CHAPTER V WILLIAM GODWIN

IN the case of William Godwin (1756–1836), though indeed this is true of not a few of those we encounter in these pages, it requires resolution to keep biographical details within the prescribed minimum. For Godwin, to express it with restraint, was an unusual man—as also were Saint-Simon, Fourier and Owen; and the eccentric and bizarre always have a psychological fascination for the great unenterprising bulk of humanity, whose humdrum visages conceal no hidden weakness or waywardness. Godwin appears here as the first logical and consistent exponent of anarchism. Nevertheless he was cradled in the strictest orthodox piety, and was for a stretch of years a parson and a preacher in a dissenting sect, until evil communications and his own natural bent turned him into a rebel in matters political and religious alike. His great work, An Enquiry concerning Political Justice, and its Influence on General Virtue and Happiness (to give it for once its full title), appearing in 1793, had an astounding success. There is a traditional tale that Pitt declined to suppress Political Justice, on the wholly unconvincing ground that a book published at three guineas could not possibly do much harm—forgetting that the thirsty multitude may buy even a three-guinea book by combining their contributions. For a number of years following his great success, Godwin was one of the most outstanding personalities and one of the most influential writers of his time. Unfortunately, having shot his bolt at the age of 37, he had the misfortune to continue alive until he was 80. It is the tragedy of Godwin's life to trace his descent through evil days, until he was utterly forgotten—‘that which was Godwin’—a miserable literary hack and a rather disreputable bookseller, steering for bankruptcy and sponging on those who could be induced to lend to him. Yet, despite the rather shady, shabby and shoddy tale of his later years, Godwin occupies a central position in the intellectual life of his times. He was not merely the Father of Anarchism, he was the husband of Mary Wollstonecroft, the first and fiercest exponent of women's rights; he was the father-in-law of Shelley; he was, by reaction, the spiritual progenitor of Malthus. The first edition of the Essay on Population, indeed, declares on its title-page that it contains ‘remarks on the speculations of Mr. Godwin.’

Two characteristics of the man, or perhaps two aspects of the same characteristic, should be borne in mind as explaining much in Godwin's exposition. In the first place, never was there anyone who was more entirely the embodiment of intellect and reason. There is in his life no evidence of warmth or passion, and throughout he was incapable of understanding any deviation from reason in others. It was on reason that he based his friendships, and to those who are interested in such matters nothing could be more illuminating than the story of his marriages and his projected marriages. The Memoirs of Mary Wollstonecroft, in which he has been unsympathetically accused of ‘stripping the dead body of his wife,’ provides perhaps the extreme example of this detachment from ordinary human sensibilities.

Secondly, it follows from this peculiarly intellectual bias that he was utterly destitute of common sense. When he turned to business and the affairs of this life, he could not but fail. The extreme views professed, the paradoxical propositions propounded are in all cases the perfectly logical conclusions to be drawn from the axioms and assumptions from which he sets out. But, visualising human beings merely as the vehicle of reason, he forgets the necessity and the virtue of compromising where frail men are concerned. Life in fact is not run by logic; and the man who in all things is logical—as Godwin was—who leaves no place for the forces of unreason, ends by being a fool.

For our present purpose it is sufficient to confine our attention to the Enquiry concerning Political Justice, of which the first edition, in two stupendous volumes, appeared in 1793. In the second edition (1798), Godwin on a number of points is less extreme, or, perhaps, more guarded. In this life, however, whatever the moralists say, we never can live down our first editions; and as it was by the first edition that Godwin became known and exercised his influence, the later, slightly modified version may at present be disregarded except for minor points of comparison.

Turning to the written word, we find on the threshold, and throughout as an all-pervading influence, two ideas, one of which is a gross exaggeration of any truth it may contain, and the other is almost certainly entirely erroneous. These two Idées Mères are, indeed, but the reflection of Godwin's own personality and, to a certain extent, at least, the first is common form in a good many of the writers with whom we are concerned about this time. These two dominant ideas relate, firstly, to the old problem of innate ideas, and, secondly, to the place of reason in the individual's life.

On the first point, it is of the essence of Godwin's position that we bring into this world no innate principles: ‘we are neither virtuous nor vicious as we come into existence.¹ Men are wholly and exclusively fashioned by their environment and by the influences to which they are exposed. The reason why ‘superficial observers’ are led to believe in innate ideas (and, inferentially, in natural differences among men) is that they do not realise how soon the ‘seeds of error’ may be sown, and consequently they mistake for ‘innate’ what is in fact due to the world which operates on us from the moment of our birth. In a dreadful picture, Godwin shows how by the end of the first week—indeed probably on the first day—most of us have already probably been corrupted by the world, as represented by our parents. He is referring to the infant's inarticulate cry for assistance:

In this neutral and innocent circumstance, combined with the folly and imbecility of parents and nurses, we are presented with the first occasion of vice. Assistance is necessary, conducive to the existence, the health and the mental sanity of the infant. Empire in the infant over those who protect him is unnecessary. If we do not withhold our assistance precisely at the moment when it ceases to be requisite, if our compliance or our refusal be not in every case irrevocable, if we grant anything to impatience, importunity or obstinacy, from that moment we become parties in the intellectual murder of our offspring.¹

It is an appalling and disturbing thought that the incompetent and distracted parent, not knowing when to say ‘No’ to a muling child that will not cease to mule, has already sown the seeds of vice in the next generation, and is indeed, in part, the (intellectual) murderer of his offspring. Thus early, in the first days, do the shades of the prison-house besmirch our first innocence.

