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Title: Objections to Anarchism Author: George Barrett Date: 1921 Language: en Topics: anti-anarchy, biology, crime, sex, social democracy, socialism, work Source: Retreieved on 24 February 2011 from http://dwardmac.pitzer.edu/Anarchist_Archives/coldoffthepresses/Objections/index.html][dwardmac.pitzer.edu]]. Proofread online source [[http://www.revoltlib.com/?id=4055, retrieved on July 16, 2020. Notes: Fourpence Freedom Press, 127, Ossulston Street, London, N.W.1.
In these answers to Objections, an instalment of his writings which are
being posthumously published, George Barrett produced a propagandist
work of very great value to the cause of Anarchism, and one which we may
be assured will occupy an important place in its literature. The form
itself is fortunate: the method of debate, the swift encounter of wits
in the antagonism of question and answer, is an advantage vivid in its
effect, rousing in some degree even to the apathetic; and few with these
examples before them will lightly attempt to gainsay the extraordinary
power, directness, and logic of Barrett in the field of controversy. The
reader, friend and opponent alike, will be interested to note not only
that each objection is fairly and squarely met, but that out of a
variety of possible answers only the line of argument most vital to the
issue is here put forward, briefly yet comprehensively, and with all the
mathematical rigour of demonstration the author’s mind required. We are
left in no doubt as to where the weight of the answer lies, counter it
if we can.
Barrett, however, is more than a clear and vigorous propagandist and
disputant. His writings, while they teach and uniquely emphasise the
teaching, are unceasingly a vibrant call to thought, they promote
thought. Argumentatively none can be more finely satisfying, more
conclusive than he. Nevertheless the thought somehow does not finally
rest on that. By its aid we free ourselves possibly from a
misapprehension or a prejudice, in itself a notable experience, a means
of growth. Yet, exceeding this achievement, on which alone he is intent,
the tremendous energy of Barrett’s thought imparts its thrill, its
impulse; there appears even to be something causative in it; it is as
though a vista opens rather than that a scene closes, and a new world
swims into our ken, amazing in its possibilities. We are stimulated not
only to think along the same lines but to think for ourselves
creatively, as with quickened insight we begin to realise the solvent
greatness of the principle of Freedom from which we perceive his
reasoning derives, and to what simplicity and harmony of result it leads
us. He has come closer to the fact of things by the more than moral
sincerity of his thought; and that high beauty which Emerson says is
ever proportionate to the depth of thought adds its influence to the
message, so that the very expression which conveys the thought is
liberative and inspiring. Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty; and in Barrett
mathematician and poet, unite to establish the maxim. Skilled engineer,
born journalist to whom the columns of the best technical journals in
England were always open, practical designer, mathematician familiar
with the deepest intricacies of the Calculus, he was yet poet, orator,
dreamer (one supposes) — and Anarchist. And his finest integration, the
important thing he would have us understand in all its hearings, that
“one thought, one grace, one wonder at the least” which it is his virtue
to have envisaged and inspired, is the practicality, the sufficiency,
the splendour, and the entire reasonableness of Liberty.
Glasgow,
W. Wilson.
A few years of rough and tumble of propaganda in the Anarchist movement
leaves a strange impression of crowds on the speaker’s mind. His answers
to questions and opposition form much the most satisfactory part of his
work after he has sufficient experience to be able to deal with them
adequately, and it is just from them he gets to understand his crowd.
One of the strangest things that experience at such work reveals is the
similarity of the crowd’s mind (if one may use such an expression)
wherever it may be found.
Let the speaker choose his pitch in the middle of London, or let him go
to the strange mining villages north of the Forth, and in both cases he
will get the same questions in almost the same words. If he is able to
understand his crowd, he will find it suffering from the same
difficulties, and making the same weary and half-hearted struggle to
break the bonds of the old superstitions that still bind it. It is
passing strange that amid the theatres, the picture galleries, and
museums of London — so suggestive of the fulness and richness of life;
among the great engineering works and structures of Manchester and the
Clyde, which speak so eloquently of the power man has of producing
wealth; in the midst of the fruitful valleys of England, or among the
vast Scotch mountains — it matters not where — there is the same lack of
vision, the same sad, kind-hearted men willing to hear the new gospel,
but alas! the same despair. This hopelessness on the faces of men who
are all-powerful is the most exasperating and the most tragic thing in
all human existence. “Your strength lies no nearer and no further off
than your own limbs. The world grows rich by your strength, no more
surely than you grow poor by the same power. It were easier for you to
make yourselves great than to make others so while you bring misery on
yourselves.” Such is the message of the revolutionist, and the mute
answer might be expressed in the tragic words of Goethe:
“Hush! Leave us where we are, resigned,
Wake not ambitious longings in the mind,
Born of the night, akin with night alone,
Scarce to ourselves, and to none others known.”
But I write so far of crowds, and crowds after all do not count. He who
speaks merely to his crowd will become an orator, a success, and
probably a Member of Parliament; but he who sees in each face
confronting him a potential individual will have an experience as dear
to him as it is painful. He will never grow to the size of an M.P. He
will not set out to teach the ignorant people, for they will teach him.
Above all, he will not sacrifice his pleasure for the movement, for in
it he will find all the meaning of his life, and with the unshakeable
confidence of the great Titan he will say: “I know but this, that it
must come.” But I fear I grow too sensible, and must apologise to my
reader for thus wasting his time.
The questions which I have set myself to answer are not arranged to give
an exhibition of skill in dealing with them. Everyone of them is an old
friend. They have turned up persistently and cheerfully in all sorts of
halls, and at any street corner. Be they crushed with the greatest
severity, they, boldly and serenely, come tumbling up to the platform on
the very next occasion, until one comes to know them, and to love them
for their very stupidity — for there is no denying that some of them are
stupid in the extreme.
It is strange indeed to wonder how some of these questions have been
born; who originated them, and why they have become so widespread.
Thus, for example, No. 2 (which implies that the House of Commons can be
used to obtain our ends because it has been successfully used by the
capitalists to obtain theirs) is a question as common as any, and is, as
its nature implies, usually put by a Parliamentary Socialist. Now, is it
not a strange problem whence this question can have come, and why it
should be so persistent? It is surely certain that the man who
originated it must have had intelligence enough to see that the thing is
absurd on the face of it. I am perfectly sure that the men who generally
ask it would be quite capable of thinking out the answer to it if they
devoted two minutes to the attempt. Yet that question has been created
by someone, and either re-created or repeated endlessly throughout the
whole country. It forms a good example of the blindness with which
people fight for their political party. This party blindness and
deafness (a pity it were not dumbness also) is one of the greatest
difficulties to be overcome. Against it our weapons are useless. Let our
arguments be of the boldest or most subtle type, they can make no
headway against him whose faith is in his party.
