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The Spike or Victoria College Review October 1928

Onward or Plato's N.Z. Republic

page 39

Onward or Plato's N.Z. Republic

But, asked Polemarchus, what exactly is their office?

Simply this, said I. They go about persuading people to sell their land and if the land agent persuades them to sell and brings along a buyer, he takes from two to five out of every hundred pounds of the purchase money.

Thus, said Polepiarchus, after twenty sales, the property belongs neither to the buyer nor the seller, but to the land agent. Am I right?

Assuming the rate to be five, you are right, said I, but I hope you see not merely the gain of the land agent, but the destruction of the idea of Property itself. I found that there were in New Zealand (in the 1918th year of their time) 21, 000,000 acres of rural land held by what is called freehold, i.e., in nearly absolute possession—and I found that in the next 8 years over 20,000,000 of those acres changed hands, and nearly all of them are now occupied by people who really no longer own them at all.

Why, said Polemarchus, these land agents are most scurvy knaves and enemies of the Republic, are they not, Socrates?

No, said I, they are not worse than other men—they are only less stupid and exist only because the farmers were covetous of great gain.

What do you suppose will happen, Socrates, said Polemarchus, when men have thus lost the idea of Property?

I think that probably the Government will in the end take possession of all the land and allow farmers to cultivate it without possessing it.

But is it a good thing thus to magnify the duties of the Government?

I do not say so. Indeed I fear the result will be bad; but in New Zealand the Government has already done so much for the people it is hard to see where it can stop. The people depend much on the Govrnment and it is the usual practice whenever private people or commercial companies make mistakes, to be helped out of their trouble by the Government. In the same way, when the people find their domestic duties unpleasant they ask the Government to undertake them, and it is unusual for the Government to refuse.

But surely, Socrates, you exaggerate—as I fear your custom is. Show us more clearly how such things are done. Can you give us examples?

Why, yes, said I. Many years ago certain citizens formed a company to collect and lend money. They had hardly any money to begin with, but with much presumption they called themselves "The Bank of N.Z." The people of New Zealand liked to have a bank with their name upon its doors and they gave it support, and as the founder of it was a member of the Government, the Government supported it too, and it prospered greatly. But its directors were ambitious men and they used the money of the Bank to traffick in Maori lands, until at last they and the Bank went aground.

But, Socrates, you are not going to tell us that the Government gave help to such men as these?

I certainly am going to tell you so, said I. The Bank was short by several million pounds and the Government lent them the money to meet their obligations.

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Well, I'm damned! said Polemarchus.

Nay, said I, have hope. Your case is not so bad as the Bank's and it was saved. The Government has a flourishing Tourist Department and no doubt would see you safe across the Ferry. But hear what followed. The Government said that henceforward it must elect four out of the six Directors of the Bank, and it still does. Thus the Government not only provided the money but it accepted responsibility for the future conduct of the Bank's affairs.

But what is the position of the Bank now?

The position is this, said I. The Bank, thus supported by a Government guarantee, pays about £18 a year to its original shareholders for every £100 invested, and £1 shares are worth over 60 shillings in the market-place. Nor is that all, for the Bank, thus supported by the Government, is a member of an Association of Banks formed to frustrate any attempt to lower the price of money.

And do you tell us that this has happened at the same time as the impoverishment of the farmers of New Zealand?

Why, yes. It was the Banks who lent these land-speculators the money to traffick in land. In the farmers' worst year, the slump year it was called, the profits of the Bank doubled.

I think, Socrates, said Polemarchus, that we understand what you meant when you said that the people of this country never grow up.

It is clearly so, said I. How should they ever grow up when their mother, the State, never lets them out of her sight. You know how it is with a doting mother and an only child: so it is in this country with the Government and the People. They are like children, caring only for games—football, cricket and tennis—even the old men play with big marbles on the grass and jump and shout like children, and all their leisure—which is a large part of every day—they spend at football matches or at horse-races, or watching clowns or courtesans or criminals at the Moving Pictures; and when they are not watching one or other of these things they are reading about them. Truly, they never grow up, for like children, too, when they get into trouble they run to their mother for help. The only difference is that, in this case, the mother has never grown up either and does not know, like a wise mother, what is good for her children.