The conclusion from this line of argument—and it is to be found in Owen, Bertrand Russell and elsewhere, is that there is no such thing as guilt or crime, and indeed no such thing as moral responsibility. If we are what we are by virtue of our environment, we are entirely justified in transferring to our environment the responsibility for our shortcomings. Our parents may quite properly be blamed (though they, poor things, could not help themselves), or the schools in which we are miseducated, or society which has frustrated us. Here in one sense is the depth of pessimism, in that we are all caught in the web of circumstance; but, on the other hand, there is a great hope. In proportion as environment can be improved, so will mankind rise. If the incidents which influence us could be ‘divested of every improper tendency, vice would be extirpated from the world.’²

The other governing idea in Godwin is to be found in a pathetic belief that men are reasonable beings capable of being persuaded, that truth when revealed will be recognised as truth, and that men will act accordingly. There are no half-shades in Godwin's world: Truth opposes error, and right opposes wrong; and in each case an intellectual proof will not merely demonstrate which is which, but will carry conviction, expressing itself in action. In short, men cannot possibly act unreasonably, and reason can always demonstrate what is right. As with Socrates, it is an intellectual problem: ‘All vice is nothing more than error and mistake reduced into practice, and adopted as the principle of our conduct.’¹ As this touching faith in the demonstrability of truth (and right behaviour) and its power to prevail is in some ways the foundation-stone in Godwin, two detached sentences may be cited as samples of many other similar expressions on this point:

Truth may be presented... in such irresistible evidence... as ultimately to conquer the most obstinate prepossessions.... It is the property of truth to spread,²

Show me in the clearest and most unambiguous manner that a certain mode of proceeding is most reasonable in itself or most conducive to my interest, and I shall infallibly pursue that mode, as long as the views you suggested to me continue present to my mind.³

There is here little realisation of the fact that this is a complex world in which truth is a precious ore seldom mined in a pure state, and in which the problem of action is too frequently not the simple choice between right and wrong, but a choice between a number of courses of varying degrees of objectionability.

Such is the general framework within which Godwin majestically unfolds his speculations. Man is neither good nor bad, except in so far as circumstances and environment have moulded him. He is, moreover, a reasonable being who, if he could be brought to listen to the voice of reason, would inevitably do right, since the problems of life are intellectual problems.. A further enormous simplification is made by Godwin. The environment which influences man is made up of many elements: the geographical and climatic had, for instance, been emphasised by Montesquieu. But Godwin in effect thrust these aside. Man is a creature of reason, and the environment which effectively shapes him is the intellectual environment. In his own words, ‘it inevitably follows that physical causes, though of some consequence in the history of man, sink into nothing, when compared with the great and inexpressible operations of reflection.’

These successive simplifications of the problem, with the glorification of the place and power of reason, lead to what is in some ways the central Godwinian conception, that of the ‘perfectibility of man.’ If man is a function of his environment, then an approach to the perfect environment will bring with it an approach to the perfect man. The doctrine has been frequently misunderstood or misrepresented, and at times Godwin's statements, being expressed with his own peculiar extravagance, have naturally stimulated the scoffers. But in his more guarded moments, he did not so much imply that man would attain perfection (whatever that may be), as that there could and should be continual progress in the direction of perfection: and thus expressed, the doctrine is not in itself inherently absurd.

Godwin's problem, in its widest statement, is how, in the light of these principles, man may be regenerated. The weapons of regeneration are in fact three; but two of them are merely mentioned in order to be put aside, leaving the third as the theme of his two spacious volumes. Yet his brief comments on Literature and Education, the first two engines for advancing mankind, are of great interest, if not in clarifying the problem of the ascent of man, then at least in revealing the essential Godwin. With regard to Literature, he argues that there are innumerable opinions prevailing on any subject; ‘yet of all these opinions only one can be true’—a characteristically Godwinian, statement. It is the function of Literature to extirpate existing prejudices and mistakes. Truth, he says, is infallibly struck out by the collision of mind with mind. All this is rather naive in its assumption that Literature can never disseminate error, and that all argument ends in clarification and never in obfuscation. Equally naive is his contention that ‘if in any science we discover one solitary truth, it cannot be overthrown’ Literature, however, is of no use for Godwin's purposes. ‘The multitude’—he is writing in 1793—‘cannot partake of its illuminations.’¹

Education, an ‘engine of unlimited power,’ is also put aside for the present as ineffective, for a rather disconcerting reason: ‘Where must the preceptor himself have been educated, who shall thus elevate his pupils above all the errors of mankind?’² In other words, the right education demands the right teacher, who can himself be ‘right,’ only if he himself has had the right education. How indeed shall mankind escape from this, the most perfect of all vicious circles?

There remains as the third instrument of regeneration what Godwin calls ‘Political Justice,’ a vague phrase unless supplied with an interpretation. It is defined at the outset as ‘the adoption of any principle of morality or truth into the practice of a community.’³ Political Justice, as so defined, is given a pre-eminent position, because it is universal in its operation. Other influences are intermittent, but the machinery of society (and in effect Political Justice merely means the right kind of political machinery) influences a man all his life. Moreover, in the second edition, Godwin argues that Political Justice must come first, before any attempt is made to improve man in any particular point. To aim at reform in a rotten society is futile; but if the right society can be achieved, individual reforms will come unsought:

May it not be found, that the attempt to alter the morals of mankind singly and in detail is an erroneous and futile undertaking; and that it will then only be effectually and decisively performed, when, by regenerating their political institutions, we shall change their motives and produce a revolution in the influences that act upon them?⁴

And indeed, looking around, Godwin has no difficulty in proving on familiar lines that the shortcomings of man are due to the defective institutions of society, and their inevitable consequences. Thus robbery and fraud spring from the very nature of the society in which we live: ‘If every man could with perfect facility obtain the necessaries of life... temptation would lose its power,’ and in such a society ‘guilt could hardly be known but by report.’¹ Prevailing poverty has, however, repercussions in many directions:

The poor man will be induced to regard the state of society as a state of war, an unjust combination, not for protecting every man in his rights and securing to him the means of existence, but for engrossing all its advantages to a few favoured individuals, and reserving for the portion of the rest want, dependence and misery.²

Here is the class war, and in these circumstances the privileges of the rich operate as a ‘bitter aggravation’ of the calamity of the poor. The rich also become insolent, and develop ‘a temper overbearing, dictatorial and tyrannical.’ The rich, moreover, are ‘directly or indirectly the legislators of the State; and of consequence are perpetually reducing oppression into a system.’ These evils are confirmed by the law, for ‘legislation is in almost every country grossly the favourer of the rich against the poor,’ and further ‘the administration of law is not less iniquitous than the spirit in which it is framed.’ Is it any wonder that the poor are ‘stung with the furies of envy, resentment and despair’?³ Such, so far as possible in his own words, is Godwin's analysis of the baneful effect of our present society on its members. It does not perhaps differ greatly from what may be found in many other quarters, being largely a blend of the class war and the class State. If there is perhaps a distinguishing note, it may be that Godwin lays more emphasis on the insolence of the rich.

As against this mountain of injustice, what does justice require of us? The answer is of an astonishing simplicity when stated in general terms, though doubtless not so easy of interpretation and practice as Godwin assumed. ‘If justice have any meaning,’ he observes, ‘it is just that I should contribute everything in my power to the benefit of the whole.’⁴ There is, as is well known, another maxim in these matters which has enjoyed a considerable circulation, to the effect that we should love our neighbour as ourselves. Godwin glances at this rival principle somewhat disparagingly, remarking that ‘this maxim, though possessing considerable merit as a popular principle, is not modelled with the strictness of philosophical accuracy.’ It overlooks the fact that my various neighbours and I may have very different values for society.

Here we come to the essential core of Godwin. This principle of justice, defined as imposing on each the duty of contributing everything in his power to the benefit of the whole, combined with the infallibility of human reason in guiding our actions, explains all the Godwinian paradoxes which so offended his own and later ages. All the rest of Godwin is merely an unfolding, in their various applications, of these two principles, urged ruthlessly to their frigidly logical ultimate conclusions.

As a preliminary to accompanying Godwin on his tour of destruction, it may be as well to be clear on a fundamental point. Godwin, living in an age much attached to the rights of man, is emphatic that there never can be rights, but duties only. A ‘right’ in its very essence implies a discretion to do or not to do; a right may or may not be exercised; it involves an option. But it is of the essence of Godwin's philosophy that the principle of justice should guide our every action, and that our reason will interpret to us what justice is. That we must do, and no other. To do anything else is injustice, and there can be no right to do injustice. We never do have an option. Every shilling that we possess has already ‘received its destination from the dictates of justice.’¹ Justice commands us in everything, leaving nowhere the minutest crevice for choice or discretion.

Not a talent do we possess, not a moment of time, not a shilling of property, for which we are not responsible at the tribunal of the public, which we are not obliged to pay into the general bank of common advantage. Of every one of these there is an employment which is best, and that best justice obliges us to select.²

There we have Duty, a very stern daughter of the voice of God. I can only have a discretion, i.e. rights, in matters of total indifference, as for example, whether I shall sit on the right or left side of the fire, whether I shall dine on beef to-day or to-morrow. Even this field within which we may choose is much smaller than might be imagined, since before an option can be allowed,

it must be proved that my choice on one side or the other can in no possible way contribute to the benefit or injury of myself or of any other person in the world.³

The very essence of rights consists in their ‘absolute nugatoriness and inutility.’ It will be conceded that life on these high moral altitudes would be somewhat exhausting: we are invited to live on a plane where even the boarding of a passing tram is only permissible after a long period of stubborn questioning.

In the light of Godwinian justice, what should be our attitude to our friends, and to our kith and kin? Godwin resuscitates for us the fatuous fable of Fénelon and the housemaid. They are trapped in a blazing Palace, on the point of sizzling in the flames. Only one can be saved. Which shall it be? Obviously, the Archbishop every time. Everyone who has stuck in the middle of Télémaque will admit that Fénelon is vastly more important to humanity than a whole registry of housemaids, and that even in time of war. But if the housemaid had been my wife or mother—awful thought, if I had myself been the housemaid? The answer remains the same: Fénelon still has it, because justice tells me that the life of Fénelon ought to be saved at the expense of my wife, my mother or even myself. ‘What magic is there in the pronoun “my,” to overturn the decisions of everlasting truth?’¹

Let us advance from friendship to gratitude. In the case cited, should not gratitude to my mother (assuming she were involved) have urged me to drag her out and leave the Archbishop behind? By no means: ‘gratitude is no part either of justice or virtue.’² As always, we must have justice, pure unadulterated justice. Gratitude means preferring some one on grounds other than his superior usefulness or worth, when justice would have dictated another course. Anyone who does from motives of gratitude what he would not otherwise have done is therefore acting unjustly. As Godwin expresses it elsewhere tersely and in a somewhat abbreviated form: ‘Gratitude is a vice and not a virtue.’³

Sliding down the slippery slope, we come, on a very different plane from Machiavelli, to the Machiavellian problem of the obligation to observe engagements. Clearly on Godwinian principles there can be no virtue in keeping promises merely because they are promises. We must always and everywhere do justice; that is to say, we must do what at the moment we are satisfied most conduces to the general good. In deciding what is justice, a past promise is an irrelevant consideration; but Godwin had better express it in his own language:

‘I have promised to do something just and right.’ This certainly I ought to perform. Why? Not because I promised, but because justice prescribes it. ‘I have promised to bestow a sum of money upon some good and respectable purpose. In the interval between the promise and my fulfilling it, a greater and nobler purpose offers itself, and calls with an imperious voice for my co-operation.’ Which ought I to prefer? That which best deserves my preference. A promise can make no alteration in the case. I ought to be guided by the intrinsic merits of the objects, and not by any external and foreign consideration. No engagements of mine can change their intrinsic claims.¹

The case against the binding nature of promises may be stated in two forms. Firstly, the man who intimates that when the time comes to decide in any matter, he will be guided by considerations other than those which at that future date will be present to his mind, is acting viciously.² Because he has committed one error, that is no reason why he should be guilty of a second. In the language of a later anarchist, grappling with the same problem: ‘Because I was a fool yesterday, is that any reason why I should be a fool to-day?’ A variant of this is emphasised in the second edition. We are (it is optimistically assumed) always learning. To bind ourselves now as to how we shall act in the future is to preclude ourselves from the use of the knowledge we may have gained in the interval.³ Such (doubtless with other considerations) are the grounds for the sweeping assertion that promises are, absolutely considered, an evil.⁴ In a delicious phrase, dealing with the political side of the question, Godwin reveals the depths of turpitude which may be plumbed by those who teach that promises should be kept: ‘It is impossible,’ he says, ‘to imagine a principle of more injurious tendency, than that which shall teach me to disarm my future wisdom by my past folly.’⁵

If the taint of vice adheres to the giving and keeping of promises, what shall we make of marriage, which is supposed to rest on promises from which death alone normally offers release and an avenue of escape? Rather oddly, Godwin launches his frontal attack on marriage primarily because it demands co-operation. It is the true anarchist who proclaims that ‘everything that is usually understood by the term co-operation, is in some degree an evil.’⁶ To be dependent on the convenience of others is anathema to Godwin, and indeed it is probably true that the necessity of fitting in with others as part of a machine may very well conflict with the awful dictates of justice which, as we have seen, lay down for me how the last minute of my time must be spent. Godwin's argument may appear trivial, yet two short illustrations are revealing:

Why should we have common meals? Am I obliged to be hungry at the same time that you are? Ought I to come at a certain hour, from the museum where I am working, the recess where I meditate, or the observatory where I remark the phenomena of nature, to a certain hall appropriated to the office of eating; instead of eating, as reason bids me, at the time and place most suited to my avocations?⁷

It is still worse when a man is also obliged to consult the convenience of others. If I be expected to eat or work in conjunction with my neighbour, it must either be at a time convenient to me, or to him, or to neither of us. We cannot be reduced to a clock-work uniformity.¹

How to escape co-operation in an industrial world based on division of labour is, admittedly, something of a problem. It is perhaps somewhat aside from our path, but it is extremely illuminating to note Godwin's speculative hints as to the way of escape. May there not be such an improvement of machinery that the most extensive operations may yet some day be within the reach of one man, so that any one will be able to do anything (and apparently everything), as and when he chooses, without being dependent on others? In a homely illustration he visualises a plough being turned into a field to perform its office without the need of superintendence. There are hints of concerts given by a one-man orchestra in order to relieve the musicians from ‘the miserable state of mechanism’ which has already become a ‘topic of mortification and ridicule.’ It cannot, however, be said that Godwin squarely confronts the difficulties in the way.²

It is interesting on this point to note the very different grounds on which Rousseau and Godwin alike object to co-operation. Rousseau in effect holds that whenever two people come together, one will take advantage of the other. Godwin's objection to having breakfast with Mrs. Godwin is based on the probability that the workings of their respective digestive organs may not synchronise. On these lines, and on his first principles, it is easy to see why Godwin condemns marriage. Perhaps the argument may be grouped under three main headings. Firstly, marriage rests on promises which should never be given; we should never bind our freedom of action. Secondly, marriage involves co-operation, and co-operation must mean some degree of dependence of one on the other, which must again entail some disobedience to the dictates of one's own conscience in the matter of justice. Thirdly (and more cryptically), ‘all attachments to individuals, except in proportion to their merits, are plainly unjust.’³ We should, he adds, be the friends of man rather than of particular men: presumably, though there is a prejudice to the contrary, we should be the friends of woman rather than of particular women. Expressed in this summary form, Godwin's argument against marriage may seem a relatively tepid affair. In fact he reserves his most glowing eloquence for his denunciation of marriage as a system of fraud and as the most odious of all monopolies.⁴

So far we have disposed of friendship; we have seen that gratitude is a vice; that promises are an evil, and that marriage is a fraud. It remains to abolish the State, Law and Property.

When we turn to the question of government, two general conclusions follow from the Godwinian assumptions. The first is that all government is an evil: we are perpetually reminded that while society may be a blessing, government even in its best state is but a necessary evil, springing from our weaknesses.¹ Government should therefore be restricted to a minimum, and we should moreover aim at reducing the scope of government still further:

Above all we should not forget, that government is an evil, an usurpation upon the private judgment and individual conscience of mankind; and that, however we may be obliged to admit it as a necessary evil for the present, it behoves us, as the friends of reason and the human species, to admit as little of it as possible, and carefully to observe whether, in consequence of the gradual illumination of the human mind, that little may not hereafter be diminished.²

Further the individual can never shed his moral responsibility by sheltering behind the State. He remains subject to his own conscience; the voice of conscience is addressed to him directly, and not mediately through the State:

No man can transfer to another the keeping of the conscience and his judging of his duties.... No consent of ours can divest us of our moral capacity.³

Putting this last point in somewhat different words, there is in Godwin's scheme of things no place for obedience; nor can there be, if on every occasion our own conscience, for each of us, is a sufficient and imperious commander, not to be disobeyed. The dictates of justice exhaust the field; when we have lived up to the fundamental Godwinian principle, ‘what province is there left to the disposal of obedience?’¹ Indeed, expressed in the extreme form which Godwin always loved: ‘The first lesson of virtue is, “Obey no man.”’² The compliance we yield to a government is, or should be, of the same nature as the compliance we yield to a wild beast, which may force us to go whither we would not.³ In short, obedience, when we disapprove, rests solely on force majeure.

