ANOTHER SHEAF

 BY

 JOHN GALSWORTHY

 NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1919

 Copyright, 1919, by Charles Scribner's Sons

 Published January, 1919

 Copyright, 1917, by THE CROWELL PUBLISHING CO. Copyright, 1918, by HARPER & BROTHERS Copyright, 1918, by THE YALE PUBLISHING ASSN. , Inc. 

TO MORLEY ROBERTS

CONTENTS

 PAGE THE ROAD 1

 THE SACRED WORK 4

 BALANCE SHEET OF THE SOLDIER-WORKMAN 14

 THE CHILDREN'S JEWEL FUND 46

 FRANCE, 1916-1917--AN IMPRESSION 53

 ENGLISHMAN AND RUSSIAN 82

 AMERICAN AND BRITON 88

 ANGLO-AMERICAN DRAMA AND ITS FUTURE 112

 SPECULATIONS 140

 THE LAND, 1917 169

 THE LAND, 1918 205

 GROTESQUES 245

ANOTHER SHEAF

THE ROAD

The road stretched in a pale, straight streak, narrowing to a merethread at the limit of vision--the only living thing in the wilddarkness. All was very still. It had been raining; the wet heather andthe pines gave forth scent, and little gusty shivers shook the drippingbirch trees. In the pools of sky, between broken clouds, a few starsshone, and half of a thin moon was seen from time to time, like thefragment of a silver horn held up there in an invisible hand, waiting tobe blown. 

Hard to say when I first became aware that there was movement on theroad, little specks of darkness on it far away, till its end wasblackened out of sight, and it seemed to shorten towards me. Whateverwas coming darkened it as an invading army of ants will darken a streakof sunlight on sand strewn with pine needles. Slowly this shadow creptalong till it had covered all but the last dip and rise; and still itcrept forward in that eerie way, as yet too far off for sound. 

Then began the voice of it in the dripping stillness, a tramping ofweary feet, and I could tell that this advancing shadow was formed ofmen, millions of them moving all at one speed, very slowly, as ifregulated by the march of the most tired among them. They had blottedout the road, now, from a few yards away to the horizon; and suddenly, in the dusk, a face showed. 

Its eyes were eager, its lips parted, as if each step was the first themarcher had ever taken; and yet he was stumbling, almost asleep fromtiredness. A young man he was, with skin drawn tight over his heavycheek-bones and jaw, under the platter of his helmet, and burdened withall his soldier's load. At first I saw his face alone in the darkness, startlingly clear; and then a very sea of helmeted faces, with theirsunken eyes shining, and their lips parted. Watching them pass--heavyand dim and spectre-like in the darkness, those eager dead-beat men--Iknew as never before how they had longed for this last march, and infancy seen the road, and dreamed of the day when they would be trudginghome. Their hearts seemed laid bare to me, the sickening hours they hadwaited, dreaming and longing, in boots rusty with blood. And the nightwas full of the loneliness and waste they had been through. .. . 

 * * * * *

Morning! At the edge of the town the road came arrow-straight to thefirst houses and their gardens, past them, and away to the streets. Inevery window and at each gate children, women, men, were looking downthe road. Face after face was painted, various, by the sunlight, homelywith line and wrinkle, curve and dimple, pallid or ruddy, but the lookin the eyes of all these faces seemed the same. "I have waited so long, "it said, "I cannot wait any more--I cannot!" Their hands were clasped, and by the writhing of those hands I knew how they had yearned, and themadness of delight waiting to leap from them--wives, mothers, fathers, children, the patient hopers against hope. 

Far out on the road something darkened the sunlight. _They werecoming!_

THE SACRED WORK

The Angel of Peace, watching the slow folding back of this darkness, will look on an earth of cripples. The field of the world is strewn withhalf-living men. That loveliness which is the creation of the æsthetichuman spirit; that flowering of directed energy which we know ascivilisation; that manifold and mutual service which we callprogress--all stand mutilated and faltering. As though, on a pilgrimageto the dreamed-of Mecca, water had failed, and by the wayside countlessmuffled forms sat waiting for rain; so will the long road of mankindlook to-morrow. 

In every township and village of our countries men stricken by the warwill dwell for the next half-century. The figure of Youth must goone-footed, one-armed, blind of an eye, lesioned and stunned, in thehome where it once danced. The half of a generation can never again stepinto the sunlight of full health and the priceless freedom of unharmedlimbs. 

_So comes the sacred work. _

Can there be limit to the effort of gratitude? Niggardliness and delayin restoring all of life that can be given back is sin against thehuman spirit, a smear on the face of honour. 

Love of country, which, like some little secret lamp, glows in everyheart, hardly to be seen of our eyes when the world is at peace--love ofthe old, close things, the sights, sounds, scents we have known frombirth; loyalty to our fathers' deeds and our fathers' hopes; the clutchof Motherland--this love sent our soldiers and sailors forth to the longendurance, to the doing of such deeds, and the bearing of so great andevil pain as can never be told. The countries for which they have daredand suffered have now to play their part. 

The conscience of to-day is burdened with a load well-nigh unbearable. Each hour of the sacred work unloads a little of this burden. 

To lift up the man who has been stricken on the battlefield, restore himto the utmost of health and agility, give him an adequate pension, andre-equip him with an occupation suited to the forces left him--that is aprocess which does not cease till the sufferer fronts the future keen, hopeful, and secure. And such restoration is at least as much a matterof spirit as of body. Consider what it means to fall suddenly out offull vigour into the dark certainty that you can never have fullstrength again, though you live on twenty, forty, sixty years. The flagof your courage may well be down half-mast! Apathy--that creeping nervedisease--is soon your bed-fellow and the companion of your walks. Acurtain has fallen before your vision; your eyes no longer range. TheRussian "Nichevo"--the "what-does-it-matter?" mood--besets you. Fateseems to say to you: "Take the line of least resistance, friend--you aredone for!" But the sacred work says to Fate: "_Retro, Satanas!_ This ourcomrade is not your puppet. He shall yet live as happy and as useful--ifnot as active--a life as he ever lived before. You shall not crush him!We shall tend him from clearing station till his discharge better thanwounded soldier has ever yet been tended. In special hospitals, orthopædic, paraplegic, phthisic, neurasthenic, we shall give him backfunctional ability, solidity of nerve or lung. The flesh torn away, thelost sight, the broken ear-drum, the destroyed nerve, it is true, wecannot give back; but we shall so re-create and fortify the rest of himthat he shall leave hospital ready for a new career. Then we shall teachhim how to tread the road of it, so that he fits again into the nationallife, becomes once more a workman with pride in his work, a stake in thecountry, and the consciousness that, handicapped though he be, he runsthe race level with his fellows, and is by that so much the better manthan they. And beneath the feet of this new workman we shall put thefirm plank of a pension. "

The sacred work fights the creeping dejections which lie in wait foreach soul and body, for the moment stricken and thrown. It says to Fate:"You shall not pass!"

And the greatest obstacle with which it meets is the very stoicism andnonchalance of the sufferer! To the Anglo-Saxon, especially, thoseprecious qualities are dangerous. That horse, taken to the water, willtoo seldom drink. Indifference to the future has a certain loveability, but is hardly a virtue when it makes of its owner a weary drone, ekingout a pension with odd jobs. The sacred work is vitally concerned todefeat this hand-to-mouth philosophy. Side by side in man, andespecially in Anglo-Saxon, there live two creatures. One of them lies onhis back and smokes; the other runs a race; now one, now the other, seems to be the whole man. The sacred work has for its end to keep therunner on his feet; to proclaim the nobility of running. A man will dofor mankind or for his country what he will not do for himself; butmankind marches on, and countries live and grow, and need our servicesin peace no less than in war. Drums do not beat, the flags hang furled, in time of peace; but a quiet music is ever raising its call to service. He who in war has flung himself, without thought of self, on the bayonetand braved a hail of bullets often does not hear that quiet music. It isthe business of the sacred work to quicken his ear to it. Of little useto man or nation would be the mere patching-up of bodies, so that, likea row of old gossips against a sunlit wall, our disabled might sit andweary out their days. If that were all we could do for them, gratitudeis proven fraudulent, device bankrupt; and the future of our countriesmust drag with a lame foot. 

To one who has watched, rather from outside, it seems that restorationworthy of that word will only come if the minds of all engaged in thesacred work are always fixed on this central truth: "Body and spirit areinextricably conjoined; to heal the one without the other isimpossible. " If a man's mind, courage and interest be enlisted in thecause of his own salvation, healing goes on apace, the sufferer isremade. If not, no mere surgical wonders, no careful nursing, will availto make a man of him again. Therefore I would say: "From the moment heenters hospital, look after his mind and his will; give them food;nourish them in subtle ways, increase that nourishment as his strengthincreases. Give him interest in his future; light a star for him to fixhis eyes on. So that, when he steps out of hospital, you shall not haveto begin to train one who for months, perhaps years, has been living, mindless and will-less, the life of a half-dead creature. "

That this is a hard task none who knows hospital life can doubt. 

That it needs special qualities and special effort quite other than theaverage range of hospital devotion is obvious. But it saves time in theend, and without it success is more than doubtful. The crucial period isthe time spent in hospital; use that period to re-create not only body, but mind and will-power, and all shall come out right; neglect to use itthus, and the heart of many a sufferer, and of many a would-be healer, will break from sheer discouragement. 

The sacred work is not departmental; it is one long organic process fromthe moment when a man is picked up from the field of battle to themoment when he is restored to the ranks of full civil life. Our eyesmust not be fixed merely on this stressful present, but on the world asit will be ten years hence. I see that world gazing back, like arepentant drunkard at his own debauch, with a sort of horrifiedamazement and disgust. I see it impatient of any reminiscence of thishurricane; hastening desperately to recover what it enjoyed before lifewas wrecked and pillaged by these blasts of death. Hearts, which nowswell with pity and gratitude when our maimed soldiers pass the streets, will, from sheer familiarity, and through natural shrinking fromreminder, be dried to a stony indifference. "Let the dead past bury itsdead" is a saying terribly true, and perhaps essential to thepreservation of mankind. The world of ten years hence will shrug itsshoulders if it sees maimed and _useless_ men crawling the streets ofits day, like winter flies on a windowpane. 

It is for the sacred work to see that there shall be no winter flies. Aniche of usefulness and self-respect exists for every man, howeverhandicapped; but that niche must be found for him. To carry the processof restoration to a point short of this is to leave the cathedralwithout spire. 

Of the men and women who have this work in hand I have seen enough--inFrance and in my own country, at least--to know their worth, and theselfless idealism which animates them. Their devotion, courage, tenacity, and technical ability are beyond question or praise. I wouldonly fear that in the hard struggle they experience to carry each day'swork to its end, to perfect their own particular jobs, all so importantand so difficult, vision of the whole fabric they are helping to raisemust often be obscured. And I would venture to say: "Only by lookingupon each separate disabled soldier as the complete fabric can youpossibly keep that vision before your eyes. Only by revivifying in eachseparate disabled soldier the _will to live_ can you save him from thefate of merely continuing to exist. "

There are wounded men, many, whose spirit is such that they will marchin front of any effort made for their recovery. I well remember one ofthese--a Frenchman--nearly paralysed in both legs. All day long he wouldwork at his "macramé, " and each morning, after treatment, would demandto try and stand. I can see his straining efforts now, his eyes like theeyes of a spirit; I can hear his daily words: "_Il me semble que j'ai unpeu plus de force dans mes jambes ce matin, Monsieur!_" though, I fear, he never had. Men of such indomitable initiative, though not rare, arebut a fraction. The great majority have rather the happy-go-lucky soul. For them it is only too easy to postpone self-help till sheer necessitydrives, or till some one in whom they believe inspires them. The work ofre-equipping these with initiative, with a new interest in life, withwork which they can do, is one of infinite difficulty and complexity. Nevertheless, it must be done. 

The great publics of our countries do not yet, I think, see that theytoo have their part in the sacred work. So far they only seem to feel:"Here's a wounded hero; let's take him to the movies, and give him tea!"Instead of choking him with cheap kindness each member of the publicshould seek to reinspire the disabled man with the feeling that he is nomore out of the main stream of life than they are themselves; and each, according to his or her private chances, should help him to find thatspecial niche which he can best, most cheerfully, and most usefully fillin the long future. 

The more we drown the disabled in tea and lip gratitude the more weunsteel his soul, and the harder we make it for him to win through, when, in the years to come, the wells of our tea and gratitude havedried up. We can do a much more real and helpful thing. I fear thatthere will soon be no one of us who has not some personal frienddisabled. Let us regard that man as if he were ourselves; let us treathim as one who demands a full place in the ranks of working life, andtry to find it for him. 

In such ways alone will come a new freemasonry to rebuild this ruinedtemple of our day. The ground is rubbled with stones--fallen, and stillfalling. Each must be replaced; freshly shaped, cemented, and mortisedin, that the whole may once more stand firm and fair. In good time, to aclearer sky than we are fortunate enough to look on, our temple shallrise again. The birds shall not long build in its broken walls, norlichens moss it. The winds shall not long play through these now jaggedwindows, nor the rain drift in, nor moonlight fill it with ghosts andshadows. To the glory of man we will stanchion, and raise and roof itanew. 

Each comrade who for his Motherland has, for the moment, lost his futureis a miniature of that shattered temple. 

To restore him, and with him the future of our countries, that is thesacred work. 

THE BALANCE SHEET OF THE SOLDIER-WORKMAN

Let the reader take what follows with more than a grain of salt. No onecan foretell--surely not this writer--with anything approachingcertainty what will be the final effect of this war on thesoldier-workman. One can but marshal some of the more obvious andgeneral liabilities and assets, and try to strike a balance. The wholething is in flux. Millions are going into the crucible at everytemperature; and who shall say at all precisely what will come out orwhat conditions the product issuing will meet with, though theyobviously cannot be the same as before the war? For in considering thisquestion, one must run into the account on either side not only thevarious effects of the war on the soldier-workman, but the alteredinfluences his life will encounter in the future, so far as one canforesee; and this is all navigation in uncharted waters. 