This is indeed a subject fit for the introduction to not merely a little
pamphlet, but to the whole world’s literature, for it is difficult to
realise how many books are sealed, how many libraries are closed to that
great crowd who remain loyal to their party, and consequently regardless
of the truth. If it is necessary to take an example we may always find
one near at hand. The Socialist politicians are as good as any. For
years their energies have been expended in advocating State control and
guardianship in all things. To-day we have Old-Age Pensions, Insurance
Acts, and Mr. Lloyd George’s plans for “Socialisation,” as he terms it,
i.e., Government control of the munition works, and some prospect of
compulsory military service; but though these things work towards the
universal State, the average party Socialist quarrels with them all —
and why ?
They are not perfect from his point of view, it may be admitted; but who
can deny that they are steps in the direction he has been advocating?
Why then does he not hail them with delight? They have not been
introduced by his party.
For such men the arguments in this little book are not written. They lie
under a heavy curse, which no wit of mine can lessen. Their lives in
their own small way are like that of Ibsen’s Emperor Julian, and with
him, on the eve of battle, they cry with their petty voices: “I must
call upon something without and above me..... I will sacrifice to this
god and to that. I will sacrifice to many. One or the other must surely
hear me.”
Our advanced men have ceased to pray and sacrifice to the gods in the
hour of need, but still at every little difficulty they feel the
necessity of some power outside themselves. Almost every objection given
here is prompted by this modern form of superstition, and almost every
answer may be put in the words of the philosopher Maximus, who tries in
vain to stimulate self-reliance in his friend Julian: “To what gods, oh
fool? Where are they.... and what are they?.... I believe in you.”
What will you do with the man who will not work?
First of all, let us notice that this question belongs to a class to
which many others belong. All social theories must obviously be based on
the assumption that men are social: that is, that they will live and
work together naturally, because by so doing they can individually
better enjoy their lives. Therefore all such difficulties, which are
really based on the supposition that men are not social, can be raised
not against Anarchism alone, but against any system of society that one
chooses to suggest.
Questions 11, 12, 13 and 15 belong to this class, which are merely based
on supposition. My opponents will realise how futile they are if I use a
similar kind of argument against their system of government. Suppose, I
argue, that having sent your representatives into the House of Commons
they will not sit down and legislate, but that they will just play the
fool, or, perhaps, vote themselves comfortable incomes, instead of
looking after your welfare. It will be answered to this that they are
sent there to legislate, and that in all human probability they will do
so. Quite so; but we may still say “Yes, but suppose they don’t?” and
whatever arguments are brought forward in favour of government they can
always, by simply supposing, be rendered quite useless, since those who
oppose us would never be able to actually guarantee that our governors
would govern. Such an argument would be absurd, it is quite true; for
though it may happen that occasionally legislators will sit down and
vote themselves incomes instead of attending to the affairs of the
nation, yet we could not use this as a logical argument against the
government system.
Similarly, when we are putting forward our ideas of free co-operation or
Anarchism, it is not good enough to argue, “Yes, but suppose your
co-operators will not co-operate?” for that is what questions of this
class amount to.
It is because we claim to be able to show that it is wrong in principle
that we, as Anarchists, are against government. In the same way, then,
those who oppose Anarchism ought not to do so by simply supposing that a
man will do this, or won’t do that, but they ought to set themselves to
show that Anarchism is in principle opposed to the welfare of mankind.
The second interesting point to notice about the question is that it is
generally asked by a Socialist. Behind the question there is obviously
the implication that he who asks it has in his mind some way of forcing
men to work. Now the most obvious of all those who will not work is the
man who is on strike, and if you have a method of dealing with the man
who will not work it simply means that you are going to organise a
system of society where the government will be so all-powerful that the
rebel and the striker will be completely crushed out. You will have a
government class dictating to a working class the conditions under which
it must labour, which is exactly what both Anarchists and Socialists are
supposed to be struggling against to-day.
In a free society the man who will not work, if he should exist at all,
is at least brought on equal terms with the man who will. He is not
placed in a position of privilege so that he need not work, but on the
contrary that argument which is so often used against Anarchism comes
very neatly into play here in its favour. It is often urged that it is
necessary to organise in order to live. Quite so, and for this reason
the struggle for life compels us to organise, and there is no need for
any further compulsion on the part of the government. Since to organise
in society is really to work in society, it is the law of life which
constantly tends to make men work, whilst it is the artificial laws of
privilege which put men in such a position that they need not work.
Anarchism would do away with these artificial laws, and thus it is the
only system which constantly tends to eliminate the man who will not
work.
We might perhaps here quote John Stuart Mill’s answer to this objection:
“The objection ordinarily made to a system of community of property and
equal distribution of produce — ‘that each person would be incessantly
occupied in evading his share of the work’ — is, I think, in general,
considerably overstated... Neither in a rude nor in a civilized society
has the supposed difficulty been experienced. In no community has
idleness ever been a cause of failure.” — J. S. Mill, “Political
Economy,” Vol. I., p. 251.
The House of Commons and the Law have been used by the present dominant
class to gain their ends; why cannot they be used by us to gain ours?
This question is based upon an extraordinary misunderstanding. It seems
to be taken for granted that Capitalism and the workers’ movement both
have the same end in view. If this were so, they might perhaps use the
same means; but as the capitalist is out to perfect his system of
exploitation and government, whilst the worker is out for emancipation
and liberty, naturally the same means cannot be employed for both
purposes. This surely answers the question sufficiently so far as it is
a definite question. In so far, however, as it contains the vague
suggestion that government is the agent of reform, progress, and
revolution, it touches the very point upon which Anarchists differ from
all political parties. It is worth while, then, to examine the
suggestion a little more closely.
It is thought by the enthusiastic politicians that once they can capture
government, then from their position of power they would be able very
quickly to mould society into the desired shape. Pass ideal laws, they
think, and the ideal society would be the result. How simple, is it not?