The second general conclusion to be inferred from Godwinian assumptions is that, in so far as government is necessary, it is a purely intellectual problem to determine what the form of government should be. For the somewhat dubious reason that truth is single and uniform, ‘there must in the nature of things be one best form of government, which all intellects, sufficiently roused from the slumber of savage ignorance, will be irresistibly incited to approve.’⁴ Also, as becomes more explicit in the second edition, this best form of government will be suitable to all peoples: ‘If one form of government makes one nation happy, why should it not equally contribute to the felicity of another?’⁵

Thus armed, it is an easy task to turn to the various accepted types of government, and show how utterly absurd each and all of them are. Godwin follows the traditional classification of types of government into Monarchy, Aristocracy and Democracy—the rule of one, of a few, of many—which by long descent derives from Aristotle. It makes the problem somewhat too facile. Governments, at least in the modern world, are not so neatly classifiable; and even in Godwin's time, the monarchies of Western Europe could hardly be regarded as conforming to the irresponsible and absolute rule of one. It is unnecessary to delay unduly over his exposure of the absurdities of monarchy or aristocracy. Bearing in mind that he is dealing with a copybook king and a copybook aristocracy, made to conform to an unreal definition, he declaims the obvious—though, be it added, with oratory and effect.

For in the imagined world in which Godwin visualises a notional Prince, that Prince is inevitably badly educated. Truth is a stranger to his ears-; he never learns fortitude.⁶ By his very position, every King is by unavoidable necessity the enemy of the human race.⁷ The picture is as black, or blacker, when we turn to survey the corruption of courts, and observe how the contamination extends downwards to the subjects of the King. To one of Godwin's appalling honesty and disconcerting love of the literal truth, the fundamental defect of monarchy is that it is founded on imposture.¹ Kings possess no intrinsic superiority over their subjects; and the pretence that things are other than they are spreads falsehood through the whole of society. Nor is the situation any better if we turn to an elective monarchy,² a limited monarchy,³ or a president with regal powers.⁴ A limited monarchy merely brings new absurdities. The doctrine that the King can do no wrong inevitably annoys Godwin. It is not true; and to the extent to which it is supposed to embody a constitutional principle, it reduces the ‘miserable wretch’ to being no more than a ‘vacant and colourless mirror.’ Remembering also the first lesson of virtue (which is ‘Obey no man’), it will be realised how absurd, or rather how ‘fraught with degradation and meanness’ is the very name of subject. Can an honest man honestly acknowledge a superior—being ‘subject,’ as he is, only to the laws of justice? But indeed it is almost enough to fall back on the celebrated dictum of Montesquieu (whom he misunderstands and mistranslates) to the effect that ‘we must not expect under a monarchy to find the people virtuous.’⁵

Aristocracy, as a form of government, need not delay us, though to a certain extent it delayed Godwin.⁶ Again he rather labours the obvious. The whole idea of heredity is absurd, an insult upon reason and justice. At considerable length he dilates in his own language on the fairly obvious truth that the peer and the mechanic are examples of the same biped. Again there is the curse of the opulent, and therefore enervating, education. Like monarchy, aristocracy is founded on falsehood; if anything, it operates more harshly than monarchy. It accentuates inequalities, as it accentuates the pursuit of wealth.

Even at the first encounter, it is probable that most readers will find a certain air of unreality about Godwin's denunciations of monarchy and aristocracy: anyone who knows anything about anything must feel that he is not getting to grips with his subject, and that he is tilting, for instance, not so much at monarchy as at his idea of what monarchy, on a theoretical definition, ought to be. But if his rhetoric does not illumine his subject, at least it throws light on Godwin himself; for his criticisms reveal a naive, impractical, intensely earnest and honest man, whose honesty is rooted in a horrible literalness. He has not learned to appreciate the conventions or the virtue of compromise; he has not learned that there are many things that are not worth troubling about, and that, if any one cares to say so, life is full of conventional lies which, even at the Day of Judgment, will, we trust, matter not at all. Honourable members need not necessarily be honourable, and a Serene Highness has, presumably, occasional lapses from the Heights of Serenity; we do not always meet with gladness those whom we say we are glad to meet. But to Godwin such trifles represented the poison of falsehood choking the integrity of the nation. The House of Lords makes his indignation almost incoherent; he never realises how humorous an institution the Peerage really is.

The optimistic may hope that democracy will present a more pleasing prospect. And in a sense it does. Doubtless there are dangers; for as the unwise outnumber the wise, democracy may be at the mercy of ignorance and folly. Yet despite this and other obvious perils, democracy is admitted to be ‘greatly preferable’ to other systems; and by speaking and acting the truth—though this is difficult on Godwinian standards—the dangers of democracy may be avoided. But any satisfaction that this conclusion may afford vanishes when we reflect on how National Assemblies in fact behave and conduct their affairs.

