A DETERMINED ARISTOCRAT DENOUNCES THE DOCTRINE OF
No! no! my friend. You are all wrong, all wrong!
The People's voice is not the voice of God.
Though you cry out, reiterate, reaffirm,
Insist it is, with strenuous emphasis,
Waving your hand aloft, or with clenched fist
Striking the desk before you to enforco
The vehement words you say-the People's voice
Is not the voice of God; rather, I fear,
Too oft the Devil's voice, the cry of crowds,
The "Crucify Him!" of the multitude,
And not the "still small voice" of God, that speaks Low in the heart, so low, so faint, 'tis drowned
In the tumultuous clamour of the mob;
And only when the tempest has passed by
And the wild winds of passion died away,
And silence comes, the humble listener hcars,—
Hears, if he listens humbly,-but not else.
The People's voice is not the voice of God,
Nor that of Reason, Justice, Love, Faith, Peace.
No! 'tis the voice of Passion, Crime, Revenge,
Rank Superstition, Ignorance, Bigotry-
A cry of wild, confused, discordant tones,
Mere noise, untrained. untuned to harmony.
Where do all great ideas, all large aims,
All schemes that lift humanity have birth
In the majority? Ah, no! my friend;
In the minute minority of one.
Did the majority since the world began
Ever originate one noble thing?
Do Science, Art, Invention, Government,
Owe aught to what you call the people? No!
Nothing, and worse than nothing! All great thoughts,
All Faiths, all Truths have at the outset found
The world in arms to oppose and bar the way,
To slay the Prophet, pull the Preacher down,
And drown with tumult every singing Voice.
Christ perished on the cross, because, forsooth,
The great majority (who, as you say,
Being the voice of God, are always right),
Cried, "Crucify Him!" And to all the Saints,
The holy men who following preached His Word,
What in its wisdom did the world decres?
What but the axe, the gibbet, and the stake.
Whom the majority cursed yesterday,
To-day it worships. Science had to bow
Before the Church's dogmas,-even the Sun
Was forced to make its circuit round the Earth
Despite of Galilco for a time;
Because your voice of God, your People's voice,
Your Church's voice, your dear Majority
That always must be right, would have it so.
Ah! but, you say, however it may bo
In Science, Art, Invention, Creeds-at least
In Government, in Statesinanship, admit
The People, the Majority, are right.
Are they indeed? What have they ever done
For Statesmanship? unless to change its name,
And not alone its name, its naturo too,
To Politics, that hath no higher God,
No better creed than Policy,-that seeks
Not what is Just, Wise, Right,-ah, no! but what,
Wrong though it be, seems simply politic:-
And fits the passing passions of the day.
No more, no less. The Statesmen are the few
Who know to guide aright the Ship of State :
They who would trust its steering to the Crew,
Large though it be, but trust it to the chance
Of treacherous currents, shifting winds, tides, waves.
The great Majority, the fickle crowd
We call the People, fluctuate hero and there,
Careless of Right and Wrong-each secking nought
But his own selfish, personal interest.
This thing to-day, and then to-morrow that.
What care they that the State should steer its course,
By the strict Chart of Duty, Truth or Right,
Scorning all low demands, all coward claims,
All devious doublings, all dishonest tricks?
Nothing and why? Becauso the State to them
Is but a Market where to buy and sell,
And Government a shop of offices.
Call your Majority unto the polls
Whom voto they for? The ablest and the best?
The man most fitted for the work to do,
Who scorns all low and vulgar tricks to gain
The vacant office?-who is straight, erect,
Bold in his speech, and honest in his acts,
Beyond all flinching or that other man
Who, as you say, is most available?
Meaning by that, he who will truckle most,
Pay most, profess most, make the lowest bends,
Wheedle and cringe, and flatter Demos most?
Is not the wise, strong man, who scorns such tricks,
Firm in his principles, who will not yield
To the low clamour of the hour one step,
Sure to be ostracised
even stoned, perhaps?
Sure to be called the proud Aristocrat?
While the loud, noisy, blatant demagogue
Is cheered and borne in triumph to his seat,
Because he has the People's good at heart,
The People's good alone! Oh! nothing else!
And down with Aristides-called tho Just.
"I'm for plain, practical realities !”
That is your cry;
"I'm for the working man!"
Woll, for my part, I'm for tho thinking man,
The man who stands behind tho working man
And orders him so that his work is good.
I'm for the Leader-made by God to load,
Not for the mob that fluctuates to and fro
As the wind blows. I'm for the mass and crowd
When under guidance of the wiso they movo,—
I'm for the army when 'tis trained and drilled,
Not for the army when it breaks its ranks,
And rushes madly here, thoro, anywhere,-
Not for the army whon it has no head.
You'ro for tho real, plain, and practical!