We should thus get the Revolution on the terms promised us by the
wonderful Blatchford — “without bloodshed, and without losing a day’s
work,” But, alas! the short cut to the Golden Age is an illusion. In the
first place, any form of society shaped by law is not ideal. In the
second place, law cannot shape society; indeed, rather the reverse is
true. It is this second point which is all-important. Those who
understand the forces behind progress will see the law limping along in
the rear, and never succeeding in keeping up with the progress made by
the people; always, in fact, resisting any advance, always trying to
start reaction, but in the long run always having to give way and allow
more and more liberty. Even the champions of government recognise this
when they want to make a drastic change, and then they throw aside the
pretence of the law and turn to revolutionary methods. The present
ruling class, who are supposed to be a living proof that the Government
can do anything, are in themselves quite candid in the admission that it
can do very little. Whoever will study their rise to power will find
that to get there they preach in theory, and establish in fact, the
principle of resistance to the law. Indeed, curious as it may seem, it
is a fact that immediately after the Revolution it was declared
seditious to preach against resistance to law, just as to-day it is
seditious to speak in favour of it.
To sum up, then, if there was any logic in the question, which there is
not, we might restate it thus: “Since the present dominant class were
unable to gain their ends by use of the House of Commons and the Law,
why should we hope to gain ours by them?”
All change is slow by Evolution, and not sudden, as the Anarchists wish
to make it by Revolution.
It is quite true that every great change is slowly prepared by a process
of evolution almost imperceptible. Sometimes changes are carried right
through from beginning to end by this slow process, but on the other
hand it is quite clear that very often evolution leads slowly up to a
climax, and then there is a sudden change in the condition of things.
This is so obvious that it seems scarcely worth while to elaborate the
point. Almost anywhere in Nature we can see the double process: the
plant which slowly, very slowly, ripens its germs of new life, quite
suddenly exposes these to new conditions, and when they enter these new
conditions they slowly begin to change again. An almost laughably good
example of this, amongst many others, is furnished by a little fungus
called the pilo bolus. This, which very slowly and innocently ripens its
spores like any other ordinary little plant, will, when the moment
comes, suddenly shoot out a jet of water in which the spores are
carried, and which it throws to a distance of sometimes as much as three
feet, although the plant itself is very small. Now it is perfectly true
that in this case the necessary pressure is slowly evolved; it has taken
long for all the conditions to imperceptibly ripen, and as the pressure
has increased the cell wall has been giving way. There comes a time,
however, when that wall can stretch no further — and then it has
suddenly burst asunder, and the new germs of life have been thrown
violently into their new conditions, and according to these new
conditions so do they develop.
So is it with the conditions of society. There is always amongst the
people the spirit of freedom slowly developing, and tyranny is slowly
receding or stepping back to make room for this development. But there
comes a time when the governmental or tyrannical part has not enough
elasticity to stretch so far as the pressure of Liberty, developing
within, would make it. When this point is reached the pressure of the
new development bursts the bonds that bind it, and a revolution takes
place. In the actual case in point the change proposed is so radical
that it would mean the entire extinction of the governmental element in
society. It is certain, then, that it will not gently stretch itself to
this point, especially as it shows us on every possible occasion that it
is ready to use violence in its most brutal forms. For this reason most
Anarchists believe that the change will be sudden, and therefore we use
the term “revolution,” recognising that it does not replace the term
“evolution,” but accompanies it.
It is necessary to organise in order to live, and to organise means
Government; therefore Anarchism is impossible.
It is true that it is necessary to organise in order to live, and since
we all wish to live we shall all of our own free will organise, and do
not need the compulsion of government to make us do so. Organisation
does not mean government. All through our ordinary daily work we are
organising without government. If two of us lift a table from one side
of the room to the other, we naturally take hold one at each end, and we
need no Government to tell us that we must not over-balance it by both
rushing to the same end; the reason why we agree silently, and organise
ourselves to the correct positions, is because we both have a common
purpose: we both wish to see the table moved. In more complex
organisations the same thing takes place. So long as organisations are
held together only by a common purpose they will automatically do their
work smoothly. But when, in spite of conflicting interests, you have
people held together in a common organisation, internal conflict
results, and some outside force becomes necessary to preserve order; you
have, in fact, governmental society. It is the Anarchist’s purpose to so
organise society that the conflict of interests will cease, and men will
co-operate and work together simply because they have interests in
common. In such a society the organisations or institutions which they
will form will be exactly in accordance with their needs; in fact, it
will be a representative society.
Free organisation is more fully discussed in answer to Questions 5 and
23.
How would you regulate the traffic?
We should not regulate it. It would be left to those whose business it
was to concern themselves in the matter. It would pay those who used the
roads (and therefore had, in the main, interests in common in the
matter) to come together and discuss and make agreements as to the rules
of the road. Such rules in fact which at present exist have been
established by custom and not by law, though the law may sometimes take
it on itself to enforce them.
This question we see very practically answered to-day by the great motor
clubs, which are entered voluntarily, and which study the interest of
this portion of the traffic. At dangerous or busy corners a sentry is
stationed who with a wave of the hand signals if the coast is clear, or
if it is necessary to go slowly. First-aid boxes and repair shops are
established all along the road, and arrangements are made for conveying
home motorists whose cars are broken down.
A very different section of road users, the carters, have found an
equally practical answer to the question. There are, even to-day, all
kinds of understandings and agreements amongst these men as to which
goes first, and as to the position they shall each take up in the yards
and buildings where they work. Amongst the cabmen and taxi-drivers the
same written and unwritten agreements exist, which are as rigidly
maintained by free understandings as they would be by the penalties of
law.
Suppose now the influence of government were withdrawn from our drivers.
Does anyone believe that the result would be chaos? Is it not infinitely
more likely that the free agreements at present existing would extend to
cover the whole necessary field? And those few useful duties now
undertaken by the Government in the matter: would they not be much more
effectively carried out by free organisation among the drivers?
This question has been much more fully answered by Kropotkin in “The
Conquest of Bread.” In this he shows how on the canals in Holland the
traffic (so vital to the life of that nation) is controlled by free
agreements, to the perfect satisfaction of all concerned. The railways
of Europe, he points out, also, are brought into co-operation with one
another and thus welded into one system, not by a centralised
administration, but by agreements and counter-agreements between the
various companies.
If free agreement is able to do so much even now, in a system of
competition and government, how much more could it do when competition
disappears, and when we trust to our own organisation instead of to that
of a paternal government.
If a man will not vote for the Revolution, how can you Anarchists expect
him to come out and fight for it?
This question is very often asked, and that is the only excuse for
answering it. For my part, I find it generally enough to suggest to the
questioner that though I find it very difficult to imagine myself voting
for him, I do not find it half so unlikely that I might shoot him.
Really the objection entirely begs the question. Our argument is that to
vote for a labour leader to have a seat in Parliament is not to vote for
the Revolution. And it is because the people instinctively know that
they will not get Liberty by such means that the parliamentarians are
unable to awaken any enthusiasm.
If you abolish competition you abolish the incentive to work.