Talking with and observing French soldiers during the winter of1916-1917, and often putting to them this very question: How is the wargoing to affect the soldier-workman? I noticed that their answersfollowed very much the trend of class and politics. An adjutant, sergeant, or devout Catholic considered that men would be improved, gainself-command, and respect for law and order, under prolonged disciplineand daily sacrifice. A freethinker of the educated class, or a privateof Socialistic tendencies, on the other hand, would insist that thestrain must make men restless, irritable, more eager for their rights, less tolerant of control. Each imagined that the war would further thechances of the future as they dreamed of it. If I had talked withcapitalists--there are none among French soldiers--they would doubtlesshave insisted that after-war conditions were going to be easier, just asthe "_sans-sous_" maintained that they were going to be harder andprovocative of revolution. In a word, the wish was father to thethought. 

Having observed this so strongly, the writer of these speculations saysto himself: "Let me, at all events, try to eliminate any bias, and seethe whole thing as should an umpire--one of those pure beings in whitecoats, purged of all the prejudices, passions, and predilections ofmankind. Let me have no temperament for the time being, for I have toset down--not what would be the effect on me if I were in their place, or what would happen to the future if I could have my way, but whatwould happen all the same if I were not alive. Only from an impersonalpoint of view, if there be such a thing, am I going to get evenapproximately at the truth. "

Impersonally, then, one notes the credit facts and probabilities towardsthe future's greater well-being; and those on the debit side, ofretrogression from the state of well-being, such as it was, whichprevailed when war was declared. 

First, what will be the physical effect of the war on thesoldier-workman? Military training, open-air life, and plentiful foodare of such obvious physical advantage in the vast majority of cases asto need no pointing out. And how much improvement was wanted is patentto any one who has a remnant left of the old Greek worship of the body. It has made one almost despair of industrialised England to see thegreat Australians pass in the streets of London. We English cannotafford to neglect the body any longer; we are becoming, I am muchafraid, a warped, stunted, intensely plain people. On that point Irefuse to speak with diffidence, for it is my business to know somethingabout beauty, and in our masters and pastors I see no sign of knowledgeand little inkling of concern, since there is no public opinion to drivethem forward to respect beauty. One-half of us regard good looks asdangerous and savouring of immorality; the other half look upon them as"swank, " or at least superfluous. Any interest manifested in such asubject is confined to a few women and a handful of artists. Let any onewho has an eye for looks take the trouble to observe the people who passin the streets of any of our big towns, he will count perhaps one infive--not beautiful--but with some pretensions to being not absolutelyplain; and one can say this without fear of hurting any feelings, forall will think themselves exceptions. Frivolity apart, there is a dismallack of good looks and good physique in our population; and it will beall to the good to have had this physical training. If that training hadstopped short of the fighting line it would be physically entirelybeneficial; as it is, one has unfortunately to set against itsadvantages--leaving out wounds and mutilation altogether--a considerablenumber of overstrained hearts and nerves, not amounting to actualdisablement; and a great deal of developed rheumatism. 

Peace will send back to their work very many men better set up andhardier; but many also obviously or secretly weakened. Hardly any can goback as they were. Yet, while training will but have brought outstrength which was always latent, and which, unless relapse be guardedagainst, must rapidly decline, cases of strain and rheumatism will forthe most part be permanent, and such as would not have taken place underpeace conditions. Then there is the matter of venereal disease, whichthe conditions of military life are carefully fostering--no negligiblefactor on the debit side; the health of many hundreds must be writtenoff on that score. To credit, again, must be placed increased personalcleanliness, much greater handiness and resource in the small ways oflife, and an even more complete endurance and contempt of illness thanalready characterised the British workman, if that be possible. On thewhole I think that, physically, the scales will balance pretty evenly. 

Next, what will be the effect of the war on the mental powers of thesoldier-workman? Unlike the French (sixty per cent. Of whose army aremen working on the land), our army must contain at least ninety percent. Of town workers, whose minds in time of peace are kept rather moreactive than those of workers on the land by the ceaseless friction andsmall decisions of town life. To gauge the result of two to five years'military life on the minds of these town workers is a complicated andstubborn problem. Here we have the exact converse of the physical case. If the army life of the soldier-workman stopped short of service at thefront one might say at once that the effect on his mind would be farmore disastrous than it is. The opportunity for initiative and decision, the mental stir of camp and depôt life is _nil_ compared with that ofservice in the fighting line. And for one month at the front a manspends perhaps five at the rear. Military life, on its negative side, ismore or less a suspension of the usual channels of mental activity. Bybarrack and camp life the normal civilian intellect is, as it were, marooned. On that desert island it finds, no doubt, certain new and verydefinite forms of activity, but any one who has watched old soldiersmust have been struck by the "arrested" look which is stamped on most ofthem--by a kind of remoteness, of concentrated emptiness, as of men whoby the conditions of their lives have long been prevented from thinkingof anything outside a ring fence. Two to five years' service will not belong enough to set the old soldier's stamp on a mind, but one can seethe process beginning; and it will be quite long enough to encouragelaziness in minds already disposed to lying fallow. Far be it from thispen to libel the English, but a feverish mental activity has never beentheir vice; intellect, especially in what is known as the working-class, is leisurely; it does not require to be encouraged to take its ease. Some one has asked me: "_Can_ the ordinary worker think less in thearmy than when he wasn't in the army?" In other words: "Did he everthink at all?" The British worker is, of course, deceptive; he does notlook as if he were thinking. Whence exactly does he get hisstolidity--from climate, self-consciousness, or his competitive spirit?All the same, thought does go on in him, shrewd and "near-the-bone";life-made rather than book-made thought. Its range is limited by itsvocabulary; it starts from different premises, reaches differentconclusions from those of the "pundit, " and so is liable to seem to thelatter non-existent. But let a worker and an educated man sit oppositeeach other in a railway carriage without exchanging a word, as is thefashion with the English, and which of their two silent judgments on theother will be superior? I am not sure, but I rather think the worker's. It will have a kind of deadly realism. In camp and depôt life the mindstanding-at-ease from many civilian frictions and needs for decision, however petty, and shaken away from civilian ruts, will do a good dealof thinking of a sort, be widened, and probably re-value manythings--especially when its owner goes abroad and sees fresh types, fresh manners, and the world. But actual physical exertion, and theinertia which follows it, bulk large in military service, and many who"never thought at all" before they became soldiers will think stillless after! I may be cynical, but it seems to me that the chief stimulusto thought in the ordinary mind is money, the getting and the spendingthereof; that what we call "politics, " those social interests which format least half the staple of the ordinary worker's thought, are made upof concern as to the wherewithal to live. In the army money is a fixedquantity which demands no thought, neither in the getting nor thespending; and the constant mental activity which in normal life circlesround money of necessity dries up. 

But against this indefinite general rusting of mind machinery in thesoldier-workman's life away from the fighting line certain definiteconsiderations must be set. Many soldiers will form a habit ofreading--in the new armies the demand for books is great; some in sheerboredom will have begun an all-round cultivation of their minds; othersagain will be chafing continually against this prolonged holding-up oftheir habitual mental traffic--and when a man chafes he does not exactlyrust; so that, while the naturally lazy will have been made more lazy, the naturally eager may be made very eager. 

The matter of age, too, is not unimportant. A soldier of twenty, twenty-five, even up to thirty, probably seldom feels that the mode oflife from which he has been taken is set and permanent. He may bedestined to do that work all his days, but the knowledge of this has notso far bitten him; he is not yet in the swing and current of his career, and feels no great sense of dislocation. But a man of thirty-five orforty, taken from an occupation which has got grip on him, feels thathis life has had a slice carved out of it. He may realise the necessitybetter than the younger man, take his duty more seriously, but must havea sensation as if his springs were let down flat. The knowledge that hehas to resume his occupation again in real middle age, with all thesteam escaped, must be profoundly discouraging; therefore I think hismental activity will suffer more than that of the younger man. Therecuperative powers of youth are so great that very many of our youngersoldiers will unrust quickly and at a bound regain all the activitylost. Besides, a very great many of the younger men will not go back tothe old job. But older men, though they will go back to what they weredoing before more readily than their juniors, will go back withdiminished hope and energy, and a sort of fatalism. At forty, even atthirty-five, every year begins to seem important, and several years willhave been wrenched out of their working lives just, perhaps, when theywere beginning to make good. 

Turning to the spells of service at the front--there will be no rustingthere--the novelty of sensation, the demand for initiative andadaptability are too great. A soldier said to me: "My two years in depôtand camp were absolutely deadening; that eight weeks at the front beforeI was knocked over were the best eight weeks I ever had. " Spells at thefront must wipe out all or nearly all the rust; but against them must beset the deadening spells of hospital, which too often follow, thedeadening spells of training which have gone before; and the moreconsiderable though not very permanent factor--that laziness anddislocation left on the minds of many who have been much in the firingline. As the same young soldier put it: "I can't concentrate now as Icould on a bit of work--it takes me longer; all the same, where I usedto chuck it when I found it hard, I set my teeth now. " In other words, less mental but more moral grip. 

On the whole, then, so far as mental effect goes, I believe the balancemust come out on the debit side. 

And, now, what will be the spiritual effect of the war on thesoldier-workman? And by "spiritual" I mean the effect of his new lifeand emotional experience, neither on his intellect, nor exactly on his"soul"--for very few men have anything so rarefied--but on hisdisposition and character. 

Has any one the right to discuss this who has not fought? It is with thegreatest diffidence that I hazard any view. On the other hand, theeffects are so various, and so intensely individual, that perhaps onlysuch a one has a chance of forming a general judgment unbiassed bypersonal experience and his own temperament. What thousands of strangeand poignant feelings must pass through even the least impressionablesoldier who runs the gamut of this war's "experience"! And there willnot be too many of our soldier-workmen returning to civil life withouthaving had at least a taste of everything. The embryo Guardsman whosticks his bayonet into a sack, be he never so unimaginative, with eachjab of that bayonet pictures dimly the body of a "Hun, " and gets used tothe sensation of spitting it. On every long march there comes a timethat may last hours when the recruit feels done up, and yet has to go on"sticking it. " Never a day passes, all through his service, without somemoment when he would give his soul to be out of it all and back in somelittle elysium of the past; but he has to grit his teeth and try toforget. Hardly a man who, when he first comes under fire, has not astruggle with himself which amounts to a spiritual victory. Not manywho do not arrive at a "Don't care" state of mind that is almost equalto a spiritual defeat. No soldier who does not rub shoulders during hisservice with countless comrades strange to him, and get a widerunderstanding and a fuller tolerance. Not a soul in the trenches, onewould think, who is not caught up into a mood of comradeship andself-suppression which amounts almost to exaltation. Not one but has tofight through moods almost reaching extinction of the very love of life. And shall all this--and the many hard disappointments, and the longyearning for home and those he loves, and the chafing against continualrestraints, and the welling-up of secret satisfaction in the "bit done, "the knowledge that Fate is not beating, cannot beat him; and the sightof death all round, and the looking into Death's eyes--staring thoseeyes down; and the long bearing of pain; and the pity for his comradesbearing pain--shall all this pass his nature by without marking it forlife? When all is over, and the soldier-workman back in civil life, willhis character be enlarged or shrunken? The nature of a man is neverreally changed, no more than a leopard's skin, it is but developed ordwarfed. The influences of the war will have as many little forms asthere are soldiers, and to attempt precision of summary is clearlyvain. It is something of a truism to suggest that the war will ennobleand make more serious those who before the war took a noble and seriousview of life; and that on those who took life callously it will have acallousing effect. The problem is rather to discover what effect, ifany, will be made on that medium material which was neither definitelyserious nor obviously callous. And for this we must go to considerationof main national characteristics. It is--for one thing--very much thenature of the Briton to look on life as a game with victory or defeat atthe end of it, and to feel it impossible that he can be defeated. He isnot so much concerned to "live" as to win this life match. He iscombative from one minute to the next, reacts instantly against anyattempt to down him. The war for him is a round in this great personalmatch of his with Fate, and he is completely caught up in the idea ofwinning it. He is spared that double consciousness of the French soldierwho wants to "live, " who goes on indeed superbly fighting "_pour laFrance_" out of love for his country, but all the time cannot helpsaying to himself: "What a fool I am--what sort of life is this?" I haveheard it said by one who ought to know, if any one can, that the Britishsoldier hardly seems to have a sense of patriotism, but goes through itall as a sort of private "scrap" in which he does not mean to be beaten, and out of loyalty to his regiment, his "team, " so to speak. This ispartly true, but the Briton is very deep, and there are feelings at thebottom of his well which never see the light. If the British soldierwere fighting on a line which ran from Lowestoft through York toSunderland, he might show very different symptoms. Still, at bottom hewould always, I think, feel the business to be first in the nature of acontest with a force which was trying to down him personally. In thiscontest he is being stretched, and steeled--that is, hardened andconfirmed--in the very quality of stubborn combativeness which wasalready his first characteristic. 

Take another main feature of the national character--the Briton isironic. Well, the war is deepening his irony. It must, for it is amonstrously ironic business. 

Some--especially those who wish to--believe in a religious revival amongthe soldiers. There's an authentic story of two convalescent soldiersdescribing a battle. The first finished thus: "I tell you it makes youthink of God. " The second--a thoughtful type--ended with a pause, andthen these words: "Who could believe in God after that?" Like all elsein human life, it depends on temperament. The war will speed up"belief" in some and "disbelief" in others. But, on the whole, comiccourage shakes no hands with orthodoxy. 

The religious movement which I think _is_ going on is of a subtler and adeeper sort altogether. Men are discovering that human beings are finerthan they had supposed. A young man said to me: "Well, I don't knowabout religion, but I know that my opinion of human nature is aboutfifty per cent. Better than it was. " That conclusion has been arrived atby countless thousands. It is a great factor--seeing that the belief ofthe future will be belief in the God within; and a frank agnosticismconcerning the great "Why" of things. Religion will become theexaltation of self-respect, of what we call the divine in man. "TheKingdom of God" is within you. That belief, old as the hills, andreincarnated by Tolstoi years ago, has come into its own in the war; forit has been clearly proved to be the real faith of modern man, underneath all verbal attempts to assert the contrary. This--the whiteside of war--is an extraordinarily heartening phenomenon; and if it sentevery formal creed in the world packing there would still be a gain toreligion. 

Another main characteristic of the Briton, especially of the "working"Briton, is improvidence--he likes, unconsciously, to live from hand tomouth, careless of the morrow. The war is deepening that characteristictoo--it must, for who could endure if he fretted over what was going tohappen to him, with death so in the wind?