But tell us, said Glaucon, what sort of things does the Government do?

Well, it minds their savings, makes their wills, insures their property, lends them money, carries them from town to town, educates their children, looks after their teeth, inoculates them against disease, decides what books they shall read, what pictures they shall see; it gives the parents a subsidy in order to make them produce more children; it teaches them trades and finds them jobs and fixes their wages, while every fifth man is in its service. It will not allow farmers to sell their own produce; it prohibits local bodies from borrowing without its consent; it compels University Councils to dismiss Professors it doesn't like; it allows its Minister of Health, if he has reason to believe (any reason) that a man is suffering from certain diseases, to compel him to be examined by public officials. If it thinks any man (or the man's wife) to be unsuitable for bringing up children, it takes them away; it will not even allow parents to decide what is to be put on the tombstones of their sons who have fallen in the war. In certain parts of its dominion it deports citizens without trial.

page 41

But, Socrates, this is the worst sort of tyranny. Is not this a free people, do they not govern themselves? Are there not some who oppose such things?

Why, yes, they are called free. But what is the use of electing your governors when there is no discussion and when you are ignorant and afraid. The Party of the rich men owns all the newspapers and has appointed all the members of legislative council. But I do not think the people want to be free. They have grown so accustomed to having things decided for them that they fear to trust themselves.

But are they not divided into classes, and do not the classes contend one with another?

Why, yes, there is much talk about classes, but in their real delusions the people all agree. They none of them have clear thoughts about that Justice which I have often told you of—which possesses the souls of wise men and brings peace to the soul and to the State. Many whom I met, merchants and bankers and men of affairs, agreed in saying—often with much warmth—that the common people were lazy and when they did work they were unskilful. They said there was too much "going slow."

What do they mean by that? said Glaucon. Are they then like the Americans who prefer to go swiftly simply for the sake of swiftness? I have often noticed that among our own craftsmen the slow workers are the best. Tell us, Socrates, about this word.

I will tell you gladly, I said. You will be ready to believe that I asked many questions about it—striking in as the whole matter did with the movement of my own habitual thoughts. It seemed to me, as I walked about their streets that everybody was very busy, far too busy, even the rich men, to be able to stay awhile to talk over the problems of the soul and of the State. Indeed, the only places where I found men with leisure for thought were at the wharves, whom indeed I long mistook for butchers for in their conversation everything was bloody. But of the rich men I asked: Why should men not go slow so long as they go in the right direction? But they said this was only word-splitting in which practical men could have no interest. They were out to make money, not to play with words. Well, said I, that is something—that is where you are going and you want to go there as fast as you can. Yes, they answered, that was it. They wanted to make money. And, said I, how do you make money? And they answered that they bought things as cheap as they could and sold them as dear as they could, and thus made a profit. And you believe, said I, that it is right and proper for a man to do such a thing and good for the Republic? Why, yes, they said, of course. Then, T replied, why do you blame your workmen when they get as much wages as they can and give as little labour as they can in return and thus make a profit? Is it not the same selling dear and buying cheap?

By Hercules, but that was a shrewd one, Socrates, said Polemarchus.

You do well, my son, said I, to swear by Hercules—lying here idle all the day as you do—but as for these New Zealanders I could wish them to swear rather by Apollo and to pray for the use of their brains.

Bravo, Socrates, said Polemarchus, that's the stuff to give the troops. Did you tell them that?