One of the strangest things about society to-day is that whilst we show
a wonderful power to produce abundant wealth and luxury, we fail to
bring forth the simplest necessities. Everyone, no matter what his
political, religious or social opinions may be, will agree in this. It
is too obvious to be disputed. On the one hand there are children
without boots; on the other hand are the boot-makers crying out that
they cannot sell their stock. On the one hand there are people starving
or living upon unwholesome food, and on the other hand provision
merchants complain of bad trade. Here are homeless men and women
sleeping on the pavements and wandering nightly through our great
cities, and here again are the property-owners complaining that no one
will come and live in their houses. And in all these cases production is
held up because there is no demand. Is not this an intolerable state of
affairs? What now shall we say about the incentive to work? Is it not
obvious that the present incentive is wrong and mischievous up to the
point of starvation and ruination. That which induces us to produce
silks and diamonds and dreadnoughts and toy pomeranians, whilst bread
and boots and houses are needed, is wholly and absolutely wrong.
To-day the scramble is to compete for the greatest profits. If there is
more profit to be made in satisfying my lady’s passing whim than there
is in feeding hungry children, then competition brings us in feverish
haste to supply the former, whilst cold charity or the poor law can
supply the latter, or leave it unsupplied, just as it feels disposed.
That is how it works out. This is the reason: the producer and the
consumer are the two essentials; a constant flow of wealth passes from
one to the other, but between them stands the profit-maker and his
competition system, and he is able to divert that stream into what
channel best pleases him. Sweep him away and the producer and the
consumer are brought into direct relationship with one another. When he
and his competitive system are gone there will still remain the only
useful incentive to work, and that will be the needs of the people. The
need for the common necessities and the highest luxuries of life will be
not only fundamental as it is to-day, but the direct motive power behind
all production and distribution. It is obvious, I think, that this is
the ideal to be aimed at, for it is only in such circumstances that
production and distribution will be carried on for its legitimate
purpose — to satisfy the needs of the people; and for no other reason.
Socialism or Social Democracy must come first; then we may get
Anarchism. First, then, work for Social Democracy.
This is one of those oft-repeated statements which apparently have no
argument or meaning behind them. The modern Socialist, or at least the
Social Democrats, have steadily worked for centralisation, and complete
and perfect organisation and control by those in authority above the
people. The Anarchist, on the other hand, believes in the abolition of
that central power, and expects the free society to grow into existence
from below, starting with those organisations and free agreements among
the people themselves. It is difficult to see how, by making a central
power control everything, we can be making a step towards the abolition
of that power.
Under Anarchism the country would be invaded by a foreign enemy.
At present the country is held by that which we consider to be an enemy
— the landlord and capitalist class. If we are able to free ourselves
from this, which is well established and at home on the land, surely we
should be able to make shift against a foreign invading force of men,
who are fighting, not for their own country, but for their weekly wage.
It must be remembered, too, that Anarchism is an international movement,
and if we do establish a revolution in this country, in other countries
the people would have become at least sufficiently rebellious for their
master class to consider it advisable to keep their armies at home.
We are all dependent upon one another, and cannot live isolated lives.
Absolute freedom, therefore, is impossible.
Enough has been said already to show that we do not believe people would
live isolated lives in a free society. To get the full meaning out of
life we must co-operate, and to co-operate we must make agreements with
our fellow-men. But to suppose that such agreements mean a limitation of
freedom is surely an absurdity; on the contrary, they are the exercise
of our freedom.
If we are going to invent a dogma that to make agreements is to damage
freedom, then at once freedom becomes tyrannical, for it forbids men to
take the most ordinary everyday pleasures. For example, I cannot go for
a walk with my friend because it is against the principle of Liberty
that I should agree to be at a certain place at a certain time to meet
him. I cannot in the least extend my own power beyond myself, because to
do so I must co-operate with someone else, and co-operation implies an
agreement, and that is against Liberty. It will be seen at once that
this argument is absurd. I do not limit my liberty, but simply exercise
it, when I agree with my friend to go for a walk.
If, on the other hand, I decide from my superior knowledge that it is
good for my friend to take exercise, and therefore I attempt to compel
him to go for a walk, then I begin to limit freedom. This is the
difference between free agreement and government.
If two people want the same piece of land under Anarchism, how will you
settle the dispute?
First of all, it is well to notice here that Questions 11, 12, and 13
all belong to the same class. No. 11, at least, is based upon a fallacy.
If there are two persons who want the exclusive right to the same thing,
it is quite obvious that there is no satisfactory solution to the
problem. It does not matter in the least what system of society you
suggest, you cannot possibly satisfy that position. It is exactly as if
I were suggesting a new system of mathematics, and someone asked me:
“Yes, but under this new system suppose you want to make ten go into one
hundred eleven times?” The truth is that if you do a problem by
arithmetic, or if you do it by algebra, or trigonometry, or by any other
method, the same answer must be produced for the given problem; and just
as you cannot make ten go into one hundred more than ten times, so you
cannot make more than one person have the exclusive right to one thing.
If two people want it, then at least one must remain in want, whatever
may be the form of society in which they are living. Therefore, to begin
with, we see that there cannot be a satisfactory way of settling this
trouble, for the objection has been raised by simply supposing an
unsatisfactory state of affairs.
All that we can say is that such disputes are very much better settled
without the interference of authority. If the two were reasonable, they
would probably mutually agree to allow their dispute to be settled by
some mutual friend whose judgment they could trust. But if instead of
taking this sane course they decide to set up a fixed authority,
disaster will be the inevitable result. In the first place, this
authority will have to be given power wherewith to enforce its judgment
in such matters. What will then take place? The answer is quite simple.
Feeling it is a superior force, it will naturally in each case take to
itself the best of what is disputed, and allot the rest to its friends.
What a strange question is this. It supposes that two people who meet on
terms of equality and disagree could not be reasonable or just. But, on
the other hand, it supposes that a third party, starting with an unfair
advantage, and backed up by violence, will be the incarnation of justice
itself. Commonsense should certainly warn us against such a supposition,
and if we are lacking in this commodity, then we may learn the lesson by
turning to the facts of life. There we see everywhere Authority standing
by, and in the name of justice and fair play using its organised
violence in order to take the lion’s share of the world’s wealth for the
governmental class.
We can only say, then, in answer to such a question, that if people are
going to be quarrelsome and constantly disagree, then, of course, no
state of society will suit them, for they are unsocial animals. If they
are only occasionally so, then each case must stand on its merits and be
settled by those concerned.
Suppose one district wants to construct a railway to pass through a
neighbouring community, which opposes it. How would you settle this?
