anything that is worth having.  But to the Socialist the matter presents itself in no such light.  He sees a mass of misery which he believes—­and in large measure justly believes—­Socialism would put an end to; and he has no patience with the conservative who points out—­and justly points out—­ that the poverty is being steadily, though gradually, overcome in the advance of mankind under the existing order.  “Away with it,” he says; “we cannot wait a hundred years for that which we have a right to demand today.”  And “away with it” we ought all to say, if Socialism, while doing away with it, would not be doing away with something else of infinite value and infinite benefit to mankind, both material and spiritual; something with which is bound up the richness and zest of life, not only for what it is the fashion of radicals to call “the privileged few,” but for the great mass of mankind.  That something is liberty, and the individuality which is inseparably bound up with liberty.  The essence of Socialism is the suppression of individuality, the exaltation of the collective will and the collective interest, the submergence of the individual will and the individual interest.  The particular form—­even the particular degree—­of coercion by which this submergence is brought about varies with the different types of Socialism; but they all agree in the essential fact of the submergence.  Socialism may possibly be compatible with prosperity, with contentment; it is not compatible with liberty, not compatible with individuality.  I am, of course, not undertaking here to discuss the merits of Socialism; my purpose is only to point out that those who are hostile to Socialism must cherish liberty.  And it is vain to cherish liberty in the abstract if you are doing your best to dry up the very source of the love of liberty in the concrete workings of every man’s daily experience.  With the plain man—­indeed with men in general, plain or otherwise—­love of liberty, or of any elemental concept, is strong only if it is instinctive; and it cannot be instinctive if it is jarred every day by habitual and unresented experience of its opposite.  Prohibition is a restraint of liberty so clearly unrelated to any primary need of the state, so palpably bearing on the most personal aspect of a man’s own conduct, that it is impossible to acquiesce in it and retain a genuine and lively feeling of abhorrence for any other threatened invasion of the domain of liberty which can claim the justification of being intended for the benefit of the poor or unfortunate.  So long as Prohibition was a local measure, so long even as it was a measure of State legislation, this effect did not follow; or, if at all, only in a small degree.  People did not regard it as a dominant, and above all as a paramount and inescapable, part of the national life.  But decreed for the whole nation, and imbedded permanently in the Constitution, it will have an immeasurable effect in impairing that instinct of liberty which has been the very heart