Firstly, they produce a fictitious unanimity. But let Godwin himself speak:

In reality all matters that are brought before such an assembly are decided by a majority of votes, and the minority, after having exposed with all the power of eloquence and force of reasoning of which they are capable the injustice and folly of the measures adopted, are obliged in a certain sense to assist in carrying them into execution. Nothing can more directly contribute to the depravation of the human understanding and character. It inevitably renders mankind timid, dissembling and corrupt.¹

Secondly, national councils (i.e. representative bodies) bring about an unnatural uniformity of opinion. Men tie themselves to a party; every one considers ‘the effects which the opinions he avows will produce on his own success.’²

Thirdly, there is the absurdity of terminating a discussion by a vote. Not merely does the speaker aim at a transitory effect rather than a permanent conviction, but there is the ludicrous spectacle of men ‘weighing particles and adjusting commas.’ And finally there is ‘that intolerable insult upon all reason and justice, the deciding upon truth by the casting up of numbers.’¹

It will be observed that we have here come to the essence of anarchism. The objection to democracy is that, being still a form of government, it is still a tyranny, in which the minority is bound against its will by the decision of the majority and compelled to do what it would not. Godwin, it will be noticed, very subtly insinuates that the measures imposed by the majority are characterised by ‘injustice and folly’: the minority in fact is right.

Democracy, indeed, only becomes tolerable if the National Assembly (the machinery of democracy) meets at very rare intervals and on special occasions only: ‘In a country in which universal truth was already established there would be little need of a representative assembly.’² Either they should be elected only for extraordinary emergencies, or they should sit periodically, as for example, for one day in the year. Our purpose should be to ‘annihilate the quackery of Government.’³

From this orgy of destruction, what positive suggestions emerge? Briefly, after enunciating certain impeccable principles of benevolence towards other nations, it is argued, firstly, that there is unnecessary complication of government, and secondly, that small territories, as units, are preferable. The only two legitimate purposes for which a government may exist are, on the usual laissez faire lines, (i) the suppression of injustice against individuals, and (ii) defence against external invasion. But the former of these merely calls for an area large enough to provide for the institution of a jury to deal with offences and questions regarding property.⁴ In fact, on the basis of small areas, comparable to a parish, the world could govern itself without knowing it was doing so. Controversies would not arise between parishes; and so far as the criminal is concerned, he would be kept in check ‘by the general inspection that is exercised by the members of a limited circle over the conduct of each other,’⁵ somewhat after the manner of the Sick Visitors in the older Friendly Societies. If for any reason, at long intervals, an Assembly should be required, it will ultimately be sufficient to ‘invite’ the various parishes to cooperate for the common advantage.⁶ ‘Invitation’ takes the place of command, and in the internal administration the same pleasant distinction holds good. When the whole species shall have become ‘reasonable and virtuous,’ the task of the jury will take a new form: ‘It will then be sufficient for them to invite the offenders to forsake their errors.’¹ In a world of men full of Godwinian reason, what more could possibly be required? Thus government is reduced to a National Assembly which (if possible) never meets, a suggestion of a Parish Council, though in fact the ‘general inspection’ of the inhabitants does the trick, and juries who invite offenders to forsake their wicked ways. As, however, the whole argument tends to prove that there will be no offenders, the juries will perpetually wallow in a spate of white gloves. In all essentials government has been abolished.

Having abolished government and the State, it may seem somewhat otiose to make a special holocaust of the Law; yet there are reasons for holding a separate inquest on the Law, and demonstrating its monstrosities. In the first place, Law is not really urgently required, ‘if a society be contented with the rules of justice.’² But apart from this, the whole conception of Law is open to numerous objections, of which three in particular may be specified, as revealing the Godwinian point of view.

Firstly, Law is endless, as it is incomprehensible. ‘Edict is heaped upon edict, and volume upon volume.’ In this welter, no action of any man is ever the same as any other: he would imply that no two murders (e.g.) are the same murder. But along comes the Law with its Procrustean bed and applies the same test to all. Hence it becomes necessary either to wrest the Law, or perpetually make new ones. Hence also arises the uncertainty of the Law: no one can foretell what the result of any action will be. It has become ‘a labyrinth without end,’ and ‘a mass of contradictions that cannot be extricated.’³

Secondly, a consideration even more offensive to Godwin, Law pretends to foretell the future. It partakes of the nature of prophecy and of promises. It takes upon itself to say what men will do, and what will happen, forgetting that in the interval we may acquire additional knowledge; it tends to produce stagnation and permanence in place of unceasing perfectibility.⁴

Thirdly, and most fundamentally—a pervasive influence through all that Godwin wrote—is the fact that Law is restraint on people in whom the beginning of virtue is that they should obey no one.

In the light of these considerations, ‘we cannot hesitate to conclude universally that law is an institution of the most pernicious tendency’; and it follows also that ‘a lawyer can scarcely fail to be a dishonest man.’ ‘This,’ adds Godwin magnanimously, ‘is less a subject for censure than for regret.’ Not only so, but in the ‘perhaps altogether impossible’ contingency of a perfectly honest lawyer being discovered, he would probably be a more pernicious member of society than the dishonest lawyer.⁵

Apart from these considerations, there are more profound reasons, stretching back to Greek philosophy, for questioning the expedience of Law. Right is something that transcends Law: Law cannot make anything right that was not right before:

Men cannot do more than declare and interpret law; nor can there be an authority so paramount, as to have the prerogative of making that to be law, which abstract and immutable justice had not made to be law previously to that interposition.¹

There is here something of the Physiocratic doctrine of the priority of Loi Naturelle; going further back, there are memories of Cicero, groping for a right superior to, and antecedent to, human law. Without in any way speaking disrespectfully of Natural Law, its obvious weakness as a guide to everyday life is that it is so singularly silent on the Isle of Wight bee disease, the muzzling of dogs, and the precise day in October on which the close time for trout should begin.