It is curious that this question is not only asked by those who support
the present system, but it is also frequently put by the Socialists. Yet
surely it implies at once the aggressive spirit of Capitalism, for is it
not the capitalist who talks of opening up the various countries of the
world, and does he not do this in the very first instance by having a
war in order that he may run his railways through, in spite of the local
opposition by the natives? Now, if you have a country in which there are
various communes, it stands to reason that the people in those communes
will want facilities for travelling, and for receiving and sending their
goods. That will not be much more true of one little community than of
another. This, then, not only implies a local railway, but a continuous
railway running from one end of the country to the other. If a certain
district, then, is going to object to have such a valuable asset given
to it, it will surely be that there is some reason for such an
objection. That being so, would it not be folly to have an authority to
force that community to submit to the railway passing through?
If this reason does not exist, we are simply supposing a society of
unreasonable people and asking how they should co-operate together. The
truth is that they could not co-operate together, and it is quite
useless to look for any state of society which will suit such a people.
The objection, therefore, need not be raised against Anarchism, but
against society itself. What would a government society propose to do?
Would it start a civil war over the matter? Would it build a prison
large enough to enclose this community, and imprison all the people for
resisting the law? In fact, what power has any authority to deal with
the matter which the Anarchists have not got?
The question is childish. It is simply based on the supposition that
people are unreasonable, and if such suppositions are allowed to pass as
arguments, then any proposed state of society may be easily argued out
of existence. I must repeat that many of these questions are of this
type, and a reader with a due sense of logic will be able to see how
worthless they are, and will not need to read the particular answers I
have given to them.
Suppose your free people want to build a bridge across a river, but they
disagree as to position, how will you settle it?
To begin with, it is obvious, but important, to notice that it is not I,
but they, who would settle it. The way it would work out, I imagine, is
something like this:
We will call the two groups who differ A and B. Then —
and that the only possible position for the bridge is where it has
suggested. In which case it will say: “Help our scheme, or don’t
co-operate at all.”
value of B.’s help, it may be willing to budge a few yards, and so
effect a compromise with B.
may do so, believing that the help thus obtained is worth more than the
sacrifice of position.
These are, I think, the three courses open to A. The same three are open
to B. I will leave it to the reader to combine the two, and I think he
will find the result will be either —
half-hearted support of B.; or
both parties ; or
In any case it will be seen, I hope, that the final structure will be
representative, and that, on the other hand, if one party was able to
force the other to pay for what it did not want, the result would not be
representative or just.
The usefulness of this somewhat dreary argument will be seen if it be
applied not merely to bridge-building but to all the activities of life.
By so doing we are able to imagine growing into existence a state of
society where groups of people work together so far as they agree, and
work separately when they do not. The institutions they construct will
be in accord with their wishes and needs. It will indeed be
representative. How different is this from the politician’s view of
things, who always wants to force the people to co-operate in running
his idea of society!
What would you do with the criminal?
There is an important question which should come before this, but which
our opponents never seem to care to ask. First of all, we have to decide
who are the criminals, or rather, even before this, we have to come to
an understanding as to who is to decide who are the criminals? To-day
the rich man says to the poor man: “ If we were not here as your
guardians you would be beset by robbers who would take away from you all
your possessions.” But the rich man has all the wealth and luxury that
the poor man has produced, and whilst he claims to have protected the
people from robbery he has secured for himself the lion’s share in the
name of the law. Surely then it becomes a question for the poor man
which he has occasion to dread most — the robber, who is very unlikely
to take anything from him, or the law, which allows the rich man to take
all the best of that which is manufactured.
To the majority of people the criminals in society are not to be very
much dreaded even to-day, for they are for the most part people who are
at war with those who own the land and have captured all the means of
life. In a free society, where no such ownership existed, and where all
that is necessary could be obtained by all that have any need, the
criminal will always tend to die out. To-day, under our present system,
he is always tending to become more numerous.
It is necessary for every great town to have a drainage. Suppose someone
refuses to connect up, what would you do with him?
This objection is another of the “supposition” class, all of which have
really been answered in dealing with question No. 1. It is based on the
unsocial man, whereas all systems of society must be organised for
social people. The truth, of course, is that in a free society the
experts on sanitation would get together and organise our drainage
system, and the people who lived in the district would be only too glad
to find these convenient arrangements made for them. But still it is
possible to suppose that somebody will not agree to this; what then will
you do with him? What do our Government friends suggest?
The only thing that they can do which in our Anarchist society we would
not do, is to put him in prison, for we can use all the arguments to
persuade him that they can. How much would the town gain by doing this?
Here is a description of an up-to-date prison cell into which he might
be thrown:
“I slept in one of the ordinary cells, which have sliding panes, leaving
at the host two openings about six inches square. The windows are set in
the wall high up, and are 3 by 1½ or 2 feet, area. Added to this they
are very dirty, so that the light in the cell is always dim. After the
prisoner has been locked in the cell all night the air is unbearable,
and its unhealthiness is increased by damp.”
“The ‘convenience’ supplied in the cell is totally inadequate, and even
if it be of a proper size and does not leak, the fact that it remains
unemptied from evening till morning is, in case of illness especially,
very insanitary and dangerous to health. ‘Lavatory time’ is permitted
only at a fixed hour twice a day, only one water-closet being provided
for twenty-three cells.” [1]
Thus we see that whilst we are going to guarantee this man being cleanly
by means of violence, we have no guarantee that the very violence itself
which we use will not be filthy.
But there is another way of looking at this question. Mr. Charles Mayl,
M.B. of New College, Oxford, after an outbreak of typhoid fever, was
asked to examine the drainage of Windsor; he stated that:
“In a previous visitation of typhoid fever the poorest and lowest parts
of the town had entirely escaped, whilst the epidemic had been very
fatal in good houses. The difference was that whilst the better houses
were all connected with sewers, the poor part of the town bad no drains,
but made use of cesspools in the gardens. And this is by no means an
isolated instance.”
It would not be out of place to quote Herbert Spencer here:
“One part of our Sanitary Administration having insisted upon a drainage
system by which Oxford, Heading, Maidenhead, Windsor, etc., pollute the
water which Londoners have to drink, another part of our Sanitary
Administration makes loud protests against the impurity of water which
he charges with causing diseases — not remarking, however, that
law-enforced arrangements have produced the impurity.”
We begin to see therefore that the man who objected to connecting his
house with the drains would probably be a man who is interested in the
subject, and who knows something about sanitation. It would be of the
utmost importance that he should be listened to and his objections
removed, instead of shutting him up in an unhealthy prison. The fact is,
the rebel is here just as important as he is in other matters, and he
can only profitably be eliminated by giving him satisfaction, not by
trying to crush him out.
