XIII
Concerning Politics
Said I: “How do you manage with politics?”
Said Hammond, smiling: “I am glad that it is of me that you ask that question; I do believe that anybody else would make you explain yourself, or try to do so, till you were sickened of asking questions. Indeed, I believe I am the only man in England who would know what you mean; and since I know, I will answer your question briefly by saying that we are very well off as to politics—because we have none. If ever you make a book out of this conversation, put this in a chapter by itself, after the model of old Horrebow’s ‘Snakes in Iceland.’ ”
“I will,” said I.
XIV
How Matters Are Managed
Said I: “How about your relations with foreign nations?”
“I will not affect not to know what you mean,” said he, “but I will tell you at once that the whole system of rival and contending nations which played so great a part in the ‘government’ of the world of civilisation has disappeared along with the inequality betwixt man and man in society.”
“Does not that make the world duller?” said I.
“Why?” said the old man.
“The obliteration of national variety,” said I.
“Nonsense,” he said, somewhat snappishly. “Cross the water and see. You will find plenty of variety: the landscape, the building, the diet, the amusements, all various. The men and women varying in looks as well as in habits of thought; the costume far more various than in the commercial period. How should it add to the variety or dispel the dullness, to coerce certain families or tribes, often heterogeneous and jarring with one another, into certain artificial and mechanical groups, and call them nations, and stimulate their patriotism—i.e., their foolish and envious prejudices?”
“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 slaveholders, 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 countryside 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