What is to take the place of Law? Again we are in a world of echoes from the past. The answer is that the true principle is to be found in ‘reason exercising an uncontrolled jurisdiction upon the circumstances of the case.’² There ought to be men among us ‘whose wisdom is equal to the wisdom of the Law,’ and we should therefore leave the decision to the wisdom of unfettered men, doing what seems right at the moment. It is the view to which Plato tends in one of his dialogues.³

Of crimes, little need be said. There is no such thing as Free Will; as has already been noted, we are entirely the results of our environment: ‘my propensities are the fruit of the impressions that have been made upon me.’⁴ In one of those extravagant phrases beloved of Godwin, ‘the assassin cannot help the murder he commits any more than the dagger.’⁵ It follows that all ideas of guilt, of crime, of desert, of accountableness are out of place. No pot in the potter's hand was ever more helpless than Man, as Godwin sees him, held in the clutch of circumstance. We are villains by necessity and fools by heavenly compulsion. ‘It is through the Lord that I fell away,’ as an earlier shirker of moral responsibility expressed it, with a greater semblance of piety than would have been proper to the later Godwin. Moreover, we must remember that no two crimes were ever alike. Who can fathom the hidden impulses of the criminal, or measure the temptations by which he may have been beset? Robert Burns, in more enduring words, has said something to the same effect. On these matters, Godwin rather naively suggests that the criminal is probably better informed than the judge.¹ The logical conclusion of the Doctrine of Necessity in this extreme form is the abolition of the criminal law altogether. Godwin, as always—though indeed it is characteristic of most anarchist writers—has infinite faith in the power of Reason. As with Socrates, sin is ignorance. Demonstrate to the supposed criminal what is right, and he cannot help doing it: ‘if they made him understand with how much reluctance they had been induced to employ the force of the society against him, if they presented truth to his mind with calmness, perspicuity and benevolence... his reformation would be almost infallible.’²

We reach the last stage in this long process of annihilation, when we come to property—though indeed the essential Godwinian doctrine with regard to property is already contained in the doctrine that under the dictates of justice, all that we have has already had its final destination determined, so that we may not enjoy the free disposal of so much as a penny, or of a moment of time. On this view, surveying that marginal penny in my pocket, to whom does it in fact belong? Obviously, to him to whom its possession is most beneficial:

To whom does any article of property, suppose a loaf of bread, justly belong? To him who most wants it, or to whom the possession of it will be most beneficial. Here are six men famished with hunger, and the loaf is, absolutely considered, capable of satisfying the cravings of them all. Who is it that has a reasonable claim to benefit by the qualities with which this loaf is endowed? They are all brothers perhaps, and the law of primogeniture bestows it exclusively on the eldest. But does justice confirm this award? The laws of different countries dispose of property in a thousand different ways; but there can be but one way which is most conformable to reason.³

It follows also that when we give, we merely do what we ought to do, and can claim no merit for our action; in fact we are merely handing property to its rightful owner, or at least to some one with a greater claim to it than we possess. In all this matter we have deluded ourselves or been deluded, and have been taught ‘to treat the practice of justice, not as a debt, which it ought to be considered, but as an affair of spontaneous generosity and bounty.’

The consequence of this has been that the rich, when they bestowed the most slender pittance of their enormous wealth in acts of charity, as they were called, took merit to themselves for what they gave, instead of considering themselves as delinquents for what they withheld.¹

Into the evils that result from the existence of property, the sense of dependence, the truckling spirit, the pride and the crimes which its presence or absence engenders, it is unnecessary to enter. Though rich in Godwinian phrases, the discussion adds little to the picture, as it adds little to what others have said.

Such for our purposes are the main points in Godwin. He is, it will be observed, the complete anarchist, and when, with his scythe of reason and justice, he has finished mowing in the field of human hypocrisy, singularly little is left standing. Also, of course, though he is a universal destroyer, the work of destruction is inspired by the highest of motives. Godwin was an impossibly good man, of impossibly high ideals; and he is in himself almost sufficient confirmation of the old saying that the anarchist is a man who is too good for this world. And it fits in with the picture, though at first sight it is somewhat astonishing, to note how singularly ‘unrevolutionary’ Godwin is. There is to be no rebellion, no revolution as ordinarily understood, no violence, no tyrannicide. In the matter of martyrdom, Godwin expresses the view that he would rather convince men by his arguments, than seduce them by his example. No doubt so would most martyrs; but the Godwinian elimination of emotion and of passion is noteworthy. Moreover, who knows what opportunities of usefulness might offer themselves in future, should life be prolonged?² There may have to be a certain amount of passive resistance; but otherwise Godwin shows infinite faith in the power of talk. ‘Show people the truth,’ is the beginning and end of Godwin's strategy. ‘The phalanx of reason is invulnerable,’³ but an appeal to force may have a dubious issue. What is required is an ‘universal illumination.’ If that can be achieved, ‘not a sword will need to be drawn, not a finger to be lifted up.’⁴ A much later generation dreamed of a revolution à bras croisés; Godwin's revolution was to be, if anything, more easily accomplished.

Or again, take that vexed question of the right or duty of tyrannicide, so much discussed throughout the ages. Godwin deals with the matter on the level of a cold intellectual logical syllogism: ‘either the nation, whose tyrant you would destroy, is ripe for the assertion and maintenance of its liberty, or it is not.’ In the former case, the tyrant should be deposed, ‘with every appearance of publicity’; in the latter case, it will do no good and may do much harm to remove, or attempt to remove, the tyrant, before in fact conditions are ready for his removal.¹ Everywhere, it is not martyrdom and tyrannicide and all that sort of thing that we require, but ‘illumination.’ Given light and still more light, given truth and still more demonstrations of the truth, and all problems solve themselves.