Woll, that is good too-but not all in all
You uncer at tho idcal; but, my friend,
Honour, Truth, Lovo are all ideal things,
The highest, in my mind,-for, far above
The low, mean, crafty crccd of politics
That cooks not what is wico, or truo, or just,
But what the shifty world calls practical-
Honour, that coorns all bass advantages;
Truth,-simplo honesty, that will not put
Sand in the sugar, alum in the bread,-
Nay, will not tako a bribo, nor choot, nor lie
Even to win an offico or a voto.
So you believo in numbers. I do not.
You think the opinion of a thousand fools,
Or at the least, a thousand ignorant mon,
Worth that of any one, howovor wise;
I, that tho ono wise man outweighs them all.
Moro numbors have no power to imposo on me;
In God, man, thing-one only is the best.
Tho rost, at most, are only cocond bost-
The larger numbor means the lower grade.
Moro ciso is meaningless in Beauty's realm:
Tho Big is not the groot: Porfcction lica
Where Power, Grace, Beauty dwell, and there alone,
Whether the thing be little or be large.
But what cry out your masses? Hear them brag
This thing or that is big, and therefore great.
This statue is the largest in the world,
This monument the tallest. Well! what then?
They both may be the ugliest as well.
If you desire a noble work of Art,
Be it a poem, picture, statue, song,
To whom do you intrust it? To the best?
The single one selected from the mass?
Or to the hundreds of a lower grade?
Or thousands or ten thousands lower still?
Secure that the Majority is right
And has the highest art, the deftest skill.
Thank God a few there be to keep us clean,
To stay the rampant raging of the mob,
To sweep the Augcan stable of the muck
Of filthy politics. But ah! too few!
Even in the great Republic what a change,
Since the old days when the great few had power,
And guided government, and ruled the moh.
Now the great mass of voters rule the State,
Your voice of God, your people's voice, and how?
How, but by shameless barter, purchase, sale?
Ah! where is gone that grand simplicity,
That lofty sense of honour, that austere
Stern sense of duty-never to be swayed
By thought of interest from the straight forthright,
That marked the steadfast few who held the helm
In those first days of Freedom? Where is gone
The dignity, the honour, that abjured
All thought of party payments and rewards
That sought impartially-unmoved by fear,
Unswayed by favour, for no private ends,
But for the public good-to use its power?
From those stern heights if we have fallen now
To lower levels in our public life,
Whose is the fault? What is the cause, my friend? 'Tis in the People more than those who rule
Who rule, indeed!-our rulers do not rule,
They are but slaves bound to the beck and call
Of your Majority. Good men there are!
Good men and able! ay, and honest too!
But what avails it? When the tempest blows
The sturdiest trees must bend-must bend, or break,
And so be swept away. By slow degrees
We have declined, till now the men in power
Are powerless, and the only real power
Is that vague, headless, irresponsible,
Dishonest somewhat, that no hand can strike,
No law compel, that has a thousand shapes,
And yet no definite one to seize and hold,-
That somewhat that is noisy, vulgar, low,
Has no high aims, no lofty purposes,
That clamours loudly, and then sneaks away,
That brags, and blusters, and pretends, and brays
And bows before its God-the God of gain,
Excluding from its thoughts the gain of God.
This is your People with its voice of God!
A seething, heedless, hurrying crowd, of whom
Each one decries the virtues of the mass,
Each secretly despises it and scorns
Its foolish judgments. Yet unto this vague
Unbodied somewhat, each bows down and says,
As you say, 'Tis the power we must obey,
For 'tis the voice of God-the People's voice."
So in this turbulent cauldron of the world
Stirred up by strife, ambition, lust of wealth
And lust of power, with lack of principle,
What rises to the top? Its bottom dregs.
That Virtue, Honour, high Integrity,
Which once informed us has been sapped and drained
By Greed and Luxury. Material Gods
We worship now: all others are but dreams-
Mere sounding names and phrases for effect.
Something to talk about, not act upon.
What we can see, taste, handle, purchase, sell,
Alone is real. Oh! of course we have
Our church, religion, prayer-book, principles,
For Sunday wear, when all the shops are shut;
But in our work-day world all that pretence
We lay aside-'tis not for daily use.
Ours is the real world of men and things,
Of speculation, business, banking, trade-
Not the ideal world. Ah! that, indeed,
Is good for women, poets, parsons, girls,
To write and sing and talk and preach about;
But who would carry that into the mart
Must be a fool or madman-perhaps both.
"Aristocrat." Ah! well, It harms me not, for, to confess the truth. I do believe in Aristocracy,
You in Democracy. But, let us see,
What mean these words-what is Democracy
Simply the plan that power, rule, government,
Should on the Demos only be conferred.
And what the plan of Aristocracy?
Why, only that this self-same power should be
Confided to and exercised by—whom?
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