Thus the average soldier-workman will return from the war confirmed anddeepened in at least three main national characteristics: His combativehardihood, his ironic humour, and his improvidence. I think he will havemore of what is called "character"; whether for good or evil depends, Itake it, on what we connote by those terms, and in what context we usethem. I may look on "character" as an asset, but I can well imaginepoliticians and trades union leaders regarding it with profoundsuspicion. Anyway, he will not be the lamb that he was not even beforethe war. He will be a restive fellow, knowing his own mind better, andpossibly his real interest less well; he will play less for safety, since safety will have become to him a civilian sort of thing, rathercontemptible. He will have at once a more interesting and a lessreliable character from the social and political point of view. 

And what about his humanity? Can he go through all this hell ofslaughter and violence untouched in his gentler instincts? There willbe--there must be--some brutalisation. But old soldiers are not usuallyinhumane--on the contrary, they are often very gentle beings. I distrustthe influence of the war on those who merely write and read about it. Ithink editors, journalists, old gentlemen, and women will be brutalisedin larger numbers than our soldiers. An intelligent French soldier saidto me of his own countrymen: "After six months of civil life, you won'tknow they ever had to 'clean up' trenches and that sort of thing. " Ifthis is true of the Frenchman, it will be more true of the lessimpressionable Briton. If I must sum up at all on what, for want of abetter word, I have called the "spiritual" count, I can only say thatthere will be a distinct increase of "character, " and leave it to thereader to decide whether that falls on the debit or the credit side. 

On the whole then, an increase of "character, " a slight loss of mentalactivity, and neither physical gain nor loss to speak of. 

We have now to consider the rather deadly matter of demobilisation. Onehears the suggestion that not more than 30, 000 men shall be disbandedper week; this means two years at least. Conceive millions of men whosesense of sacrifice has been stretched to the full for a definite objectwhich has been gained--conceive them held in a weary, and, as it seemsto them, unnecessary state of suspense. Kept back from all they longfor, years after the reality of their service has departed! If this doesnot undermine them, I do not know what will. Demobilisation--theysay--must be cautious. "No man should be released till a place in theindustrial machine is ready waiting for him!" So, in a counsel ofperfection, speak the wise who have not been deprived of home life, civil liberty, and what not for a dismal length of two, three, andperhaps four years. No! Demobilisation should be as swift as possible, and risks be run to make it swift. The soldier-workman who goes back tocivil life within two or three months after peace is signed goes backwith a glow still in his heart. But he who returns with a rankling senseof unmerited, unintelligible delay--most prudently, of course, ordained--goes back with "cold feet" and a sullen or revolting spirit. What men will stand under the shadow of a great danger from a sense ofimminent duty, they will furiously chafe at when that danger and senseof duty are no more. The duty will then be to their families and tothemselves. There is no getting away from this, and the country will bewell advised not to be too coldly cautious. Every one, of course, mustwish to ease to the utmost the unprecedented economic and industrialconfusion which the signing of peace will bring, but it will be betterto risk a good deal of momentary unemployment and discontent rather thanneglect the human factor and keep men back long months in a service ofwhich they will be deadly sick. How sick they will be may perhaps beguessed at from the words of a certain soldier: "After the war you'll_have_ to have conscription. You won't get a man to go into the armywithout!" What is there to prevent the Government from beginning now totake stock of the demands of industry, from having a great landsettlement scheme cut and dried, and devising means for the swiftestpossible demobilisation? The moment peace is signed the process ofre-absorption into civil life should begin at once and go on withoutinterruption as swiftly as the actual difficulties of transport permit. They, of themselves, will hold up demobilisation quite long enough. Thesoldier-workman will recognise and bear with the necessary physicaldelays, but he will not tolerate for a moment any others for hisso-called benefit. [A]

And what sort of civil life will it be which awaits thesoldier-workman? I suppose, if anything is certain, a plenitude, nay aplethora, of work is assured for some time after the war. Capital haspiled up in hands which will control a vast amount of improved andconvertible machinery. Purchasing power has piled up in the shape ofsavings out of the increased national income. Granted that income willat once begin to drop all round, shrinking perhaps fast to below thepre-war figures, still at first there must be a rolling river of demandand the wherewithal to satisfy it. For years no one has built houses, orhad their houses done up; no one has bought furniture, clothes, or athousand other articles which they propose buying the moment the warstops. Railways and rolling stock, roads, housing, public works of allsorts, private motor cars, and pleasure requirements of every kind havebeen let down and starved. Huge quantities of shipping must be replaced;vast renovations of destroyed country must be undertaken; numberlessrepairs to damaged property; the tremendous process of converting orre-converting machinery to civil uses must be put through; State schemesto deal with the land, housing, and other problems will be in fullblast; a fierce industrial competition will commence; and, above all, wemust positively grow our own food in the future. Besides all this weshall have lost at least a million workers through death, disablement, and emigration; indeed, unless we have some really attractive landscheme ready we may lose a million by emigration alone. In a word, thedemand for labour, at the moment, will be overwhelming, and the vitalquestion only one of readjustment. In numberless directions women, boys, and older men have replaced the soldier-workman. Hundreds of thousandsof soldiers, especially among the first three million, have beenguaranteed reinstatement. Hundreds of thousands of substitutes will, therefore, be thrown out of work. With the exception of the skilled menwho have had to be retained in their places all through, and the men whostep back into places kept for them, the whole working population willhave to be refitted with jobs. The question of women's labour will notbe grave at first because there will be work for all and more than all, but the jigsaw puzzle which industry will have to put together will trythe nerves and temper of the whole community. In the French army thepeasant soldier is jealous and sore because he has had to bear the chiefburden of the fighting, while the mechanic has to a great extent beenkept for munition making, transport, and essential civil industry. Withus it is if anything the other way. In the French army, too, thefeeling runs high against the "_embusqué_, " the man who--oftenunjustly--is supposed to have avoided service. I do not know to whatextent the same feeling prevails in our army, but there is certainly anelement of it, which will not make for content or quietude. 

Another burning question after the war will be wages. We are assuredthey are going to keep up. Well, we shall see. Certain special rateswill, of course, come down at once. And if, in general, wages keep up, it will not, I think, be for very long. Still, times will be good atfirst for employers and employed. At first--and then!

Some thinkers insist that the war has to an appreciable extent beenfinanced out of savings which would otherwise have been spent on luxury. But the amount thus saved can easily be exaggerated--the luxurious classis not really large, and against their saving must be set the spendingby the working classes, out of increased wages, on what in peace yearswere not necessities of their existence. In other words, the luxuriousor investing class has cut off its peace-time fripperies, saved and lentto the Government; the Government has paid the bulk of this money to theworking class, who have spent most of it in what to them would befripperies in time of peace. It may be, it _is_, all to the good thatluxurious tastes should be clipped from the wealthy, and a higherstandard of living secured to the workers, but this is rather a matterof distribution and social health than of economics in relation to thefinancing of the war. 

There are those who argue that because the general productive effort ofthe country during the war has been speeded up to half as much again asthat of normal times, by tapping women's labour, by longer hours andgeneral improvement in machinery and industrial ideas, the war will notresult in any great economic loss, and that we may with care and effortavoid the coming of bad times after the first boom. The fact remains, and anybody can test it for himself, that there is a growing shortage ofpractically everything except--they say--cheap jewellery and pianos. Iam no economist, but that does seem to indicate that this extraproduction has not greatly compensated for the enormous application oflabour and material resources to the quick-wasting ends of war insteadof to the slow-wasting ends of civil life. In other words, a vast amountof productive energy and material is being shot away. Now this, Isuppose, would not matter, in fact might be beneficial to trade byincreasing demand, if the purchasing power of the public remained whatit was before the war. But in all the great countries of the world, even America, the peoples will be faced with taxation which will soak upanything from one-fifth to one-third of their incomes, and, evenallowing for a large swelling of those incomes from war savings, so thata great deal of what the State takes with one hand she will return tothe investing public with the other, the diminution of purchasing poweris bound to make itself increasingly felt. When the reconversion ofmachinery to civil ends has been completed, the immediate arrears ofdemand supplied, shipping and rolling-stock replaced, houses built, repairs made good, and so forth, this slow shrinkage of purchasing powerin every country will go hand in hand with shrinkage of demand, declineof trade and wages, and unemployment, in a slow process, till theyculminate in what one fears may be the worst "times" we have ever known. Whether those "times" will set in one, two, or even six years after thewar, is, of course, the question. A certain school of thought insiststhat this tremendous taxation after the war, and the consequentimpoverishment of enterprise and industry, can be avoided, or at allevents greatly relieved, by national schemes for the development of theEmpire's latent resources; in other words, that the State should evenborrow more money to avoid high taxation and pay the interests onexisting loans, should acquire native lands, and swiftly develop mineralrights and other potentialities. I hope there may be something in this, but I am a little afraid that the wish is father to the thought, andthat the proposition contains an element akin to the attempt to liftoneself up by the hair of one's own head; for I notice that many of itsdisciples are recruited from those who in old days were opposed to theState development of anything, on the ground that individual energy infree competition was a still greater driving power. 

However we may wriggle in our skins and juggle with the chances of thefuture, I suspect that we shall have to pay the piper. We have withoutdoubt, during the war, been living to a great extent on our capital. Ournational income has gone up, _out of capital_, from twenty-two hundredto about three thousand six hundred millions, and will rapidly shrink toan appropriate figure. Wealth may, I admit, recover much more quicklythan deductions from the past would lead us to expect. Under the war'spressure secrets have been discovered, machinery improved, men'senergies and knowledge brightened and toned up. The Prime Minister notlong ago said: "If you insist on going back to pre-war conditions, thenGod help this country!" A wise warning. If the country could be got topull together in an effort to cope with peace as strenuous as our effortto cope with the war has been one would not view the economic futurewith disquietude. But one is bound to point out that if the war hasproved anything it has proved that the British people require a maximumof danger dangled in front of their very noses before they can be rousedto any serious effort, and that danger in time of peace has not theposter-like quality of danger in time of war; it does not hit men in theeye, it does not still differences of opinion, and party struggles, byits scarlet insistence. I hope for, but frankly do not see, the comingof an united national effort demanding extra energy, extra organisingskill, extra patience, and extra self-sacrifice at a time when the wholenation will feel that it has earned a rest, and when the lid has oncemore been taken off the political cauldron. I fancy, dismally, that apeople and a Press who have become so used to combat and excitement willdemand and seek further combat and excitement, and will take out thisitch amongst themselves in a fashion even more strenuous than before thewar. I am not here concerned to try to cheer or depress for someimmediate and excellent result, as we have all got into the habit ofdoing during the war, but to try to conjure truth out of the darknessof the future. The vast reconstructive process which ought to be, andperhaps is, beginning now will, I think, go ahead with vigour while thewar is on, and for some little time after; but I fear it will then splitinto _pro_ and _con_, see-saw, and come to something of a standstill. 

These, so sketchily set down, are a few of the probable items--creditand debit--in the industrial situation which will await thesoldier-workman emerging from the war. A situation agitated, cross-currented, bewildering, but busy, and by no means economicallytight at first, slowly becoming less bewildering, gradually growing lessand less busy, till it reaches ultimately a bad era of unemployment andsocial struggle. The soldier-workman will go back, I believe, to two orthree years at least of good wages and plentiful work. But when, afterthat, the pinch begins to come, it will encounter the quicker, moreresentful blood of men who in the constant facing of great danger haveleft behind them all fear of consequences; of men who in the survival ofone great dislocation to their lives, have lost the dread of otherdislocations. The war will have implanted a curious deep restlessness inthe great majority of soldier souls. Can the workmen of the futurepossibly be as patient and law-abiding as they were before the war, inthe face of what seems to them injustice? I don't think so. The enemywill again be Fate--this time in the form of capital, trying to downthem; and the victory they were conscious of gaining over Fate in thewar will have strengthened and quickened their fibre to another fight, and another conquest. The seeds of revolution are supposed to lie inwar. They lie there because war generally brings in the long runeconomic stress, but also because of the recklessness or"character"--call it what you will--which the habitual facing of dangerdevelops. The self-control and self-respect which military service underwar conditions will have brought to the soldier-workman will be an addedforce in civil life; but it is a fallacy, I think, to suppose, as somedo, that it will be a force on the side of established order. It is alla question of allegiance, and the allegiance of the workman in time ofpeace is not rendered to the State, but to himself and his own class. Tothe service of that class and the defence of its "rights" this new forcewill be given. In measuring the possibilities of revolution, thequestion of class rides paramount. Many hold that the war is breakingdown social barriers and establishing comradeship, through hardship anddanger shared. For the moment this is true. But whether that newcomradeship will stand any great pressure of economic stress afterdirect regimental relationship between officer and man has ceased andthe war is becoming just a painful memory, is to me very doubtful. Butsuppose that to some extent it does stand, we have still the fact thatthe control of industry and capital, even as long as ten years after thewar, will be mainly in the hands of men who have not fought, of businessmen spared from service either by age or by their too preciouscommercial skill. Towards these the soldier-workman will have no tenderfeelings, no sense of comradeship. On the contrary--for somewhere backof the mind of every workman there is, even during his country's danger, a certain doubt whether all war is not somehow hatched by thearistocrats and plutocrats of one side, or both. Other feelings obscurethis instinct during the struggle, but it is never quite lost, and willspring up again the more confirmed for its repression. That we can avoida straitened and serious time a few years hence I believe impossible. Straitened times dismally divide the classes. The war-investments of theworking class may ease things a little, but war-savings will not affectthe outlook of the soldier-workman, for he will have no war-savings, except his life, and it is from him that revolution or disorder willcome, if it come at all. 

