for all I know, to have their noses blown by nurses.  I merely say that mankind does recognize these universal human functions, and that democracy classes government among them.  In short, the democratic faith is this:  that the most terribly important things must be left to ordinary men themselves—­the mating of the sexes, the rearing of the young, the laws of the state.  This is democracy; and in this I have always believed.

But there is one thing that I have never from my youth up been able to understand.  I have never been able to understand where people got the idea that democracy was in some way opposed to tradition.  It is obvious that tradition is only democracy extended through time.  It is trusting to a consensus of common human voices rather than to some isolated or arbitrary record.  The man who quotes some German historian against the tradition of the Catholic Church, for instance, is strictly appealing to aristocracy.  He is appealing to the superiority of one expert against the awful authority of a mob.  It is quite easy to see why a legend is treated, and ought to be treated, more respectfully than a book of history.  The legend is generally made by the majority of people in the village, who are sane.  The book is generally written by the one man in the village who is mad.  Those who urge against tradition that men in the past were ignorant may go and urge it at the Carlton Club, along with the statement that voters in the slums are ignorant.  It will not do for us.  If we attach great importance to the opinion of ordinary men in great unanimity when we are dealing with daily matters, there is no reason why we should disregard it when we are dealing with history or fable.  Tradition may be defined as an extension of the franchise.  Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors.  It is the democracy of the dead.  Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about.  All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death.  Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.  I, at any rate, cannot separate the two ideas of democracy and tradition; it seems evident to me that they are the same idea.  We will have the dead at our councils.  The ancient Greeks voted by stones; these shall vote by tombstones.  It is all quite regular and official, for most tombstones, like most ballot papers, are marked with a cross.

I have first to say, therefore, that if I have had a bias, it was always a bias in favour of democracy, and therefore of tradition.  Before we come to any theoretic or logical beginnings I am content to allow for that personal equation; I have always been more inclined to believe the ruck of hard-working people than to believe that special and troublesome literary class to which I belong.  I prefer even the fancies and prejudices of the people who see life from the inside to the clearest demonstrations of the people who see life from the outside.  I would always trust the old wives’ fables against the old maids’ facts.  As long as wit is mother wit it can be as wild as it pleases.