strange injustice.
The demeanor of Johnson, it is said, was “harsh and despotic.” It was
occasionally harsh, but it was never despotic. Johnson was not in the
least a despot; Johnson was a demagogue, he shouted against a shouting
crowd. The very fact that he wrangled with other people is proof that
other people were allowed to wrangle with him. His very brutality was
based on the idea of an equal scrimmage, like that of football. It
is strictly true that he bawled and banged the table because he was
a modest man. He was honestly afraid of being overwhelmed or even
overlooked. Addison had exquisite manners and was the king of his
company; he was polite to everybody; but superior to everybody;
therefore he has been handed down forever in the immortal insult of
Pope--
“Like Cato, give his little Senate laws And sit attentive to his own
applause.”
Johnson, so far from being king of his company, was a sort of Irish
Member in his own Parliament. Addison was a courteous superior and was
hated. Johnson was an insolent equal and therefore was loved by all who
knew him, and handed down in a marvellous book, which is one of the mere
miracles of love.
This doctrine of equality is essential to conversation; so much may be
admitted by anyone who knows what conversation is. Once arguing at a
table in a tavern the most famous man on earth would wish to be
obscure, so that his brilliant remarks might blaze like the stars on the
background of his obscurity. To anything worth calling a man nothing can
be conceived more cold or cheerless than to be king of your company. But
it may be said that in masculine sports and games, other than the great
game of debate, there is definite emulation and eclipse. There is
indeed emulation, but this is only an ardent sort of equality. Games are
competitive, because that is the only way of making them exciting. But
if anyone doubts that men must forever return to the ideal of equality,
it is only necessary to answer that there is such a thing as a handicap.
If men exulted in mere superiority, they would seek to see how far such
superiority could go; they would be glad when one strong runner came
in miles ahead of all the rest. But what men like is not the triumph of
superiors, but the struggle of equals; and, therefore, they introduce
even into their competitive sports an artificial equality. It is sad
to think how few of those who arrange our sporting handicaps can be
supposed with any probability to realize that they are abstract and even
severe republicans.
No; the real objection to equality and self-rule has nothing to do with
any of these free and festive aspects of mankind; all men are democrats
when they are happy. The philosophic opponent of democracy would
substantially sum up his position by saying that it “will not work.”
Before going further, I will register in passing a protest against the
assumption that working is the one test of humanity. Heaven does not
work; it plays. Men are most themselves when they are free; and if I
find that men are snobs in their work but democrats on their holidays,
I shall take the liberty to believe their holidays. But it is this
question of work which really perplexes the question of equality; and
it is with that that we must now deal. Perhaps the truth can be put
most pointedly thus: that democracy has one real enemy, and that is
civilization. Those utilitarian miracles which science has made are
anti-democratic, not so much in their perversion, or even in
their practical result, as in their primary shape and purpose. The
Frame-Breaking Rioters were right; not perhaps in thinking that machines
would make fewer men workmen; but certainly in thinking that machines
would make fewer men masters. More wheels do mean fewer handles;
fewer handles do mean fewer hands. The machinery of science must be
individualistic and isolated. A mob can shout round a palace; but a mob
cannot shout down a telephone. The specialist appears and democracy is
half spoiled at a stroke.
*****