Must it come? I think most certainly, unless between now and then meansbe found of persuading capital and labour that their interests and theirtroubles are identical, and of overcoming secrecy and suspicion betweenthem. There are many signs already that capital and labour are becomingalive to this necessity. But to talk of unity is an amiable distractionin which we all indulge these days. To find a method by which that talkmay be translated into fact within a few years is perhaps moredifficult. One does not change human nature; and unless the interests ofcapital and labour are _in reality_ made one, true co-operationestablished, and factory conditions transformed on the lines of thewelfare system--no talk of unity will prevent capitalist and working manfrom claiming what seem to them their rights. The labour world is now, and for some time to come will be, at sixes and sevens in matters ofleadership and responsibility; and this just when sagacious leadershipand loyal following will be most needed. The soldier-workman was alreadyrestive under leadership before the war; returned to civil life, he willbe far more restive. Yet, without leadership, what hope is there ofco-operation with capital; what chance of finding a golden mean ofagreement? But even if the problems of leadership are solved, andcouncils of capitalists and labour leaders established, whose decisionswill be followed--one thing is still certain: no half-measures will do;no seeming cordialities with mental reservations; no simulatedgenerosity which spills out on the first test; nothing but genuinefriendliness and desire to pull together. Those hard business headswhich distrust all sentiment as if it were a poison are the mostshort-sighted heads in the world. There is a human factor in thisaffair, as both sides will find to their cost if they neglect it. Extremists must be sent to Coventry, "caste" feeling dropped on the onehand, and suspicion dropped on the other; managers, directors, andlabour leaders, all must learn that they are not simply trustees fortheir shareholders or for labour, but trustees of a national interestwhich embraces them all--or worse will come of it. 

But I am not presumptuous enough to try to teach these cooks how to maketheir broth, neither would it come within the scope of thesespeculations, which conclude thus: The soldier-workman, physicallyunchanged, mentally a little weakened, but more "characterful" andrestive, will step out through a demobilisation--heaven send it beswift, even at some risk!--into an industrial world, confused and busyas a beehive, which will hum and throb and flourish for two or threeyears, and then slowly chill and thin away into, may be, the winterghost of itself, or at best an autumn hive. There, unless he beconvinced, not by words but facts, that his employer is standing side byside with him in true comradeship, facing the deluge, he will be quickto rise, and with his newly-found self-confidence take things into hisown hands. Whether, if he does, he will make those things better forhimself would be another inquiry altogether. 

1917. 

[A] Since these words were written one hears of demobilizationschemes ready to the last buttons. Let us hope the buttons won't comeoff. --J. G. 

THE CHILDREN'S JEWEL FUND

The mere male novelist who takes pen to write on infants awaits thepolished comment: "He knows nothing of the subject--rubbish; purerubbish!" One must run that risk. 

In the report of the National Baby Week it is written:--"Is it worthwhile to destroy our best manhood now unless we can ensure that therewill be happy, healthy citizens to carry on the Empire in the future?" Iconfess to approaching this subject from the point of view of the infantcitizen rather than of the Empire. And I have wondered sometimes if itis worth while to save the babies, seeing the conditions they often haveto face as grown men and women. But that, after all, would be to throwup the sponge, which is not the part of a Briton. It is writtenalso:--"After the war a very large increase in the birth-rate may belooked for. " For a year or two, perhaps; but the real after-effect ofthe war will be to decrease the birth-rate in every European country, orI am much mistaken. "No food for cannon, and no extra burdens, " will bethe cry. And little wonder! This, however, does not affect the questionof children actually born or on their way. If not quantity, we can atall events have quality. 

I also read an account of the things to be done to keep "baby" alive, which filled me with wonder how any of us old babies managed to survive, and I am afraid that unless we grow up healthy we are not worth thetrouble. The fact is: The whole business of babies is an activity to beengaged in with some regard to the baby, or we commit a monstrousinjustice, and drag the hands of the world's clock backwards. 

How do things stand? Each year in this country about 100, 000 babies diebefore they have come into the world; and out of the 800, 000 born, about90, 000 die. Many mothers become permanently damaged in health by evilbirth conditions. Many children grow up mentally or physicallydefective. One in four of the children in our elementary schools are notin a condition to benefit properly by their schooling. What sublimewaste! Ten in a hundred of them suffer from malnutrition; thirty in thehundred have defective eyes; eighty in the hundred need dentaltreatment; twenty odd in the hundred have enlarged tonsils or adenoids. Many, perhaps most, of these deaths and defects are due to the avoidableignorance, ill-health, mitigable poverty, and other handicaps which dogpoor mothers before and after a baby's birth. One doesn't know which topity most--the mothers or the babies. Fortunately, to help the one is tohelp the other. In passing I would like to record two sentiments: mystrong impression that we ought to follow the example of America andestablish Mothers' Pensions; and my strong hope that those who visit thesins of the fathers upon illegitimate children will receive increasinglythe contempt they deserve from every decent-minded citizen. 

On the general question of improving the health of mothers and babies Iwould remind readers that there is no great country where effort is halfso much needed as here; we are nearly twice as town and slum ridden asany other people; have grown to be further from nature and more fecklessabout food; we have damper air to breathe, and less sun to disinfect us. In New Zealand, with a climate somewhat similar to ours, the infantmortality rate has, as a result of a widespread educational campaign, been reduced within the last few years to 50 per 1, 000 from 110 per1, 000 a few years ago. It is perhaps too sanguine to expect that we, somuch more town-ridden, can do as well here, but we ought to be able tomake a vast improvement. We have begun to. Since 1904, when this matterwas first seriously taken in hand, our infant mortality rate hasdeclined from 145 per 1, 000 to 91 per 1, 000 in 1916. This reduction hasbeen mainly due to the institution of infant welfare centres andwhole-time health visitors. Of centres there are now nearly 1, 200. Wewant 5, 000 more. Of visitors there are now hardly 1, 500. We want, I amtold, 2, 000 more. It is estimated that the yearly crop of babies, 700, 000, if those of the well-to-do be excepted, can be provided withinfant welfare centres and whole-time health visitors by expenditure atthe rate of £1 a head per year. The Government, which is benevolentlydisposed towards the movement, gives half of the annual expenditure; theother half falls on the municipalities. But these 5, 000 new infantwelfare centres and these extra 2, 000 health visitors must be started byvoluntary effort and subscription. Once started, the Government and themunicipalities will have to keep them up; but unless we start them, thebabies will go on dying or growing up diseased. The object of the JewelFund, therefore, is to secure the necessary money to get the work intotrain. 

What are these Infant Welfare Centres, and have they really all thismagic? They are places where mothers to be, or in being, can come forinstruction and help in all that concerns birth and the care of theirbabies and children up to school age. "Prevention is better than cure, "is the motto of these Centres. I went to one of the largest in London. It has about 600 entries in the year. There were perhaps 40 babies andchildren and perhaps 30 mothers there. About 20 of these mothers werelearning sewing or knitting. Five of them were sitting round a nurse whowas bathing a three-weeks-old baby. The young mother who can wash a babyto the taste and benefit of the baby by the light of nature must clearlybe something of a phenomenon. In a room downstairs were certain littlestoics whose health was poor; they were brought there daily to bewatched. One was an air-raid baby, the thinnest little critter everseen; an ashen bit of a thing through which the wind could blow; verysilent, and asking "Why?" with its eyes. They showed me a mother who hadjust lost her first baby. The Centre was rescuing it from a pauper'sfuneral. I can see her now, coming in and sitting on the edge of achair; the sudden puckering of her dried-up little face, the tearsrolling down. I shall always remember the tone of her voice--"It's my_baby_. " Her husband is "doing time"; and want of food and knowledgewhile she was "carrying it" caused the baby's death. Several mothersfrom her street come to the Centre; but, "keeping herself to herself, "she never heard of it till too late. In a hundred little ways theseCentres give help and instruction. They, and the Health Visitors who goalong with them, are doing a great work; but there are many districtsall over the country where there are no Centres to come to; no help andinstruction to be got, however desperately wanted. Verily this land ofours still goes like Rachel mourning for her children. Disease, hunger, deformity, and death still hound our babes, and most of that hounding isavoidable. We must and shall revolt against the evil lot, whichpreventible ignorance, ill health, and poverty bring on hundreds ofthousands of children. 

It is time we had more pride. What right have we to the word "civilised"till we give mothers and children a proper chance? This is but the Alphaof decency, the first step of progress. We are beginning to realisethat; but, even now, to make a full effort and make it at once--we haveto beg for jewels. 

What's a jewel beside a baby's life? What's a toy to the health andhappy future of these helpless little folk?

You who wear jewels, with few exceptions, are or will be mothers--youought to know. To help your own children you would strip yourselves. Butthe test is the giving for children not one's own. Beneath all flaws, fatuities, and failings, this, I solemnly believe, is the country of thegreat-hearted. I believe that the women of our race, before all women, have a sense of others. They will not fail the test. 

Into the twilight of the world are launched each year these myriads oftiny ships. Under a sky of cloud and stars they grope out to the greatwaters and the great winds--little sloops of life, on whose voyaging thefuture hangs. They go forth blind, feeling their way. Mothers, and youwho will be mothers, and you who have missed motherhood, give them theirchance, bless them with a gem--light their lanterns with your jewels!

1917. 

FRANCE, 1916-1917

AN IMPRESSION

It was past eleven, and the packet had been steady some time when wewent on deck and found her moving slowly in bright moonlight up thehaven towards the houses of Le Havre. A night approach to a city bywater has the quality of other-worldness. I remember the same sensationtwice before: coming in to San Francisco from the East by thesteam-ferry, and stealing into Abingdon-on-Thames in a rowing-boat. LeHavre lay, reaching up towards the heights, still and fair, a littlemysterious, with many lights which no one seemed using. It was cold, butthe air already had a different texture, drier, lighter than the air wehad left, and one's heart felt light and a little excited. In themoonlight the piled-up, shuttered houses had colouring like that offlowers at night--pale, subtle, mother-o'-pearl. We moved slowly upbeside the quay, heard the first French voices, saw the first Frenchfaces, and went down again to sleep. 

In the Military Bureau at the station, with what friendly politenessthey exchanged our hospital passes for the necessary forms; but it tooktwo officials ten minutes of hard writing! And one thought: Is victorypossible with all these forms? It is so throughout France--too manyforms, too many people to fill them up. As if France could not trustherself without recording in spidery handwriting exactly where she is, for nobody to look at afterwards. But France _could_ trust herself. Apity!

Our only fellow-traveller was not a soldier, but had that indefinablelook of connection with the war wrapped round almost everyone in France. A wide land we passed, fallow under the November sky; houses hiddenamong the square Normandy court-yards of tall trees; not many people inthe fields. 

Paris is Paris, was, and ever shall be! Paris is not France. If theGermans had taken Paris they would have occupied the bodily heart, thecentre of her circulatory system; but the spirit of France their heavyhands would not have clutched, for it never dwelt there. Paris is hardand hurried; France is not. Paris loves pleasure; France loves life. Paris is a brilliant stranger in her own land. And yet a lot of trueFrenchmen and Frenchwomen live there, and many little plots of realFrench life are cultivated. 

At the Gare de Lyon _poilus_ are taking trains for the South. This isour first real sight of them in their tired glory. They look weary anddusty and strong; every face has character, no face looks empty or as ifits thought were being done by others. Their laughter is not vulgar orthick. Alongside their faces the English face looks stupid, the Englishbody angular and--neat. They are loaded with queer burdens, bread andbottles bulge their pockets; their blue-grey is prettier than khaki, their round helmets are becoming. Our Tommies, even to our own eyes, seem uniformed, but hardly two out of all this crowd are dressed alike. The French soldier luxuriates in extremes; he can go to his death inwhite gloves and dandyism--he can glory in unshavenness and patches. Thewords _in extremis_ seem dear to the French soldier; and, _con amore_, he passes from one extreme to the other. One of them stands gazing up atthe board which gives the hours of starting and the destinations of thetrains. His tired face is charming, and has a look that I cannotdescribe--lost, as it were, to all surroundings; a Welshman or aHighlander, but no pure Englishman, could look like that. 

Our carriage has four French officers; they talk neither to us nor toeach other; they sleep, sitting well back, hardly moving all night; oneof them snores a little, but with a certain politeness. We leave them inthe early morning and get down into the windy station at Valence. Inpre-war days romance began there when one journeyed. A lovely word, andthe gate of the South. Soon after Valence one used to wake and drawaside a corner of the curtain and look at the land in the first levelsunlight; a strange land of plains, and far, yellowish hills, a landwith a dry, shivering wind over it, and puffs of pink almond blossom. But now Valence was dark, for it was November, and raining. In thewaiting-room were three tired soldiers trying to sleep, and one sittingup awake, shyly glad to share our cakes and journals. Then on throughthe wet morning by the little branch line into Dauphiné. Two officersagain and a civilian, in our carriage, are talking in low voices of thewar, or in higher voices of lodgings at Valence. One is a commandant, with a handsome paternal old face, broader than the English face, alittle more in love with life, and a little more cynical about it, withmore depth of colouring in eyes and cheeks and hair. The tone of theirvoices, talking of the war, is grave and secret. "_Les Anglais nelâcheront pas_" are the only words I plainly hear. The younger officersays: "And how would you punish?" The commandant's answer is inaudible, but by the twinkling of his eyes one knows it to be human and sagacious. The train winds on in the windy wet, through foothills and then youngmountains, following up a swift-flowing river. The chief trees are bareLombardy poplars. The chief little town is gathered round a sharp spur, with bare towers on its top. The colour everywhere is a brownish-grey. 

We have arrived. A tall, strong young soldier, all white teeth andsmiles, hurries our luggage out, a car hurries us up in the rainy windthrough the little town, down again across the river, up a long avenueof pines, and we are at our hospital. 

