The Workers' Educational Association, whose purposes and methods were discussed in these columns last Thursday, may be said to represent one of the two competing ideals which have divided political thinkers since the days of Plato. It is true that neither ideal has ever come within measurable distance of realisation; but it is also true that neither of them has even been wholly suppressed; in the darkest times they have lived at least in the souls of such as see visions and dream glorious dreams of the perfect State. The first of these two ideas—the notion which is at the core of the above mentioned Association—is the idea that the many, to be fit for self-government, make themselves wise; and the opposing idea—expounded graciously and blandly by Plato, and with thunderous emphasis by Carlyle—is the idea that the many can never by the nature of things be fit for self-government, and that the secret of political perfection is to entrust the task of government to the wise few. The former is the idea of an enlightened democracy; the latter is the idea of a bureaucracy of saints and sages. The distinction is clear-cut, and it divides into two classes the imaginary commonwealths which have been painted by various inspired dreamers. For instance, the the "News from Nowhere" of William Morris is a poetic and persuasive picture of a community which has grown wise and good, and which is perfectly capable of managing its own affairs; and Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound" sketches, in vague outline, a similar happy state of things. In Plato's "Republic," on the other hand, and in the "Modern Utopia" of Mr. H. G. Wells, we are presented with pictures of a community governed by its philosophers. Shelley and William Morris, in short, believe in democracy, for which Mr. Wells can find no words too placidly contemptuous. He believes, with all his heart, in the principle of aristocracy—not a feudal aristocracy of birth, not a Nietzschean aristocracy of virile and violent persons, but an aristocracy of brains and character. In the world-state of the Wells Utopia the whole of the responsible business of government is in the hands of a "Samurai" class—a class which consists of all who are capable of living the pure, the austere, the minutely regular, the exclusively rational, the bodily and spiritually ennobling existence laid down for them by the "Rule" of their order. It is strange to find in so modern a writer as Mr. Wells—a writer, too, who has so often poured contempt on the study of Greek—so close an echo of Plato. Mr. Wells is perhaps a little unfortunate in the name—"Samurai"—which he gives to his ruling class: for the real Samurai, those heroes of Japan whose fellowship will stand throughout succeeding time among the world's grandest memories of moral achievement, lived in an age of faith and feudalism: we, on the contrary, are living in an age of doubt and democracy; and it is the problems of our own age that we are called upon to face. There is no reason to believe that Mr. Wells's vision, or anything like it, will ever be realised; it is highly improbable that any of the dominant nations will ever again acquiesce, for any long time, in the concentration of all political power in the hands of a class, however wise and good that class may be. The nations have tasted blood; they have assimilated the democratic idea. The democratic idea, once fully grasped, is only abjured by a people in the degradation of decay; yet to be able to produce a whole class of pure, austere, devoted, self-sacrificing governors, an entire bureaucracy of saints and sages, a people must be in a condition very far from decadence. The conception of the "Samurai," in fact, contradicts itself. Only a sound race could bring forth these thousands of splendid personalities; only a failing race would submit to their dominion. The fact is that Mr. Wells, like many other writers less brilliant than himself, falls into the mistake of treating democracy as a human plan—like, say, some particular nostrum for some particular malady—which has been made the subject of experiment and has been found useless or too dangerous. They speak of democracy as if it were a political device, like party government for example.
But democracy is not a mere piece of political machinery, it is a part of the material of politics. It is an instinct that comes to communities with growth, as puberty comes to individuals. Mr. Wells finds no difficulty whatever in proving to his own satisfaction that democracy is irrational and absurd; he repeats his demonstration, with a rather wearisome iteration, in half a dozen of his books. He finds it quite easy to show how much better the world would go on if only the people would leave government to the great of heart and strong of will. In like manner M. Emile Faguet, one of the wittiest and most brilliant of modern Frenchmen, has made in a book entitled "The Cult of Incompetence"—a slashing attack on democracy as he sees it in the France of to-day; his main thesis being, that whenever you catch a glimpse of democracy in action you invariably find it, distrusting ability and tending to put power in the hands of the inefficient mediocrity. Nothing could be more skilful than M. Faguet's manner of showing how incompetence in one field of government—the legislature—leads to incompetence every where else, till at last the whole body politic is saturated with inefficiency; how a country which begins by entrusting the duties of Prime Minister to mediocrity ends by entrusting the duties of rural postman to a paralytic. And M. Faguet's solution is the same as that of Mr.. Wells—an aristocracy of wise men; government by the philosophers. It is hopelessly impracticable. A healthy nation trusts its instincts—and, it may be added, distrusts its philosophers. And since no sane person will deny the peremptory need of wisdom in the work of governance, and since government by the wise few is incompatible with the democratic instinct of twentieth-century humanity, it seems to follow that the other idea—the idea of bringing wisdom to the many—is the only alternative, unless democracy is destined to lead the human race into the abyss. If it be objected that wisdom cannot be acquired, we may reply that at least knowledge, which is the basis of wisdom, can be acquired; and that is why such enterprises as the Workers' Educational Association deserve every support, and why the success of such enterprises must be reckoned among the hopefullest signs of the times.
West Australian (Perth, WA ), July 1913,
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