Even in the matter of property, Godwin is perhaps less revolutionary than appears at first sight. This is above all true if reference be made to the second edition, where Godwin, on certain points, assumes a garment of greater restraint. But even in the first edition it should be remembered that Godwin mingles his thoughts of the present with fantasies of the future, when men will labour but for half a day, and will nevertheless live abundantly, because they live simply. In such a world of superlative abundance and abnegation, the God-winian principles in property will clearly be less difficult to apply. Moreover, it is fairly clear that Godwinian justice does not entitle anyone to walk off with my property, merely because he considers his needs greater than mine. It is for me to decide: it is on my conscience and judgment, and not on his, that the decision hinges. Admittedly, once my judgment has done its work and my conscience has spoken, I have no option. In a sense, Godwin does not deny property: all he does is to restrict infinitely the use the owner may make of his property. There is a rather ridiculous illustration which compresses Godwin's attitude into a grotesque sentence. If a man wants my table, I have apparently a choice of three answers. I may tell him to make one for himself (a course which would probably commend itself to most); if I happen to be more skilful in making tables, I may offer to make one for him; lastly, if his need is urgent and he says he must have the table now, I may invite him to sit down and compare (and discuss) the urgency of our respective needs, and thereafter let justice decide. It is assumed that I shall listen to the voice of justice without bias.²

It has been indicated that Godwin imperceptibly fades from his criticism into his Utopia. Putting it another way, he realises that before he can have his particular brave new world, men will have to be changed. In this same question of property, he is confronted with the objection that his vision is impracticable because of what, in a most charming phrase, he calls the ‘allurements of sloth.’ His answer is that before these things can be, we must first reach ‘a state of great intellectual improvement’; ‘the general mind must be highly cultivated.’³ Without this preliminary exaltation, any attempt to realise his vision ‘will be productive only of confusion,’—presumably the allurements of sloth will continue to allure. So also the objection that such a system as he outlines would lack permanence he counters by emphasising his presupposition that these changes will have been ‘produced by the serious and deliberate conviction of the community at large.’¹ He postulates in effect the universal acceptance of the Godwinian idea of justice, and on this assumption the change will exhibit permanence, if men are permanently changed. In this world of reason, all passion spent, men will ‘derive infinitely more pleasure from simplicity, frugality and truth, than from luxury, empire and fame’²; and will realise that ‘the tendency of a cultivated and virtuous mind is to render us indifferent to the gratifications of sense.’³

In this chapter, Godwin has intentionally been accorded a somewhat fuller treatment than that to which he may be thought to be entitled on a strict assessment of his importance in the socialist tradition. If an apologia be required, it would be that Godwin sums up, as no one else does, the sum and substance of anarchism, and thus embodies in himself a whole tradition—a tradition, moreover, which has tended to be neglected by a generation which has laid (we hope) an undue emphasis on Marx. Godwin may be foolish; but he is always logically foolish. He may, as most of us, do, make mistaken assumptions; but once these assumptions are granted, the torrent of his oratory flows on with admirable consistency to conclusions which, doubtless, may be rejected as contrary to every-day common sense, but which can never be condemned as fallacious within the framework of the general principles which have been postulated. In Godwin we find that the essence of anarchism lies in the supreme importance attached to the individual. Nothing must fetter him. His judgment—and by that we mean his judgment at any moment—is always right for him; and in the interest of the untrammelled liberty of the individual, we are called upon to abolish everything—the State, the law, the binding nature of all engagements. There is no contract which cannot be broken at will; no promise should impede his freedom to judge and act. Since co-operation links him with others, and may therefore impose restraint upon him, all co-operation is evil. Godwin, however, differs from later anarchistic egotists in this respect that while with him the individual is unfettered, this freedom is not given him for selfish ends. Godwin's individual may be free from all external restraint, but he is fettered, horribly fettered, to the task and duty of promoting the general good, so that in the end he becomes the slave of his conscience, which never in fact leaves him any choice of action, even in the most trifling affairs of life. But it is his conscience, his judgment that commands.

NOTE.

It is difficult for us to-day, a century and a half after the event, to appreciate the horror with which, on its appearance, Godwin's Political Justicewas viewed by the respectable classes. But it is sometimes possible in unexpected ways to catch a whiff of the old righteous indignation. The 1793 edition, with its stately type and its gracious margin, offers ample opportunity for a running comment, if the reader is inclined to unburden his mind. In the copy in the Library of Edinburgh University, the original owner, whoever he may have been, has taken full advantage of the opportunity of addressing remonstrances to Mr. Godwin. It was the custom of the age. In places the abuse and the refutation flow on from page to page, and add materially to the enjoyment of perusal. It is only possible to give a few of the shorter and snappier of these pointed arrows:

Here you show your cloven hoof, Mr. Godwin (p. 30).

O you cold-hearted blackguard, this is what you have been working (? to) for so long, is it? (p. 425).

Well done, Mr. Godwin, that's worthy of yourself, you rascal! (p. 430).

Ah, you dog, you dare openly find fault with our nobility, you vile atheist and democrat! (p. 473).

O, you devil incarnate! (p. 515).

That's right, you devil, out with it at last! (p. 797).

But it's the dictate of the Bible, you wretch! (p. 849).

Godwin is also at times a ‘consummate blackguard,’ an ‘unprincipled cunning rascal,’ and an ‘insufferable fool.’ After all these years, it is but right that all this spluttering rage should be allowed to work its way to the daylight.