Round the long table, at their dinner-hour, what a variety of type amongthe men! And yet a likeness, a sort of quickness and sensibility, commonto them all. A few are a little _méfiant_ of these newcomers, with the_méfiance_ of individual character, not of class distrustfulness, nor ofthat defensive expressionless we cultivate in England. The Frenchsoldier has a touch of the child in him--if we leave out the Parisians;a child who knows more than you do perhaps; a child who has lived manylives before this life; a wise child, who jumps to your moods and showsyou his "sore fingers" readily when he feels that you want to see them. He has none of the perverse and grudging attitude towards his ownailments that we English foster. He is perhaps a little inclined to petthem, treating them with an odd mixture of stoic gaiety and gloomyindulgence. It is like all the rest of him; he feels everything so muchquicker than we do--he is so much more impressionable. The variety oftype is more marked physically than in our country. Here is a tallSavoyard cavalryman, with a maimed hand and a fair moustache brushed upat the ends, big and strong, with grey eyes, and a sort of sageself-reliance; only twenty-six, but might be forty. Here is a realLatin, who was buried by an explosion at Verdun; handsome, with darkhair and a round head, and colour in his cheeks; an ironical critic ofeverything, a Socialist, a mocker, a fine, strong fellow with a clearbrain, who attracts women. Here are two peasants from the Central South, both with bad sciatica, slower in look, with a mournful, rathermonkeyish expression in their eyes, as if puzzled by their sufferings. Here is a true Frenchman, a Territorial, from Roanne, riddled withrheumatism, quick and gay, and suffering, touchy and affectionate, nottall, brown-faced, brown-eyed, rather fair, with clean jaw and features, and eyes with a soul in them, looking a little up; forty-eight--theoldest of them all--they call him _Grandpère_. And here is a printerfrom Lyon with shell-shock; medium-coloured, short and roundish andneat, full of humanity and high standards and domestic affection, andso polite, with eyes a little like a dog's. And here another withshell-shock and brown-green eyes, from the "invaded countries";_méfiant_, truly, this one, but with a heart when you get at it; neat, and brooding, quick as a cat, nervous, and wanting his own way. But theyare all so varied. If there are qualities common to all they areimpressionability and capacity for affection. This is not the impressionleft on one by a crowd of Englishmen. Behind the politeness andcivilised bearing of the French I used to think there was a little ofthe tiger. In a sense perhaps there is, but that is not the foundationof their character--far from it! Underneath the tiger, again, there is aman civilised for centuries. Most certainly the politeness of the Frenchis no surface quality, it is a polish welling up from a naturallyaffectionate heart, a naturally quick apprehension of the moods andfeelings of others; it is the outcome of a culture so old that, underneath all differences, it binds together all those types andstrains of blood--the Savoyard, and the Southerner, the Latin of theCentre, the man from the North, the Breton, the Gascon, the Basque, theAuvergnat, even to some extent the Norman, and the Parisian--in a sortof warm and bone-deep kinship. They have all, as it were, sat forcenturies under a wall with the afternoon sun warming them through andthrough, as I so often saw the old town gossips sitting of an afternoon. The sun of France has made them alike; a light and happy sun, not toosouthern, but just southern enough. 

And the women of France! If the men are bound in that mysteriouskinship, how much more so are the women! What is it in the Frenchwomanwhich makes her so utterly unique? A daughter in one of Anatole France'sbooks says to her mother: "_Tu es pour les bijoux, je suis pour lesdessous_. " The Frenchwoman spiritually is _pour les dessous_. There isin her a kind of inherited, conservative, clever, dainty capability; nomatter where you go in France, or in what class--country or town--youfind it. She cannot waste, she cannot spoil, she makes and shows--thebest of everything. If I were asked for a concrete illustration ofself-respect I should say--the Frenchwoman. It is a particular kind ofself-respect, no doubt, very much limited to this world; and perhapsbeginning to be a little frayed. We have some Frenchwomen at thehospital, the servants who keep us in running order--the dear cook whomwe love not only for her baked meats, proud of her soldier son once aprofessor, now a sergeant, and she a woman of property, with two housesin the little town; patient, kind, very stubborn about her dishes, which have in them the essential juices and savours which characteriseall things really French. She has great sweetness and self-containmentin her small, wrinkled, yellowish face; always quietly polite and grave, she bubbles deliciously at any joke, and gives affection sagaciously tothose who merit. A jewel, who must be doing something _pour la France_. And we have Madame Jeanne Camille, mother of two daughters and one son, too young to be a soldier. It was her eldest daughter who wanted to comeand scrub in the hospital, but was refused because she was too pretty. And her mother came instead. A woman who did not need to come, andnearly fifty, but strong, as the French are strong, with good red blood, deep colouring, hair still black, and handsome straight features. What aworker! A lover of talk, too, and of a joke when she has time. AndClaire, of a _languissante_ temperament, as she says; but who would knowit? Eighteen, with a figure abundant as that of a woman of forty, butjust beginning to fine down; holding herself as French girls learn tohold themselves so young; and with the pretty eyes of a Southern nymph, clear-brown and understanding, and a little bit wood-wild. Notself-conscious--like the English girl at that age--fond of work andplay; with what is called "a good head" on her, and a warm heart. Areal woman of France. 

Then there is the "farmeress" at the home farm which gives the hospitalits milk; a splendid, grey-eyed creature, doing the work of her husbandwho is at the front, with a little girl and boy rounder and rosier thananything you ever saw; and a small, one-eyed brother-in-law who drinks. My God, he drinks! Any day you go into the town to do hospitalcommissions you may see the hospital donkey-cart with the charming greydonkey outside the Café de l'Univers or what not, and know that Charlesis within. He beguiles our _poilus_, and they take little beguiling. Wine is too plentiful in France. The sun in the wines of France quickensand cheers the blood in the veins of France. But the gift of wine isabused. One may see a poster which says--with what truth I knownot--that drink has cost France more than the Franco-Prussian War. French drunkenness is not so sottish as our beer-and-whiskey-fuddledvariety, but it is not pleasant to see, and mars a fair land. 

What a fair land! I never before grasped the charm of French colouring;the pinkish-yellow of the pan-tiled roofs, the lavender-grey or dimgreen of the shutters, the self-respecting shapes and flatness of thehouses, unworried by wriggling ornamentation or lines coming up inorder that they may go down again; the universal plane trees with theirvariegated trunks and dancing lightness--nothing more charming thanplane trees in winter, their delicate twigs and little brown ballsshaking against the clear pale skies, and in summer nothing more greenand beautiful than their sun-flecked shade. Each country has its specialgenius of colouring--best displayed in winter. To characterise suchgenius by a word or two is hopeless; but one might say the genius ofSpain is brown; of Ireland green; of England chalky blue-green; of Egyptshimmering sandstone. For France amethystine feebly expresses thesensation; the blend is subtle, stimulating, rarefied--at all events inthe centre and south. Walk into an English village, howeverbeautiful--and many are very beautiful--you will not get the peculiarsharp spiritual sensation which will come on you entering some littleFrench village or town--the sensation one has looking at a picture byFrancesca. The blue wood-smoke, the pinkish tiles, the grey shutters, the grey-brown plane trees, the pale blue sky, the yellowish houses, andabove all the clean forms and the clear air. I shall never forget onelate afternoon rushing home in the car from some commission. The settingsun had just broken through after a misty day, the mountains wereillumined with purple and rose-madder, and snow-tipped against the bluesky, a wonderful wistaria blue drifted smoke-like about the valley; andthe tall trees--poplars and cypresses--stood like spires. No wonder theFrench are _spirituel_, a word so different from our "spiritual, " forthat they are not; pre-eminently citizens of this world--even the piousFrench. This is why on the whole they make a better fist of social lifethan we do, we misty islanders, only half-alive because we set suchstore by our unrealised moralities. Not one Englishman in ten now_really_ believes that he is going to live again, but his disbelief hasnot yet reconciled him to making the best of this life, or laid ghostsof the beliefs he has outworn. Clear air and sun, but not so much as toparalyse action, have made in France clearer eyes, clearer brains, andtouched souls with a sane cynicism. The French do not despise andneglect the means to ends. They face sexual realities. They know that tolive well they must eat well, to eat well must cook well, to cook wellmust cleanly and cleverly cultivate their soil. May France be warned intime by our dismal fate! May she never lose her love of the land; norlet industrialism absorb her peasantry, and the lure of wealth and thecheap glamour of the towns draw her into their uncharmed circles. WeEnglish have rattled deep into a paradise of machines, chimneys, cinemas, and halfpenny papers; have bartered our heritage of health, dignity, and looks for wealth, and badly distributed wealth at that. France was trembling on the verge of the same precipice when the warcame; with its death and wind of restlessness the war bids fair to tipher over. Let her hold back with all her might! Her two dangers aredrink and the lure of the big towns. No race can preserve sanity andrefinement which really gives way to these. She will not fare even aswell as we have if she yields; our fibre is coarser and more resistantthan hers, nor had we ever so much grace to lose. It is by grace andself-respect that France had her pre-eminence; let these wither, aswither they must in the grip of a sordid and drink-soothedindustrialism, and her star will burn out. The life of the peasant ishard; peasants are soon wrinkled and weathered; they are not angels;narrow and over-provident, suspicious, and given to drink, they stillhave their roots and being in the realities of life, close to nature, and keep a sort of simple dignity and health which great towns destroy. Let France take care of her peasants and her country will take care ofitself. 

Talking to our _poilus_ we remarked that they have not a good word tothrow to their _députés_--no faith in them. About French politicians Iknow nothing; but their shoes are unenviable, and will become too tightfor them after the war. The _poilu_ has no faith at all now, if he everhad, save faith in his country, so engrained that he lets thelife-loving blood of him be spilled out to the last drop, cursinghimself and everything for his heroic folly. 

We had a young Spaniard of the Foreign Legion in our hospital who hadbeen to Cambridge, and had the "outside" eyes on all things French. Inhis view _je m'en foutism_ has a hold of the French army. Strange if ithad not! Clear, quick brains cannot stand Fate's making ninepins ofmankind year after year like this. Fortunately for France, the love ofher sons has never been forced; it has grown like grass and simple wildherbs in the heart, alongside the liberty to criticise and blame. The_poilu_ cares for nothing, no, not he! But he is himself a little, unconscious bit of France, and, for oneself, one always cares. State-forced patriotism made this war--a fever-germ which swells thehead and causes blindness. A State which teaches patriotism in itsschools is going mad! Let no such State be trusted! They who, after thewar, would have England and France copy the example of theState-drilled country which opened these flood-gates of death, andteach mad provincialism under the nickname of patriotism to theirchildren, are driving nails into the coffins of their countries. _Jem'en foutism_ is a natural product of three years of war, and better byfar than the docile despair to which so many German soldiers have beenreduced. We were in Lyon when the Russian Revolution and the Germanretreat from Bapaume were reported. The town and railway station werefull of soldiers. No enthusiasm, no stir of any kind, only the usualtired stoicism. And one thought of what the _poilu_ can be like; of ourChristmas dinner-table at the hospital under the green hanging wreathsand the rosy Chinese lanterns, the hum, the chatter, the laughter offree and easy souls in their red hospital jackets. The French are soeasily, so incorrigibly gay; the dreary grinding pressure of this warseems horribly cruel applied to such a people, and the heroism withwhich they have borne its untold miseries is sublime. In our littleremote town out there--a town which had been Roman in its time, andstill had bits of Roman walls and Roman arches--every family had itsfathers, brothers, sons, dead, fighting, in prison, or in hospital. Themothers were wonderful. One old couple, in a _ferblanterie_ shop, whohad lost their eldest son and whose other son was at the front, used totry hard not to talk about the war, but sure enough they would come toit at last, each time we saw them, and in a minute the mother would becrying and a silent tear would roll down the old father's face. Then hewould point to the map and say: "But look where they are, the Boches!Can we stop? It's impossible. We must go on till we've thrown them out. It is dreadful, but what would you have? Ah! Our son--he was sopromising!" And the mother, weeping over the tin-tacks, would make theneatest little parcel of them, murmuring out of her tears: "_Il faut queça finisse; mais la France--il ne faut pas que la France--Nos chers filsauraient été tués pour rien!_" Poor souls! I remember another couple upon the hillside. The old wife, dignified as a duchess--if duchesses aredignified--wanting us so badly to come in and sit down that she mightthe better talk to us of her sons: one dead, and one wounded, and twostill at the front, and the youngest not yet old enough. And while westood there up came the father, an old farmer, with that youngest son. He had not quite the spirit of the old lady, nor her serenity; hethought that men in these days were no better than _des bêtes féroces_. And in truth his philosophy--of an old tiller of the soil--was assuperior to that of emperors and diplomats as his life is superior totheirs. Not very far from that little farm is the spot of all others inthat mountain country which most stirs the æsthetic and the speculativestrains within one. Lovely and remote, all by itself at the foot of amountain, in a circle of the hills, an old monastery stands, now used asa farm, with one rose window, like a spider's web, spun delicate instone tracery. There the old monks had gone to get away from thestruggles of the main valley and the surges of the fighting men. Thereeven now were traces of their peaceful life; the fish-ponds and thetillage still kept in cultivation. If they had lived in these days theywould have been at the war, fighting or bearing stretchers, like thepriests of France, of whom eleven thousand, I am told--untruthfully, Ihope--are dead. So the world goes forward--the Kingdom of Heaven comes!

We were in the town the day that the 1918 class received theirpreliminary summons. Sad were the mothers watching their boys paradingthe streets, rosetted and singing to show that they had passed and wereready to be food for cannon. Not one of those boys, I dare say, in hisheart wanted to go; they have seen too many of their brethren returnwar-worn, missed too many who will never come back. But they were noless gay about it than those recruits we saw in the spring of 1913, atArgelès in the Pyrenees, singing along and shouting on the day of theirenrolment. 

There were other reminders to us, and to the little town, of theblood-red line drawn across the map of France. We had in our hospitalmen from the invaded countries without news of wives and families muredup behind that iron veil. Once in a way a tiny word would get through tothem, and anxiety would lift a little from their hearts; for a day ortwo they would smile. One we had, paralysed in the legs, who would sitdoing macramé work and playing chess all day long; every relative hehad--wife, father, mother, sisters--all were in the power of the German. As brave a nature as one could see in a year's march, touchinglygrateful, touchingly cheerful, but with the saddest eyes I ever saw. There was one little reminder in the town whom we could never help goingin to look at whenever we passed the shop whose people had given herrefuge. A little girl of eight with the most charming, grave, pale, little, grey-eyed face; there she would sit, playing with her doll, watching the customers. That little refugee at all events was belovedand happy; only I think she thought we would kidnap her one day--westared at her so hard. She had the quality which gives to certain facesthe fascination belonging to rare works of art. 