As the man of the drains has only been taken as an example by our
objector, it would be interesting here to quote a similar case where the
regulations for stamping out cattle diseases were objected to by someone
who was importing cattle. In a letter to the Times, signed “Landowner,”
dated 2^(nd) August, 1872, the writer tells how he bought “ten fine
young steers, perfectly free from any symptom of disease, and passed
sound by the inspector of foreign stock.” Soon after their arrival in
England they were attacked by foot and mouth disease. On inquiry he
found that foreign stock, however healthy, “mostly all go down with it
after the passage.” The Government regulations for stamping out this
disease were that the stock should be driven from the steamer into the
pens for a limited number of hours. There seems therefore very little
doubt that it was in this quarantine that the healthy animals contracted
the disease and spread it among the English cattle. [2]
“Every new drove of cattle is kept for hours in an infected pen. Unless
the successive droves have been all healthy (which the very institution
of the quarantine implies that they have not been) some of them have
left in the pen disease matter from their mouths and feet. Even if
disinfectants are used after each occupation, the risk is great — the
disinfectant is almost certain to be inadequate. Nay, even if the pen is
adequately disinfected every time, yet if there is not also a complete
disinfection of the landing appliances, the landing-stage and the track
to the pen, the disease will be communicated. The quarantine regulations
might properly be called ‘regulations for the better diffusion of cattle
diseases.’”
Would our objector to Anarchism suggest that the man who refuses to put
his cattle in these pens should be sent to prison?
Even if you could overthrow the Government to-morrow and establish
Anarchism, the same system would soon grow up again.
This objection is quite true, except that we do not propose to overthrow
the Government to-morrow. If I (or we as a group of Anarchists) came to
the conclusion that I was to be the liberator of humanity, and if by
some means I could manage to blow up the King, the Houses of Lords and
Commons, the police force, and, in a word, all persons and institutions
which make up the Government — if I were successful in all this, and
expected to see the people enjoying freedom ever afterwards as a result,
then, no doubt, I should find myself greatly mistaken.
The chief results of my action would be to arouse an immense indignation
on the part of the majority of the people, and a reorganisation by them
of all the forces of government.
The reason why this method would fail is very easy to understand. It is
because the strength of the Government rests not with itself, but with
the people. A great tyrant may be a fool, and not a superman. His
strength lies not in himself, but in the superstition of the people who
think that it is right to obey him. So long as that superstition exists
it is useless for some liberator to cut off the head of tyranny; the
people will create another, for they have grown accustomed to rely on
something outside themselves.
Suppose, however, that the people develop, and become strong in their
love of liberty, and self-reliant, then the foremost of its rebels will
overthrow tyranny, and backed by the general sentiment of their age
their action will never be undone. Tyranny will never be raised from the
dead. A landmark in the progress of humanity will have been passed and
put behind for ever.
So the Anarchist rebel when he strikes his blow at Governments
understands that he is no liberator with a divine mission to free
humanity, but he is a part of that humanity struggling onwards towards
liberty.
If, then, by some external means an Anarchist Revolution could be, so to
speak, supplied ready-made and thrust upon the people, it is true that
they would reject it and rebuild the old society. If, on the other hand,
the people develop their ideas of freedom, and then themselves get rid
of the last stronghold of tyranny — the Government — then indeed the
Revolution will be permanently accomplished.
If you abolish government, what will you put in its place?
This seems to an Anarchist very much as if a patient asked the doctor,
“If you take away my illness, what will you give me in its place?” The
Anarchist’s argument is that government fulfils no useful purpose. Most
of what it does is mischievous, and the rest could be done better
without its interference. It is the headquarters of the profit-makers,
the rent-takers, and of all those who take from but who do not give to
society. When this class is abolished by the people so organising
themselves that they will run the factories and use the land for the
benefit of their free communities, i.e., for their own benefit, then the
Government must also be swept away, since its purpose will be gone. The
only thing then that will be put in the place of government will be the
free organisations of the workers. When Tyranny is abolished Liberty
remains, just as when disease is eradicated health remains.
We cannot all agree and think alike and be perfect, and therefore laws
are necessary, or we shall have chaos.
It is because we cannot all agree that Anarchism becomes necessary. If
we all thought alike it would not matter in the least if we had one
common law to which we must all submit. But as many of us think
differently, it becomes absurd to try to force us to act the same by
means of the Government which we are silly enough to call
representative.
A very important point is touched upon here. It is because Anarchists
recognise the absolute necessity of allowing for this difference among
men that they are Anarchists. The truth is that all progress is
accompanied by a process of differentiation, or of the increasing
difference of parts. If we take the most primitive organism we can find
it is simply a tiny globule of plasm, that is, of living substance. It
is entirely undifferentiated: that is to say, all its parts are alike.
An organism next above this in the evolutionary scale will be found to
have developed a nucleus. And now the tiny living thing is composed of
two distinctly different parts, the cell-body and its nucleus. If we
went on comparing various organisms we should find that all those of a
more complex nature were made up of clusters of these tiny organisms or
cells. In the most primitive of these clusters there would be very
little difference between one cell and another. As we get a little
higher we find that certain cells in the clusters have taken upon
themselves certain duties, and for this purpose have arranged themselves
in special ways. By and by, when we get to the higher animals, we shall
find that this process has advanced so far that some cells have grouped
together to form the breathing apparatus, that is, the lungs; others are
responsible for the circulation of the blood; others make up the nervous
tissue; and so on, so that we say they form the various “organs” of the
body. The point we have to notice is that the higher we get in the
animal or vegetable kingdom, the more difference we find between the
tiny units or cells which compose the body or organism. Applying this
argument to the social body or organism which we call society, it is
clear that the more highly developed that organism becomes, the more
different will be the units (i.e., the people) and organs (i.e.,
institutions and clubs) which compose it.
(For an answer to the argument based on the supposed need of a
controlling centre for the “social organism,” see Objection No. 21.)
When, therefore, we want progress we must allow people to differ. This
is the very essential difference between the Anarchists and the
Governmentalists. The Government is always endeavouring to make men
uniform. So literally true is this that in most countries it actually
forces them into the uniform of the soldier or the convict. Thus
Government shows itself as the great reactionary tendency. The
Anarchist, on the other hand, would break down this and would allow
always for the development of new ideas, new growth, and new
institutions; so that society would be responsive always to the
influence of its really greatest men, and to the surrounding influences,
whatever they may be.