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I hope, I replied, that I remembered the respect that is due from a guest to his hosts, yet I could not forbear from saying that their thinking was apparently at fault. They were thinking too much of the speed and not enough of the direction of labour—both workmen and masters—and it would be good (as well for their souls as for the well-being of the State) if they were to cease thinking of speed and to realise what the present road was leading them to. As I have frequently told you————

Oh, come off it, Socrates, cried Thrasymachus (who had not long entered our circle), you can't get away with that sort of stuff any longer. I have been reading some of those American papers you brought back with you and I am glad to see that the Americans and the New Zealanders take my well-known view of the matter. It was all very well for you to talk about Justice and the soul to the lads of the village here in Athens—who didn't know any better—but when 100,000,000 he-men in the new world stand up at once and say bosh! I guess you'd better shut down. Justice is the rule of the stronger and the prize hard cash. All this talk about justice is just sentimental froth—blow it off, Socrates, and drink down the real stuff—the hard facts!

Well, said I, let us have facts by all means. What are the facts in this case?

The facts are, said Thrasymachus, that this New Zealand is a jolly fine place and the New Zealanders are as stout a set of men as ever you saw in Greece. By Jupiter, they can fight, and haven't they got the lowest deathrate, the bonniest babies, the best footballers, the purest patriots and the biggest wealth per head in the world? These are facts, Socrates, as you would know if you had paid more attention to their excellent Year-book and less to the old women who talk flapdoodle to innocent strangers like yourself. Facts, that is what we want.

Indeed, I replied, I have given you facts, but since you appear to be one of those very modern people for whom the only real facts are figures, I will give you a figure to ponder. I did indeed look into the year-book you speak of and I learned this—that, notwithstanding the fact that the New Zealanders are what you say they are—nevertheless, for every child now born in New Zealand one person is either divorced or registered as illegitimate, or declared bankrupt, or sent to an orphanage or a jail or an asylum, or confined to the Legislative Council! It looks like a Land of Promise, does it not?

Thrasymachus was understood to say that New Zealand had cunning scientists who could cut away all this human wastage and set free the body politic for further progress.

On the whole then, said Polemarchus, you do not regard them as a great nation, Socrates?

By no means, said I. A nation is great not when it is numerous or rich or well fed, but when it produces great men, and of these, New Zealand is more destitute even than America. I asked them who were their great men and they showed me an honest old sheep-farmer turned politician and an energetic old Professor of Literature with a turn for anthropology and real estate, a few rich men distinguished by the low cunning that makes tor commercial success, and then the vast sea of mediocrites. Though, once upon a time, they said, there had been a great man, in the days when there were giants in the land and he was page 43 their king—King Richard they called him. But when I asked them about him they said he was a strong man who could carry heavy weights and throw men out of hotels (having kept one) and who had never read any books but blue books, and who got everybody to vote for him to be king by promising them a pension when they were old, out of the public funds. But, said I, have you no great men now? Have you no great teachers, do your scientists ever discover anything or your statesmen ever say anything that requires thought, or do anything that requires courage? Have you any poets, novelists, philosophers?

No, they replied, they couldn't say that they had, though they did have uncommonly good footballers and the cricket was improving fast. And, of course, there was Dr. Truby King, who had learned how to raise babies by looking after lunatics and had taught them that great truth: "Never mind the mind, mind the babies!" No doubt that was not the whole truth, but so far as it went it was sound and they were young and knew the)' had something to learn—but they still had a long way to go.

It may be, indeed, said Thrasymachus, that they have a great future.

Perhaps, said I. Indeed, I know that their motto is "Onward," but that only means that they wish to continue in the same direction, but what if it is the wrong one? They picture themselves as a young and strong man mounting steadily a straight road in the noonday light of the sun—but in truth, so far as the things of the mind are concerned, they seem to be more like an old man groping in the dark. Though there did appear to be about their ideas a sort of steady, blind momentum. Not long after our boat left their shores I had a strange dream, and in that dream it seemed to me that their islands were moving slowly through the sea—and as I watched, I saw that they were moving towards America. Knowing America as I did, that was a terrible dream, and the question I wanted to ask the people was: "Onward—but Whither"