With all this poignant bereavement and long-suffering amongst them itwould be odd indeed if the gay and critical French nature did not rebel, and seek some outlet in apathy or bitter criticism. The miracle is thatthey go on and on holding fast. Easily depressed, and as easily liftedup again, grumble they must and will; but their hearts are not reallydown to the pitch of their voices; their love of country, which withthem is love of self--the deepest of all kinds of patriotism--is tooabsolute. These two virtues or vices (as you please)--critical facultyand _amour propre_ or vanity, if you prefer it--are in perpetualencounter. The French are at once not at all proud of themselves andvery proud. They destroy all things French, themselves included, withtheir brains and tongues, and exalt the same with their hearts and bytheir actions. To the reserved English mind, always on the defensive, they seem to give themselves away continually; but he who understandssees it to be all part of that perpetual interplay of opposites whichmakes up the French character and secures for it in effect a curiousvibrating equilibrium. "Intensely alive" is the chief impression one hasof the French. They balance between head and heart at top speed in asort of electric and eternal see-saw. It is this perpetual quick changewhich gives them, it seems to me, their special grip on actuality; theynever fly into the cloud-regions of theories and dreams; their headshave not time before their hearts have intervened, their hearts not timebefore their heads cry: "Hold!" They apprehend both worlds, but withsuch rapid alternation that they surrender to neither. Consider howclever and comparatively warm is that cold thing "religion" in France. Iremember so well the old _curé_ of our little town coming up to lunch, his interest in the cooking, in the practical matters of our life, andin wider affairs too; his enjoyment of his coffee and cigarette; and thecurious suddenness with which something seemed "to come over him"--onecould hear his heart saying: "O my people, here am I wasting my time; Imust run to you. " I saw him in the court-yard talking to one of our_poilus_, not about his soul, but about his body; stroking his shouldersoftly and calling him _mon cher fils_. Dear old man! Even religion heredoes not pretend to more than it can achieve--help and consolation tothe bewildered and the suffering. It uses forms, smiling a little atthem. 

The secret of French culture lies in this vibrating balance; from quickmarriage of mind and heart, reason and sense, in the French nature, allthe clear created forms of French life arise, forms recognised as formswith definite utility attached. Controlled expression is the result ofaction and reaction. Controlled expression is the essence of culture, because it alone makes a sufficiently clear appeal in a world which isitself the result of the innumerable interplay of complementary or duallaws and forces. French culture is near to the real heart of things, because it has a sort of quick sanity which never loses its way; or, when it does, very rapidly recovers the middle of the road. It has thetwo capital defects of its virtues. It is too fond of forms and toomistrustful. The French nature is sane and cynical. Well, it's natural!The French lie just halfway between north and south; their blood is toomingled for enthusiasm, and their culture too old. 

I never realised how old France was till we went to Arles. In ourcrowded train _poilus_ were packed, standing in the corridors. One veryweary, invited by a high and kindly colonel into our carriage, chattedin his tired voice of how wonderfully the women kept the work going onthe farms. "When we get a fortnight's leave, " he said, "all goes well, we can do the heavy things the women cannot, and the land is made clean. It wants that fortnight now and then, _mon colonel_; there is work onfarms that women cannot do. " And the colonel vehemently nodded his thinface. We alighted in the dark among southern forms and voices, and thelittle hotel omnibus became enmeshed at once in old, high, very narrow, Italian-seeming streets. It was Sunday next day; sunny, with a clearblue sky. In the square before our hotel a simple crowd round the statueof Mistral chattered or listened to a girl singing excruciating songs; acrowd as old-looking as in Italy or Spain, aged as things only are inthe South. We walked up to the Arena. Quite a recent development in thelife of Arles, they say, that marvellous Roman building, here cut down, there built up, by Saracen hands. For a thousand years or more beforethe Romans came Arles flourished and was civilised. What had we mushroomislanders before the Romans came? What had barbaric Prussia? Not eventhe Romans to look forward to! The age-long life of the South stands formuch in modern France, correcting the cruder blood which has poured inthese last fifteen hundred years. As one blends wine of very old stockwith newer brands, so has France been blended and mellowed. A strangecosmic feeling one had, on the top of the great building in that townolder than Rome itself, of the continuity of human life and the futilityof human conceit. The provincial vanity of modern States looked pitifulin the clear air above that vast stony proof of age. 

In many ways the war has brought us up all standing on the edge of anabyss. When it is over shall we go galloping over the edge, or, reiningback, sit awhile in our saddles looking for a better track? We were allon the highway to a hell of material expansion and vulgarity, of cheapimmediate profit, and momentary sensation; north and south in ourdifferent ways, all "rattling into barbarity. " Shall we find our wayagain into a finer air, where self-respect, not profit, rules, and rarethings and durable are made once more?

From Arles we journeyed to Marseilles, to see how the first cosmopolitantown in the world fared in war-time. Here was an amazing spectacle ofswarming life. If France has reason to feel the war most of all thegreat countries, Marseilles must surely feel it less than any othergreat town; she flourishes in a perfect riot of movement and colour. Here all the tribes are met, save those of Central Europe--Frenchman, Serb, Spaniard, Algerian, Greek, Arab, Khabyle, Russian, Indian, Italian, Englishman, Scotsman, Jew, and Nubian rub shoulders in thethronged streets. The miles of docks are crammed with ships. Food of allsorts abounds. In the bright, dry light all is gay and busy. The mostæsthetic, and perhaps most humiliating, sight that a Westerner could seewe came on there: two Arab Spahis walking down the main street in theirlong robe uniforms, white and red, and their white linen bonnets boundwith a dark fur and canting slightly backwards. Over six feet high, theymoved unhurrying, smoking their cigarettes, turning their necks slowlyfrom side to side like camels of the desert. Their brown, thin, beardedfaces wore neither scorn nor interest, only a superb self-containment;but, beside them, every other specimen of the human race seemed cheapand negligible. God knows of what they were thinking--as little probablyas the smoke they blew through their chiselled nostrils--but theirbeauty and grace were unsurpassable. And, visioning our western andnorthern towns and the little, white, worried abortions they breed, onefelt downcast and abashed. 

Marseilles swarmed with soldiers; Lyon, Valence, Arles, even thesmallest cities swarmed with soldiers, and this at the moment when theAllied offensive was just beginning. If France be nearing the end of herman-power, as some assert, she conceals it so that one would think shewas at the beginning. 

From Marseilles we went to Lyon. I have heard that town described aslamentably plain; but compared with Manchester or Sheffield it is asheaven to hell. Between its two wide rolling rivers, under a line ofheights, it has somewhat the aspect of an enormous commercialisedFlorence. Perhaps in foggy weather it may be dreary, but the sky wasblue and the sun shone, a huge _Foire_ was just opening, and everystreet bustled in a dignified manner. 

The English have always had a vague idea that France is an immoralcountry. To the eye of a mere visitor France is the most moral of thefour Great Powers--France, Russia, England, Germany; has the strongestfamily life and the most seemly streets. Young men and maidens are neverseen walking or lying about, half-embraced, as in puritanical England. Fire is not played with--openly, at least. The slow-fly amorousness ofthe British working classes evidently does not suit the quicker blood ofFrance. There is just enough of the South in the French to keepdemonstration of affection away from daylight. A certain school ofFrench novelist, with high-coloured tales of Parisian life, isresponsible for his country's reputation. Whatever the Frenchman abouttown may be, he seems by no means typical of the many millions ofFrenchmen who are not about town. And if Frenchwomen, as I have heardFrenchmen say, are _légères_, they are the best mothers in the world, and their "lightness" is not vulgarly obtruded. They say many domestictragedies will be played at the conclusion of the war. If so, they willnot be played in France alone; and compared with the tragedies offidelity played all these dreadful years they will be as black rabbitsto brown for numbers. For the truth on morality in France we must goback, I suspect, to that general conclusion about the Frenchcharacter--the swift passage from head to heart and back again, which, prohibiting extremes of puritanism and of licence, preserves a sort ofbalance. 

From this war France will emerge changed, though less changed verylikely than any other country. A certain self-sufficiency that was verymarked about French life will have sloughed away. I expect an opening ofthe doors, a toleration of other tastes and standards, a softening ofthe too narrow definiteness of French opinion. 

Even Paris has opened her heart a little since the war; and the heart ofParis is close, hard, impatient of strangers. We noticed in our hospitalthat whenever we had a Parisian he introduced a different atmosphere, and led us a quiet or noisy dance. We had one whose name was Aimé, whose skin was like a baby's, who talked softly and fast, with littlegrunts, and before he left was quite the leading personality. We hadanother, a red-haired young one; when he was away on leave we hardlyknew the hospital, it was so orderly. The sons of Paris are a breedapart, just as our Cockneys are. I do not pretend to fathom them; theyhave the texture and resilience of an indiarubber ball. And the women ofParis! Heaven forfend that I should say I know them! They are a sealedbook. Still, even Parisians are less intolerant than in pre-war days ofus dull English, perceiving in us, perhaps, a certain unexpectedusefulness. And, _à propos_! One hears it said that in the regions ofour British armies certain natives believe we have come to stay. What anintensely comic notion! And what a lurid light it throws on history, onthe mistrust engendered between nations, on the cynicism which humanconduct has forced deep into human hearts. No! If a British Governmentcould be imagined behaving in such a way, the British population wouldleave England, become French citizens, and help to turn out the damnedintruders!

But _we_ did not encounter anywhere that comic belief. In all this landof France, chockful of those odd creatures, English men and women, wefound only a wonderful and touching welcome. Not once during those longmonths of winter was an unfriendly word spoken in our hearing; not oncewere we treated with anything but true politeness and cordiality. _Poilus_ and peasants, porters and officials, ladies, doctors, servants, shop-folk, were always considerate, always friendly, always desirousthat we should feel at home. The very dogs gave us welcome! A littleblack half-Pomeranian came uninvited and made his home with us in ourhospital; we called him Aristide. But on our walks with him we wereliable to meet a posse of children who would exclaim, "_Pom-pom! Voilà, Pom-pom!_" and lead him away. Before night fell he would be with usagain, with a bit of string or ribbon, bitten through, dangling from hiscollar. His children bored him terribly. We left him in trust to our_poilus_ on that sad afternoon when "Good-bye" must be said, all thosefriendly hands shaken for the last time, and the friendly faces left. Through the little town the car bore us, away along the valley betweenthe poplar trees with the first flush of spring on their twigs, and themagpies flighting across the road to the river-bank. 

The heart of France is deep within her breast; she wears it not upon hersleeve. But France opened her heart for once and let us see the gold. 

And so we came forth from France of a rainy day, leaving half our heartsbehind us. 

1917. 

ENGLISHMAN AND RUSSIAN

It has been my conviction for many years that the Russian and theEnglishman are as it were the complementary halves of a man. What theRussian lacks the Englishman has; what the Englishman lacks, that hasthe Russian. The works of Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoievsky, Tolstoi, Tchekov--the amazing direct and truthful revelations of thesemasters--has let me, I think, into some secrets of the Russian soul, sothat the Russians I have met seem rather clearer to me than men andwomen of other foreign countries. For their construing I have been givenwhat schoolboys call a crib. Only a fool pretends to knowledge--theheart of another is surely a dark forest; but the heart of a Russianseems to me a forest less dark than many, partly because the qualitiesand defects of a Russian impact so sharply on the perceptions of anEnglishman, but partly because those great Russian novelists in whom Ihave delighted, possess, before all other gifts, so deep a talent forthe revelation of truth. In following out this apposition of the Russianand the Englishman, one may well start with that little matter of"truth. " The Englishman has what I would call a passion for the formsof truth; his word is his bond--nearly always; he will not tell alie--not often; honesty, in his idiom, is the best policy. But he haslittle or no regard for the spirit of truth. Quite unconsciously herevels in self-deception and flies from knowledge of anything which willinjure his intention to "make good, " as Americans say. He is, before allthings, a competitive soul who seeks to win rather than to understand orto "live. " And to win, or, shall we say, to maintain to oneself theillusion of winning, one must carefully avoid seeing too much. TheRussian is light hearted about the forms of truth, but revels inself-knowledge and frank self-declaration, enjoys unbottoming theabysses of his thoughts and feelings, however gloomy. In Russia time andspace have no exact importance, living counts for more than dominatinglife, emotion is not castrated, feelings are openly indulged in; inRussia there are the extremes of cynicism, and of faith; of intellectualsubtlety, and simplicity; truth has quite another significance; mannersare different; what we know as "good form" is a meaningless shibboleth. The Russian rushes at life, drinks the cup to the dregs, then franklyadmits that it has dregs, and puts up with the disillusionment. TheEnglishman holds the cup gingerly and sips, determined to make it lasthis time, not to disturb the dregs, and to die without having reachedthe bottom. 

These are the two poles of that instinctive intention to get out of lifeall there is in it--which is ever the unconscious philosophy guidingmankind. To the Russian it is vital to realise at all costs the fulnessof sensation and reach the limits of comprehension; to the Englishman itis vital to preserve illusion and go on defeating death until death sounexpectedly defeats him. 

What this wide distinction comes from I know not, unless from thedifference of our climates and geographical circumstances. Russians arethe children of vast plains and forests, dry air, and extremes of heatand cold; the English, of the sea, small, uneven hedge-rowed landscapes, mist, and mean temperatures. By an ironical paradox, we English haveachieved a real liberty of speech and action, even now denied toRussians, who naturally far surpass us in desire to turn things insideout and see of what they are made. The political arrangements of acountry are based on temperament; and a political freedom which suitsus, an old people, predisposed to a practical and cautious view of life, is proving difficult, if not impossible, for Russians, a young people, who spend themselves so freely. But what Russia will become, politicallyspeaking, he would be rash who prophesied. 

I suppose what Russians most notice and perhaps envy in us is practicalcommon sense, our acquired instinct for what is attainable, and for thebest and least elaborate means of attaining it. What we ought to envy inRussians is a sort of unworldliness--not the feeling that this world isthe preliminary of another, nothing so commercial; but the naturaldisposition to live each moment without afterthought, emotionally. Lackof emotional abandonment is our great deficiency. Whether we can everlearn to have more is very doubtful. But our imaginative writings, atall events, have of late been profoundly modified by the Russian novel, that current in literature far more potent than any of those traced outin Georg Brandes' monumental study. Russian writers have brought toimaginative literature a directness in the presentation of vision, alack of self-consciousness, strange to all Western countries, andparticularly strange to us English, who of all people are the mostself-conscious. This quality of Russian writers is evidently racial, foreven in the most artful of them--Turgenev--it is as apparent as in theleast sophisticated. It is part, no doubt, of their natural power offlinging themselves deep into the sea of experience and sensation; oftheir self-forgetfulness in a passionate search for truth. 

