The newest school of philosophy preaches an “organized religion,” an
hierarchy of the best and ablest. In an inarticulate way the confession
rises from the masses that they feel on every side of them the need of
wise and strong government—of a will to which their will may loyally
submit—before all other needs; have been groping blindly after it this
long while; begin to know that their daily life is in daily peril
for want of it, in a country of limited land, air, and water, and
practically unlimited wealth. But Democracy—how about Democracy? We had
thought a cry for it, and not for kings, God made or of any other kind,
was the characteristic of our time. Certainly kings, such as we have
seen them, have not gained or deserved much reverence of late years,
are not likely to be called for with any great earnestness by those
who feel most need of guidance and deliverance, in the midst of the
bewildering conditions and surroundings of our time and our life.
Thirty years ago the framework of society went all to pieces over the
greater part of Christendom, and the kings just ran away or abdicated,
and the people, left pretty much to themselves, in some places made
blind work of it. Solvent and well-regulated society caught a glimpse
of that same “big black democracy,”—the monster, the Frankenstein, as
they hold him, at any rate the great undeniable fact of our time—a
glimpse of him moving his huge limbs about, uneasily and blindly. Then,
mainly by the help of broken pledges and bayonets, the so-called kings
managed to get the gyves put on him again, and to shut him down in
his underground prison. That was the sum of their work in the great
European crisis; not a thankworthy one from the people’s point of view.
However, society was supposed to be saved, and the “party of order,”
so called, breathed freely. No; for the 1848 kind of king there is
surely no audible demand anywhere. In England in that year we had our
10th of April, and muster of half a million special constables of
the comfortable classes, with much jubilation over such muster, and
mutual congratulations that we were not as other men, or even as these
Frenchmen, Germans, and the like. Taken for what it was worth, let us
admit that the jubilations did not lack some sort of justification.
The 10th of April muster may be perhaps accepted as a sign that the
reverence for the constable’s staff has not quite died out amongst
us. But let no one think that for this reason democracy is one whit
less inevitable in England than on the Continent, or that its sure and
steady advance, and the longing for its coming, which all thoughtful
men recognize, however little they may sympathize, with them, in the
least incompatible with the equally manifest longing for what our
people intend by this much-worshipped and much-hated name.
For what does democracy mean to Englishmen? Simply an equal chance for
all; a fair field for the best men, let them start from where they
will, to get to the front; a clearance out of sham governors, and of
unjust privilege, in every department of human affairs. It cannot be
too often repeated, that they who suppose the bulk of our people want
less government, or fear the man who “can rule and dare not lie,” know
little of them. Ask any representative of a popular constituency, or
other man with the means of judging, what the people are ready for in
this direction. He will tell you that, in spite perhaps of all he can
say or do, they _will_ go for compulsory education, the organization
of labor (including therein the sharp extinction of able-bodied
pauperism), the utilization of public lands, and other reforms of
an equally decided character. That for these purposes they desire
more government, not less; will support with enthusiasm measures, the
very thought of which takes away the breath and loosens the knees of
ordinary politicians; will rally with loyalty and trustfulness to men
who will undertake these things with courage and singleness of purpose.