It would be easier to get at this argument from a simpler standpoint. It
is really quite clear that if we were all agreed, or if we were all
forced to act as if we did agree, we could not have any progress
whatever. Change can take place only when someone disagrees with what
is, and with the help of a small minority succeeds in putting that
disagreement into practice. No Government makes allowance for this fact,
and consequently all progress which is made has to come in spite of
Governments, not by their agency.
I am tempted to touch upon yet another argument here, although I have
already given this question too much space. Let me add just one example
of the findings of modern science. Everyone knows that there is sex
relationship and sex romance in plant life just as there is in the
animal world, and it is the hasty conclusion with most of us that sex
has been evolved for the purposes of reproduction of the species. A
study of the subject, however, proves that plants were amply provided
with the means of reproduction before the first signs of sex appeared.
Science then has had to ask itself: what was the utility of sex
evolution? The answer to this conundrum it has been found lies in the
fact that “the sexual method of reproduction multiplies variation as no
other method of reproduction can.” [3]
If I have over-elaborated this answer it is because I have wished to
interest (but by no means to satisfy) anyone who may see the importance
of the subject. A useful work is waiting to be accomplished by some
enthusiast who will study differentiation scientifically, and show the
bearing of the facts on the organisation of human society.
If you abolish government, you will do away with the marriage laws.
We shall.
How will you regulate sexual relationship and family affairs?
It is curious that sentimental people will declare that love is our
greatest attribute, and that freedom is the highest possible condition.
Yet if we propose that love shall go free they are shocked and
horrified.
There is one really genuine difficulty, however, which people do meet in
regard to this question. With a very limited understanding they look at
things as they are to-day, and see all kinds of repulsive happenings:
unwanted children, husbands longing to be free from their wives, and —
there is no need to enumerate them. For all this, the sincere thinker is
able to see the marriage law is no remedy; but, on the other hand, he
sees also that the abolition of that law would also in itself be no
remedy.
This is true, no doubt. We cannot expect a well-balanced humanity if we
give freedom on one point and slavery on the remainder. The movement
towards free love is only logical and useful if it takes its place as
part of the general movement towards emancipation.
Love will only come to a normal and healthy condition when it is set in
a world without slums and poverty, and without all the incentives to
crime which exist to-day. When such a condition is reached it will be
folly to bind men and women together, or keep them apart, by laws.
Liberty and free agreement must be the basis of this most essential
relationship as surely as it must be of all others.
Society is an organism, and an organism is controlled at its centre;
thus man is controlled by his brain, and society by its Government.
This is one of the arguments so often used by the so-called scientific
Socialists. It is quite true that society as a whole, if it is not an
organism, at least can be very closely compared to one. But the most
interesting thing is that our scientific objectors have quite forgotten
one of the most important facts about the classification of organisms.
All organisms may be divided into one of two classes — the “morphonta”
or the “bionta.” Now each morphonta organism is bound together into one
whole necessarily by its structure; a bionta organism, on the contrary,
is a more or less simple structure, bound together physiologically; that
is, by functions rather than by its actual form. This can be made much
simpler. A dog, for example, which we all know is an organism, is a
morphonta, for it is bound together necessarily by its structure; if we
cut a dog in two, we do not expect the two halves to live, or to develop
into two complete dogs. But if we take a plant and cut it in two, the
probability is that if we place it in proper conditions each half of
that plant will develop into as healthy an organism as the original
single one. Now, if we are going to call society an organism, it is
quite clear to which of these two classes it belongs; for if we cut
society in two and take away one half the people which compose it, and
place them in proper conditions, they will develop a new society akin to
the old one from which they have been separated.
The really interesting thing about this is that the morphonta — the dog
— is by all means an organism controlled by the brain; but, on the other
hand, the bionta is in no case a centralised organism. So that so far as
the analogy does hold good it certainly is entirely in favour of the
Anarchist conception of society, and not of a centralised State.
There is, too, another way of looking at this. In all organisms the
simple cell is the unit, just as in society the individual is a unit of
the organism. Now, if we study the evolution of organisms (which we have
touched upon in Question No. 18), we shall find that the simple cell
clusters with or co-operates with its fellow-cells, not because it is
bossed or controlled into the position, but because it found, in its
simple struggle for existence, that it could only live if the whole of
which it formed a part lived also. This principle holds good throughout
all organic nature. The cells which cluster together to form the organs
of a man are not compelled to do so, or in any way controlled by any
outside force; the individual struggle for life forces each to take its
place in the organ of which it forms a part. Again, the organs
themselves are not centralised, but are simply interdependent; derange
one, and you upset more or less the organs of all, but neither can
dictate how the other shall work. If the digestive organs are out of
order, it is true that they will probably have an effect upon the brain;
but beyond this they have no control or authority over the brain. The
reverse of this is equally true. The brain may know absolutely well that
the digestive organs are for some reason or other neglecting their
duties, but it is unable to control them or tell them to do otherwise.
Each organ does its duty because in doing so it is fulfilling its
life-purpose, just as each cell takes its place and carries on its
functions for the same purpose.
Viewed in this way, we see the complete organism (the man) as the result
of the free co-operation of the various organs (the heart, the brains,
the lungs, etc.), whilst the organs in their turn are the result of the
equally free co-operation of the simple cells. Thus the individual
life-struggle of the cell results in the highest product of organic
nature. It is this primitive struggle of the individual cell which is,
as it were, the creative force behind the whole complexity of organic
nature, including man, of this wonderful civilisation.
If we apply the analogy to society, we must take it that the ideal form
would be that in which the free individuals in developing their lives
group together into free institutions, and in which these free
institutions are naturally mutually dependent upon the other, but in
which there is no institution claiming authority or the power to in any
way control or curb the development of any of the other institutions or
of the individual.
Thus society would grow from the simple individual to the complex whole,
and not as our centralisers try to see it — a development from the
complex centre back to the simple parts.
You can’t change human nature.
To begin with, let me point out that I am a part of human nature, and by
all my own development I am contributing to and helping in the
development and modification of human nature.
If the argument is that I cannot change human nature and mould it into
any form at will, then, of course, it is quite true. If, on the other
hand, it is intended to suggest that human nature remains ever the same,
then the argument is hopelessly unsound. Change seems to be one of the
fundamental laws of existence, and especially of organic nature. Man has
developed from the lowest animals, and who can say that he has reached
the limits of his possibilities?
However, as it so happens, social reformers and revolutionists do not so
much rely on the fact that human nature will change as they do upon the
theory that the same nature will act differently under different
circumstances.