In such living Russian writers as I have read, in Kuprin, Gorky, andothers, I still see and welcome this peculiar quality of rendering lifethrough--but not veiled by--the author's temperament; so that the effectis almost as if no ink were used. When one says that the Russian novelhas already profoundly modified our literature, one does not mean thatwe have now nearly triumphed over the need for ink, or that ourtemperaments have become Russian; but that some of us have becomeinfected with the wish to see and record the truth and obliterate thatcompetitive moralising which from time immemorial has been thecharacteristic bane of English art. In other words, the Russian passionfor understanding has tempered a little the English passion for winning. What we admire and look for in Russian literature is its truth and itsprofound and comprehending tolerance. I am credibly informed that whatRussians admire and look for in our literature is its quality of "nononsense" and its assertive vigour. In a word, they are attracted bythat in it which is new to them. I venture to hope that they will notbecome infected by us in this matter; that nothing will dim in theirwriters spiritual and intellectual honesty of vision or tinge them withself-consciousness. It is still for us to borrow from Russian literaryart, and learn, if we can, to sink ourselves in life and reproduce itwithout obtrusion of our points of view, except in that subtle waywhich gives to each creative work its essential individuality. Ourboisterousness in art is too self-conscious to be real, and ourrestraint is only a superficial legacy from Puritanism. 

Restraint in life and conduct is another matter altogether. ThereRussians can learn from us, who are past-masters in control of ourfeelings. In all matters of conduct, indeed, we are, as it were, mucholder than the Russians; we were more like them, one imagines, in thedays of Elizabeth. 

Either similarity, or great dissimilarity, is generally needful formutual liking. Our soldiers appear to get on very well with Russians. But only exceptional natures in either country could expect to_understand_ each other thoroughly. The two peoples are as the halves ofa whole; different as chalk from cheese; can supplement, intermingle, but never replace each other. Both in so different ways are very vitaltypes of mankind, very deep sunk in their own atmospheres and natures, very insulated against all that is not Russian, or is not English;deeply unchangeable and impermeable. It is almost impossible tode-Anglicise an Englishman; as difficult to de-Russianise a Russian. 

1916. 

AMERICAN AND BRITON

On the mutual understanding of each other by Britons and Americans thefuture happiness of nations depends more than on any other world cause. 

I have never held a whole-hearted brief for the British character. Thereis a lot of good in it, but much which is repellent. It has a kind ofdeliberate unattractiveness, setting out on its journey with the words:"Take me or leave me. " One may respect a person of this sort, but it isdifficult either to know or to like him. I am told that an Americanofficer said recently to a British staff officer in a friendly voice:"So we're going to clean up Brother Boche together!" and the Britishstaff officer replied "Really!" No wonder Americans sometimes say: "I'vegot no use for those fellows. "

The world is consecrate to strangeness and discovery, and the attitudeof mind concreted in that "Really!" seems unforgivable, till oneremembers that it is manner rather than matter which divides the heartsof American and Briton. 

In a huge, still half-developed country, where every kind of nationaltype and habit comes to run a new thread into the rich tapestry ofAmerican life and thought, people must find it almost impossible toconceive the life of a little old island where traditions persistgeneration after generation without anything to break them up; whereblood remains undoctored by new strains; demeanour becomes crystallisedfor lack of contrasts; and manner gets set like a plaster mask. TheEnglish manner of to-day, of what are called the classes, is the growthof only a century or so. There was probably nothing at all like it inthe days of Elizabeth or even of Charles II. The English manner wasstill racy when the inhabitants of Virginia, as we are told, sent overto ask that there might be despatched to them some hierarchicalassistance for the good of their souls, and were answered: "D----n yoursouls, grow tobacco!" The English manner of to-day could not even havecome into its own when that epitaph of a lady, quoted somewhere byGilbert Murray, was written: "Bland, passionate, and deeply religious, she was second cousin to the Earl of Leitrim; of such are the Kingdom ofHeaven. " About that gravestone motto was a certain lack of theself-consciousness which is now the foremost characteristic of theEnglish manner. 

But this British self-consciousness is no mere fluffy _gaucherie_, it isour special form of what Germans would call "Kultur. " Behind everymanifestation of thought or emotion the Briton retains control of self, and is thinking: "That's all I'll let them see"; even: "That's all I'lllet myself feel. " This stoicism is good in its refusal to be foundered;bad in that it fosters a narrow outlook; starves emotion, spontaneity, and frank sympathy; destroys grace and what one may describe roughly asthe lovable side of personality. The English hardly ever say just whatcomes into their heads. What we call "good form, " the unwritten lawwhich governs certain classes of the Briton, savours of the dull andglacial; but there lurks within it a core of virtue. It has grown uplike callous shell round two fine ideals--suppression of the ego lest ittrample on the corns of other people, and exaltation of the maxim:"Deeds before words. " Good form, like any other religion, starts wellwith some ethical truth, but soon gets commonised and petrified till wecan hardly trace its origin, and watch with surprise its denial andcontradiction of the root idea. 

Without doubt good form had become a kind of disease in England. AFrench friend told me how he witnessed in a Swiss Hotel the meetingbetween an Englishwoman and her son, whom she had not seen for twoyears; she was greatly affected--by the fact that he had not brought adinner-jacket. The best manners are no "manners, " or at all events nomannerisms; but many Britons who have even attained to this perfectpurity are yet not free from the paralytic effects of "good form"; arestill self-conscious in the depths of their souls, and never do or say athing without trying not to show what they are feeling. All thisguarantees a certain decency in life; but in intimate intercourse withpeople of other nations who have not this particular cult ofsuppression, we English disappoint, and jar, and often irritate. Nationshave their differing forms of snobbery. At one time the English allwanted to be second cousins to the Earl of Leitrim, like that lady blandand passionate. Nowadays it is not so simple. The Earl of Leitrim hasbecome etherealised. We no longer care how a fellow is born so long ashe behaves as the Earl of Leitrim would have, never makes himselfconspicuous or ridiculous, never shows too much what he's reallyfeeling, never talks of what he's going to do, and always "plays thegame. " The cult is centred in our public schools and universities. 

At a very typical and honoured old public school the writer of thisessay passed on the whole a happy time; but what a curious life, educationally speaking! We lived rather like young Spartans; and werenot encouraged to think, imagine, or see anything that we learned inrelation to life at large. It's very difficult to teach boys, becausetheir chief object in life is not to be taught anything, but I shouldsay we were crammed, not taught at all. Living as we did the herd-lifeof boys with little or no intrusion from our elders, and they men whohad been brought up in the same way as ourselves, we were debarred fromany real interest in philosophy, history, art, literature and music, orany advancing notions in social life or politics. I speak of thegenerality, not of the few black swans among us. We were reactionariesalmost to a boy. I remember one summer term Gladstone came down to speakto us, and we repaired to the Speech Room with white collars and darkhearts, muttering what we would do to that Grand Old Man if we couldhave our way. But he contrived to charm us, after all, till we cheeredhim vociferously. In that queer life we had all sorts of unwritten rulesof suppression. You must turn up your trousers; must not go out withyour umbrella rolled. Your hat must be worn tilted forward; you must notwalk more than two-a-breast till you reached a certain form, nor beenthusiastic about anything, except such a supreme matter as a driveover the pavilion at cricket, or a run the whole length of the ground atfootball. You must not talk about yourself or your home people, and forany punishment you must assume complete indifference. 

I dwell on these trivialities because every year thousands of Britishboys enter these mills which grind exceeding small, and because theseboys constitute in after life the great majority of the official, military, academic, professional, and a considerable proportion of thebusiness classes of Great Britain. They become the Englishmen who say:"Really!" and they are for the most part the Englishmen who travel andreach America. The great defence I have always heard put up for ourpublic schools is that they form character. As oatmeal is supposed toform bone in the bodies of Scotsmen, so our public schools are supposedto form good, sound moral fibre in British boys. And there is much inthis plea. The life does make boys enduring, self-reliant, good-temperedand honourable, but it most carefully endeavours to destroy all originalsin of individuality, spontaneity, and engaging freakishness. Itimplants, moreover, in the great majority of those who have lived it themental attitude of that swell, who when asked where he went for hishats, replied: "Blank's, of course. Is there another fellow's?"

To know all is to excuse all--to know all about the bringing-up ofEnglish public school boys makes one excuse much. The atmosphere andtradition of those places is extraordinarily strong, and persiststhrough all modern changes. Thirty-seven years have gone since I was anew boy, but cross-examining a young nephew who left not long ago, Ifound almost precisely the same features and conditions. The war, whichhas changed so much of our social life, will have some, but no verygreat, effect on this particular institution. The boys still go therefrom the same kind of homes and preparatory schools and come under thesame kind of masters. And the traditional unemotionalism, the cult of adry and narrow stoicism, is rather fortified than diminished by thetimes we live in. 

Our universities, on the other hand, are now mere ghosts of their oldselves. At a certain old college in Oxford, last term, they had only twoEnglish students. In the chapel under the Joshua Reynolds window, through which the sun was shining, hung a long "roll of honour, " ahundred names and more. In the college garden an open-air hospital wasranged under the old city wall, where we used to climb and go wanderingin the early summer mornings after some all-night spree. Down on theriver the empty college barges lay void of life. From the top of one ofthem an aged custodian broke into words: "Ah! Oxford'll never be thesame again in my time. Why, who's to teach 'em rowin'? When we do getundergrads again, who's to teach 'em? All the old ones gone, killed, wounded and that. No! Rowin'll never be the same again--not in my time. "That was _the_ tragedy of the war for him. Our universities will recoverfaster than he thinks, and resume the care of our particular "Kultur, "and cap the products of our public schools with the Oxford accent andthe Oxford manner. 

An acute critic tells me that Americans reading such deprecatory wordsas these by an Englishman about his country's institutions would saythat this is precisely an instance of what an American means by theOxford manner. Americans whose attitude towards their own country isthat of a lover to his lady or a child to its mother, cannot--hesays--understand how Englishmen can be critical of their own country, and yet love her. Well, the Englishman's attitude to his country is thatof a man to himself, and the way he runs her down is but a part of thatspecial English bone-deep self-consciousness. Englishmen (the writeramongst them) love their country as much as the French love France andthe Americans America; but she is so much a part of them that to speakwell of her is like speaking well of themselves, which they have beenbrought up to regard as "bad form. " When Americans hear Englishmenspeaking critically of their own country, let them note it for a sign ofcomplete identification with that country rather than of detachment fromit. But on the whole it must be admitted that English universities havea broadening influence on the material which comes to them so set andnarrow. They do a little to discover for their children that there aremany points of view, and much which needs an open mind in this world. They have not precisely a democratic influence, but taken by themselvesthey would not be inimical to democracy. And when the war is over theywill surely be still broader in philosophy and teaching. Heaven forbidthat we should see vanish all that is old, and has, as it were, thevirginia-creeper, the wistaria bloom of age upon it; there is a beautyin age and a health in tradition, ill dispensed with. What is hateful inage is its lack of understanding and of sympathy; in a word--itsintolerance. Let us hope this wind of change may sweep out and sweetenthe old places of our country, sweep away the cobwebs and the dust, ournarrow ways of thought, our mannikinisms. But those who hate intolerancedare not be intolerant with the foibles of age; we should rather seethem as comic, and gently laugh them out. I pretend to no properknowledge of the American people; but, though amongst them there aredoubtless pockets of fierce prejudice, I have on the whole theimpression of a wide and tolerant spirit. To that spirit one wouldappeal when it comes to passing judgment on the educated Briton. He maybe self-sufficient, but he has grit; and at bottom grit is whatAmericans appreciate more than anything. If the motto of the old Oxfordcollege, "Manners makyth man, " were true, one would often be sorry forthe Briton. But his manners do not make him; they mar him. His goods areall absent from the shop window; he is not a man of the world in thewider meaning of that expression. And there is, of course, aparticularly noxious type of travelling Briton, who does his best, unconsciously, to deflower his country wherever he goes. Selfish, coarse-fibred, loud-voiced--the sort which thanks God he is a Briton--Isuppose because nobody else will do it for him. 

We live in times when patriotism is exalted above all other virtues, because there happen to lie before the patriotic tremendous chances forthe display of courage and self-sacrifice. Patriotism ever has thatadvantage, as the world is now constituted; but patriotism andprovincialism are sisters under the skin, and they who can only seebloom on the plumage of their own kind, who prefer the bad points oftheir countrymen to the good points of foreigners, merely writethemselves down blind of an eye, and panderers to herd feeling. Americais advantaged in this matter. She lives so far away from other nationsthat she might well be excused for thinking herself the only people inthe world; but in the many strains of blood which go to make up Americathere is as yet a natural corrective to the narrower kind of patriotism. America has vast spaces and many varieties of type and climate, and lifeto her is still a great adventure. Americans have their own form ofself-absorption, but seem free as yet from the special competitiveself-centrement which has been forced on Britons through long centuriesby countless continental rivalries and wars. Insularity was driven intothe very bones of our people by the generation-long wars of Napoleon. Adistinguished French writer, André Chevrillon, whose book[B] may becommended to any one who wishes to understand British peculiarities, used these words in a recent letter: "You English are so strange to usFrench, you are so utterly different from any other people in theworld. " Yes! We are a lonely race. Deep in our hearts, I think, we feelthat only the American people could ever really understand us. Andbeing extraordinarily self-conscious, perverse, and proud, we do ourbest to hide from Americans that we have any such feeling. It woulddistress the average Briton to confess that he wanted to be understood, had anything so natural as a craving for fellowship or for being liked. We are a weird people, though we seem so commonplace. In looking atphotographs of British types among photographs of other Europeannationalities, one is struck by something which is in no other of thoseraces--exactly as if we had an extra skin; as if the British animal hadbeen tamed longer than the rest. And so he has. His political, social, legal life was fixed long before that of any other Western country. Hewas old, though not mouldering, before the _Mayflower_ touched Americanshores and brought there avatars, grave and civilised as ever foundednation. There is something touching and terrifying about our character, about the depth at which it keeps its real yearnings, about theperversity with which it disguises them, and its inability to show itsfeelings. We are, deep down, under all our lazy mentality, the mostcombative and competitive race in the world, with the exception, perhaps, of the American. This is at once a spiritual link with America, and yet one of the great barriers to friendship between the twopeoples. We are not sure whether we are better men than Americans. Whether we are really better than French, Germans, Russians, Italians, Chinese, or any other race is, of course, more than a question; butthose peoples are all so different from us that we are bound, I suppose, secretly to consider ourselves superior. But between Americans andourselves, under all differences, there is some mysterious deep kinshipwhich causes us to doubt and makes us irritable, as if we werecontinually being tickled by that question: Now am I really a better manthan he? Exactly what proportion of American blood at this time of dayis British, I know not; but enough to make us definitely cousins--alwaysan awkward relationship. We see in Americans a sort of image ofourselves; feel near enough, yet far enough, to criticise and carp atthe points of difference. It is as though a man went out andencountered, in the street, what he thought for the moment was himself, and, wounded in his _amour propre_, instantly began to disparage theappearance of that fellow. Probably community of language rather than ofblood accounts for our sense of kinship, for a common means ofexpression cannot but mould thought and feeling into some kind of unity. One can hardly overrate the intimacy which a common literature brings. The lives of great Americans, Washington and Franklin, Lincoln and Leeand Grant, are unsealed for us, just as to Americans are the lives ofMarlborough and Nelson, Pitt and Gladstone and Gordon. Longfellow andWhittier and Whitman can be read by the British child as simply as Burnsand Shelley and Keats. Emerson and William James are no more difficultto us than Darwin and Spencer to Americans. Without an effort we rejoicein Hawthorne and Mark Twain, Henry James and Howells, as Americans canin Dickens and Thackeray, Meredith and Thomas Hardy. And, more than all, Americans own with ourselves all literature in the English tongue beforethe _Mayflower_ sailed; Chaucer and Spenser and Shakespeare, Raleigh, Ben Jonson, and the authors of the English Bible Version are theirspiritual ancestors as much as ever they are ours. The tie of languageis all-powerful--for language is the food formative of minds. A volumecould be written on the formation of character by literary humour alone. The American and Briton, especially the British townsman, have a kind ofbone-deep defiance of Fate, a readiness for anything which may turn up, a dry, wry smile under the blackest sky, and an individual way oflooking at things which nothing can shake. Americans and Britons both, we must and will think for ourselves, and know why we do a thing beforewe do it. We have that ingrained respect for the individual consciencewhich is at the bottom of all free institutions. Some years before thewar an intelligent and cultivated Austrian, who had lived long inEngland, was asked for his opinion of the British. "In many ways, " hesaid, "I think you are inferior to us; but one great thing I havenoticed about you which we have not. You think and act and speak foryourselves. " If he had passed those years in America instead of inEngland he must needs have pronounced the same judgment of Americans. Free speech, of course, like every form of freedom, goes in danger ofits life in war-time. The other day, in Russia, an Englishman came on astreet meeting shortly after the first revolution had begun. Anextremist was addressing the gathering and telling them that they werefools to go on fighting, that they ought to refuse and go home, and soforth. The crowd grew angry, and some soldiers were for making a rush athim; but the chairman, a big, burly peasant, stopped them with thesewords: "Brothers, you know that our country is now a country of freespeech. We must listen to this man, we must let him say anything hewill. But, brothers, when he's finished, we'll bash his head in!"

