News From Nowhere, Or, an Epoch of Rest, Being Some Chapters From a Utopian Romance

“Well—I don’t know how,” said I.

“That’s right,” said Hammond cheerily; “you can easily understand that now we are freed from this folly it is obvious to us that by means of this very diversity the different strains of blood in the world can be serviceable and pleasant to each other, without in the least wanting to rob each other: we are all bent on the same enterprise, making the most of our lives.  And I must tell you whatever quarrels or misunderstandings arise, they very seldom take place between people of different race; and consequently since there is less unreason in them, they are the more readily appeased.”

“Good,” said I, “but as to those matters of politics; as to general differences of opinion in one and the same community.  Do you assert that there are none?”

“No, not at all,” said he, somewhat snappishly; “but I do say that differences of opinion about real solid things need not, and with us do not, crystallise people into parties permanently hostile to one another, with different theories as to the build of the universe and the progress of time.  Isn’t that what politics used to mean?”

“H’m, well,” said I, “I am not so sure of that.”

Said he: “I take, you, neighbour; they only pretended to this serious difference of opinion; for if it had existed they could not have dealt together in the ordinary business of life; couldn’t have eaten together, bought and sold together, gambled together, cheated other people together, but must have fought whenever they met: which would not have suited them at all.  The game of the masters of politics was to cajole or force the public to pay the expense of a luxurious life and exciting amusement for a few cliques of ambitious persons: and the pretence of serious difference of opinion, belied by every action of their lives, was quite good enough for that.  What has all that got to do with us?”

Said I: “Why, nothing, I should hope.  But I fear—In short, I have been told that political strife was a necessary result of human nature.”

“Human nature!” cried the old boy, impetuously; “what human nature?  The human nature of paupers, of slaves, of slave-holders, or the human nature of wealthy freemen?  Which?  Come, tell me that!”

“Well,” said I, “I suppose there would be a difference according to circumstances in people’s action about these matters.”

“I should think so, indeed,” said he.  “At all events, experience shows that it is so.  Amongst us, our differences concern matters of business, and passing events as to them, and could not divide men permanently.  As a rule, the immediate outcome shows which opinion on a given subject is the right one; it is a matter of fact, not of speculation.  For instance, it is clearly not easy to knock up a political party on the question as to whether haymaking in such and such a country-side shall begin this week or next, when all men agree that it must at latest begin the week after next, and when any man can go down into the fields himself and see whether the seeds are ripe enough for the cutting.”

Said I: “And you settle these differences, great and small, by the will of the majority, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” said he; “how else could we settle them?  You see in matters which are merely personal which do not affect the welfare of the community—how a man shall dress, what he shall eat and drink, what he shall write and read, and so forth—there can be no difference of opinion, and everybody does as he pleases.  But when the matter is of common interest to the whole community, and the doing or not doing something affects everybody, the majority must have their way; unless the minority were to take up arms and show by force that they were the effective or real majority; which, however, in a society of men who are free and equal is little likely to happen; because in such a community the apparent majority is the real majority, and the others, as I have hinted before, know that too well to obstruct from mere pigheadedness; especially as they have had plenty of opportunity of putting forward their side of the question.”

“How is that managed?” said I.

“Well,” said he, “let us take one of our units of management, a commune, or a ward, or a parish (for we have all three names, indicating little real distinction between them now, though time was there was a good deal).  In such a district, as you would call it, some neighbours think that something ought to be done or undone: a new town-hall built; a clearance of inconvenient houses; or say a stone bridge substituted for some ugly old iron one,—there you have undoing and doing in one.  Well, at the next ordinary meeting of the neighbours, or Mote, as we call it, according to the ancient tongue of the times before bureaucracy, a neighbour proposes the change, and of course, if everybody agrees, there is an end of discussion, except about details.  Equally, if no one backs the proposer,—‘seconds him,’ it used to be called—the