A man becomes an outlaw and a criminal to-day because he steals to feed
his family. In a free society there would be no such reason for theft,
and consequently this same criminal born into such a world might become
a respectable family man. A change for the worse? Possibly; but the
point is that it is a change. The same character acts differently under
the new circumstances.
To sum up, then: (1) Human nature does change and develop along certain
lines, the direction of which we may influence. (2) The fundamental fact
is that nature acts according to the condition in which it finds itself.
The latter part of the next answer (No. 23) will be found to apply
equally here.
Who would do the dirty work under Anarchism?
To-day machinery is introduced to replace, as far as possible, the
highly paid man. It can only do this very partially, but it is obvious
that since machinery is to save the cost of production it will be
applied to those things where the cost is considerable. In those
branches where labour is very cheap there is not the same incentive to
supersede it by machines.
Now things are so strangely organised at present that it is just the
dirty and disagreeable work that men will do cheaply, and consequently
there is no great rush to invent machines to take their place. In a free
society, on the other hand, it is clear that the disagreeable work will
be one of the first things that machinery will be called upon to
eliminate. It is quite fair to argue, therefore, that the disagreeable
work will, to a large extent, disappear in a state of Anarchism.
This, however, leaves the question only partially answered. Some time
ago, during a strike at Leeds, the roadmen and scavengers refused to do
their work. The respectable inhabitants of Leeds recognised the danger
of this state of affairs, and organised themselves to do the dirty work.
University students were sweeping the streets and carrying boxes of
refuse. They answered the question better than I can. They have taught
us that a free people would recognise the necessity of such work being
done, and would one way or another organise to do it.
Let me give another example more interesting than this and widely
differing from it, thus showing how universally true is my answer.
Within civilised society probably it would be difficult to find two
classes differing more widely than the University student of to-day and
the labourer of Western Ireland nearly a hundred years ago. At Ralahine
in 1830 was started the most successful of the many Co-operative or
Communist experiments for which that period was remarkable. There, on
the poorest of bog-soil, amongst “the lowest order of Irish poor,
discontented, disorderly and vicious, and under the worst circumstances
imaginable,” an ideal little experimental community was formed. Among
the agreements entered into by these practical impossibilists was one
which said that “no member be expected to perform any service or work
but such as is agreeable to his or her feelings,” yet certain it is that
the disagreeable work was daily performed. The following dialogue
between a passing stage-coach passenger and a member of the community,
whom he found working in water which reached his middle, is recorded:
“Are you working by yourself?” inquired the traveller. “Yes,” was the
answer. “Where is your steward?” “We have no steward.” “Who is your
master?“ “We have no master. We are on a new system.” “Then who sent you
to do this work?” “The committee,” replied the man in the dam. “Who is
the committee?” asked the mail-coach visitor, “Some of the members.”
“What members do you mean?” “The ploughmen and labourers who are
appointed by us as a committee. I belong to the new systemites.”
Members of this community were elected by ballot among the peasants of
Ralahine. “There was no inequality established among them,” says G. J.
Holyoake, [4] to whom I am indebted for the above description, he adds:
“It seems incredible that this simple and reasonable form of government
[5] should supersede the government of the bludgeon and the blunderbuss
— the customary mode by which Irish labourers of that day regulated
their industrial affairs. Yet peace and prosperity prevailed through an
arrangement of equity.”
The community was successful for three and a half years, and then its
end was brought about by causes entirely external. The man who had given
his land up for the purposes of the experiment lost his money by
gambling, and the colony of 618 acres had to be forfeited. This example
of the introduction of a new system among such unpromising circumstances
might well have been used in answer to Objection No. 22 — “You can’t
change human nature.”
But you must have a Government. Every orchestra has its conductor to
whom all must submit. It is the same with society.
This objection would really not be worth answering but that it is
persistently used by State Socialists against Anarchists, and is even
printed by them in the writings of one of their great leaders. The
objection is chiefly of interest in that it shows us painfully plainly
the outlook of these wonderful reformers, who evidently want to see
society regulated in every detail by the batons of Government,
Their confusion, however, between the control of the conductor’s baton
and that of Government really seems to indicate that they are not aware
of any difference between Government and Liberty. The relationship of
the subject to the Government is entirely unlike that of the musician to
the conductor. In a free society the musician would unite with others
interested in music for one reason only: he wishes to express himself,
and finds that he can do so better with the assistance of others. Hence
he makes use of his brother musicians, while they similarly make use of
him. Next, he and they find they are up against a difficulty unless they
have a signalman to relate their various notes. They therefore determine
to make use of someone who is capable to do this. He, on the other hand,
stands in just the same relationship to them: he is making use of them
to express himself in music. If at any time either party finds the other
unserviceable, it simply ceases to co-operate. Any member of the party
may, if he feels inclined, get up at any moment and walk away. The
conductor can at any minute throw down his baton, or upset the rest by
wilfully going wrong. Any member of the party may at any time spoil all
their efforts if he chooses to do so. There is no provision for such
emergencies, and no way of preventing them. No one can be compelled to
contribute towards the upkeep of the enterprise. Practically all the
objections which are raised against Anarchism may be raised against this
free organisation. What will you do with the drummer who won’t drum?
What will you do with the man who plays out of tune? What will you do
with the man who talks instead of playing? What will you do with the
unclean man who may sit next to you? What will you do with the man who
won’t pay his share? etc., etc.
The objections are endless if you choose to base them on what might
happen, but this fails to alter the fact that if we consider what
actually does happen we find a free organisation of this kind entirely
practical.
It is not, I hope, necessary now to point out the folly of those who
pretend that such an organisation is analogous to Government.
In a Government organisation people are bound together not by a common
purpose, but by law, with the threat of prison behind. The enterprise is
supported, not in accordance with the amount of interest taken in it,
but by a general compulsion. The part played by each is dictated, and
can be enforced. In a free organisation it is merely suggested, and the
suggestion is followed only if the individual agrees, for there can be
no compulsion.
Conclusion
[1] “Women and Prisons,” Fabian Tract No. 16
[2] The typhoid and the cattle disease cases are both quoted in the
notes to Herbert Spencer’s “The Study of Sociology.”
[3] “The Evolution of Sex in Plants,” by Professor J. Merle Coulter. It
is interesting to add that he closes his book with these words: “Its
[sexuality’s] significance lies in the fact that it makes organic
evolution more rapid and far more varied.”
[4] “History of Co-operation.”
[5] I need not, I think, stay to explain the sense in which this word is
used. The committee were workers, not specialised advisers; above all,
they had no authority and could only suggest and not issue orders. They
were, therefore, not a Government.