I cannot assert that either Britons or Americans are incapable in timeslike these of a similar interpretation of "free speech. " Things havebeen done in our country, and will be done in America, which should makeus blush. But so strong is the free instinct in both countries that somevestiges of it will survive even this war, for democracy is a shamunless it means the preservation and development of this instinct ofthinking for oneself throughout a people. "Government of the people bythe people for the people" means nothing unless individuals keep theirconsciences unfettered and think freely. Accustom people to be nose-ledand spoon-fed, and democracy is a mere pretence. The measure ofdemocracy is the measure of the freedom and sense of individualresponsibility in its humblest citizens. And democracy--I say it withsolemnity--has yet to prove itself. 

A scientist, Dr. Spurrell, in a recent book, "Man and his Forerunners, "diagnoses the growth of civilisations somewhat as follows: Acivilisation begins with the enslavement by some hardy race of a tamerace living a tame life in more congenial natural surroundings. It isbuilt up on slavery, and attains its maximum vitality in conditionslittle removed therefrom. Then, as individual freedom gradually grows, disorganisation sets in and the civilisation slowly dissolves away inanarchy. Dr. Spurrell does not dogmatise about our present civilisation, but suggests that it will probably follow the civilisations of the pastinto dissolution. I am not convinced of that, because of certain factorsnew to the history of man. Recent discoveries are unifying the world;such old isolated swoops of race on race are not now possible. In ourgreat industrial States, it is true, a new form of slavery has arisen, but not of man by man, rather of man by machines. Moreover, all pastcivilisations have been more or less Southern, and subject to thesapping influence of the sun. Modern civilisation is essentiallyNorthern. The individualism, however, which, according to Dr. Spurrell, dissolved the Empires of the past, exists already, in a marked degree, in every modern State; and the problem before us is to discover howdemocracy and liberty of the subject can be made into enduring propsrather than dissolvents. It is the problem of making democracy genuine. And certainly, if that cannot be achieved and perpetuated, there isnothing to prevent democracy drifting into anarchism and dissolvingmodern States, till they are the prey of pouncing dictators, or ofStates not so far gone in dissolution. What, for instance, will happento Russia if she does not succeed in making her democracy genuine? ARussia which remains anarchic must very quickly become the prey of herneighbours on West and East. 

Ever since the substantial introduction of democracy nearly a centuryand a half ago with the American War of Independence, Westerncivilisation has been living on two planes or levels--the autocraticplane, with which is bound up the idea of nationalism, and thedemocratic, to which has become conjoined the idea of internationalism. Not only little wars, but great wars such as this, come because ofinequality in growth, dissimilarity of political institutions betweenStates; because this State or that is basing its life on differentprinciples from its neighbours. The decentralisation, delays, criticaltemper, and importance of home affairs prevalent in democratic countriesmake them at once slower, weaker, less apt to strike, and less preparedto strike than countries where bureaucratic brains subject to no realpopular check devise world policies which can be thrust, prepared to thelast button, on the world at a moment's notice. The free and criticalspirit in America, France, and Britain has kept our democraciescomparatively unprepared for anything save their own affairs. 

We fall into glib usage of words like democracy and make fetiches ofthem without due understanding. Democracy is inferior to autocracy fromthe aggressively national point of view; it is not necessarily superiorto autocracy as a guarantee of general well-being; it may even turn outto be inferior unless we can improve it. But democracy is the risingtide; it may be dammed or delayed, but cannot be stopped. It seems to bea law in human nature that where, in any corporate society, the idea ofself-government sets foot it refuses to take that foot up again. Stateafter State, copying the American example, has adopted the democraticprinciple; the world's face is that way set. And civilisation is now soof a pattern that the Western world may be looked on as one State andthe process of change therein from autocracy to democracy regarded asthough it were taking place in a single old-time country such as Greeceor Rome. If throughout Western civilisation we can secure the singledemocratic principle of government, its single level of State moralityin thought and action, we shall be well on our way to unanimitythroughout the world; for even in China and Japan the democratic virusis at work. It is my belief that only in a world thus uniform, and freedfrom the danger of pounce by autocracies, have States any chance todevelop the individual conscience to a point which shall make democracyproof against anarchy and themselves proof against dissolution; andonly in such a world can a League of Nations to enforce peace succeed. 

But even if we do secure a single plane for Western civilisation andultimately for the world, there will be but slow and difficult progressin the lot of mankind. And unless we secure it, there will be only amarch backwards. 

For this advance to a uniform civilisation the solidarity of theEnglish-speaking races is vital. Without that there will be no bottom onwhich to build. 

The ancestors of the American people sought a new country because theyhad in them a reverence for the individual conscience; they came fromBritain, the first large State in the Christian era to build up the ideaof political freedom. The instincts and ideals of our two races haveever been the same. That great and lovable people, the French, withtheir clear thought and expression, and their quick blood, haveexpressed those ideals more vividly than either of us. But thephlegmatic and the dry tenacity of our English and American temperamentshas ever made our countries the most settled and safe homes of theindividual conscience, and of its children--Democracy, Freedom andInternationalism. Whatever their faults--and their offences cry aloud tosuch poor heaven as remains of chivalry and mercy--the Germans are inmany ways a great race, but they possess two qualities dangerous to theindividual conscience--unquestioning obedience and exaltation. When theyembrace the democratic idea they may surpass us all in its logicaldevelopment, but the individual conscience will still not be at easewith them. We must look to our two countries to guarantee its strengthand activity, and if we English-speaking races quarrel and becomedisunited, civilisation will split up again and go its way to ruin. Weare the ballast of the new order. 

I do not believe in formal alliances or in grouping nations to excludeand keep down other nations. Friendships between countries should havethe only true reality of common sentiment, _and be animated by desirefor the general welfare of mankind_. We need no formal bonds, but wehave a sacred charge in common, to let no petty matters, differences ofmanner, or divergencies of material interest, destroy our spiritualagreement. Our pasts, our geographical positions, our temperaments makeus, beyond all other races, the hope and trustees of mankind's advancealong the only line now open--democratic internationalism. It ischildish to claim for Americans or Britons virtues beyond those of othernations, or to believe in the superiority of one national culture toanother; they are different, that is all. It is by accident that we findourselves in this position of guardianship to the main line of humandevelopment; no need to pat ourselves on the back about it. But we areat a great and critical moment in the world's history--how critical noneof us alive will ever realise. The civilisation slowly built since thefall of Rome has either to break up and dissolve into jagged andisolated fragments through a century of wars; or, unified and reanimatedby a single idea, to move forward on one plane and attain greater heightand breadth. 

Under the pressure of this war there is, beneath the lip-service we payto democracy, a disposition to lose faith in it because of its undoubtedweakness and inconvenience in a struggle with States autocraticallygoverned; there is even a sort of secret reaction to autocracy. On thoselines there is no way out of a future of bitter rivalries, chicanery andwars, and the probable total failure of our civilisation. The only curewhich I can see lies in democratising the whole world and removing thepresent weaknesses and shams of democracy by education of the individualconscience in every country. Good-bye to that chance if Americans andBritons fall foul of each other, refuse to pool their thoughts andhopes, and to keep the general welfare of mankind in view. They havegot to stand together, not in aggressive and jealous policies, but indefence and championship of the self-helpful, self-governing, "live andlet live" philosophy of life. 

The house of the future is always dark. There are few corner-stones tobe discerned in the temple of our fate. But of these few one is thebrotherhood and bond of the English-speaking races, not for narrowpurposes, but that mankind may yet see faith and good-will enshrined, yet breathe a sweeter air, and know a life where Beauty passes, with thesun on her wings. 

We want in the lives of men a "Song of Honour, " as in Ralph Hodgson'spoem:

 "The song of men all sorts and kinds, As many tempers, moods and minds As leaves are on a tree, As many faiths and castes and creeds, As many human bloods and breeds, As in the world may be. "

In the making of that song the English-speaking races will assuredlyunite. What made this world we know not; the principle of life isinscrutable and will for ever be; but we know that Earth is yet on theup-grade of existence, the mountain-top of man's life not reached, thatmany centuries of growth are yet in front of us before Nature begins tochill this planet till it swims, at last, another moon, in space. In theclimb to that mountain-top of a happy life for mankind our two greatnations are as guides who go before, roped together in perilous ascent. On their nerve, loyalty, and wisdom the adventure now hangs. WhatAmerican or British knife will sever the rope?

He who ever gives a thought to the life of man at large, to his miseriesand disappointments, to the waste and cruelty of existence, willremember that if American or Briton fail himself, or fail the other, there can but be for us both, and for all other peoples, a hideous slip, a swift and fearful fall into an abyss, whence all shall be to beginover again. 

We shall not fail--neither ourselves, nor each other. Our comradeshipwill endure. 

1917. 

[B] "England and the War. " Hodder & Stoughton. 

ANGLO-AMERICAN DRAMA AND ITS FUTURE[C]

There is a maxim particularly suitable to those who follow any art:"Don't talk about what you do!" And yet, once in a way, one must clearthe mind and put into words what lies at the back of endeavour. 

What, then, is lying at the back of any growth or development there mayhave been of late in drama?

In my belief, simply an outcrop of sincerity--of fidelity to mood, toimpression, to self. A man here and there has turned up who has imaginedsomething true to what he has really seen and felt, and has projected itacross the foot-lights in such a way as to make other people feel it. This is all that has happened lately on our stage. And if it be growth, it will not be growth in quantity, since there is nothing like sincerityfor closing the doors of theatres. For, just consider what sincerityexcludes: All care for balance at the author's bank--even when there isno balance; all habit of consulting the expression on the public'sface; all confectioning of French plays; all the convenient practice ofadding up your plots on the principle that two and two make five. Theseit excludes. It includes: Nothing because it pays; nothing because itwill make a sensation; no situations faked; no characters falsified; nofireworks; only something imagined and put down in a passion ofsincerity. What plays, you may say, are left? Well, that was thedevelopment in our drama before this war began. The war arrested it, asit arrested every movement of the day in civil life. But whether in waror peace, the principles which underlie art remain the same and arealways worth consideration. 

Sincerity in the theatre and commercial success are not necessarily, butthey are generally, opposed. It is more or less a happy accident when, they coincide. This grim truth cannot be blinked. Not till the heavensfall will the majority of the public demand sincerity. And all that theywho care for sincerity can hope for is that the supply of sincere dramawill gradually increase the demand for it--gradually lessen the majoritywhich has no use for that disturbing quality. The burden of thisstruggle is on the shoulders of the dramatists. It is useless andunworthy for them to complain that the public will not stand sincerity, that they cannot get sincere plays acted, and so forth. If they have notthe backbone to produce what they feel they ought to produce, withoutregard to what the public wants, then good-bye to progress of any kind. If they are of the crew who cannot see any good in a fight unless theyknow it is going to end in victory; if they expect the millennium withevery spring--they will advance nothing. Their job is to set theirteeth, do their work in their own way, without thinking much aboutresult, and not at all about reward, except from their own consciences. Those who want sincerity will always be the few, but they may well bemore numerous than now; and to increase their number is worth astruggle. That struggle was the much-sneered-at, much-talked-ofso-called "new" movement in our British drama. 

Now it was the fashion to dub this new drama the "serious" drama; thelabel was unfortunate, and not particularly true. If Rabelais or RobertBurns appeared again in mortal form and took to writing plays, theywould be "new" dramatists with a vengeance--as new as ever Ibsen was, and assuredly they would be sincere. But could they well be called"serious"? Can we call Synge, or St. John Hankin, or Shaw, or Barrieserious? Hardly! Yet they are all of this new movement in their verydifferent ways, because they are sincere. The word "serious, " in fact, has too narrow a significance and admits a deal of pompous stuff whichis not sincere. While the word "sincere" certainly does not characteriseall that is popularly included under the term "new drama, " it ascertainly does characterise (if taken in its true sense of fidelity toself) all that is really new in it, and excludes no mood, notemperament, no form of expression which can pass the test of ringingtrue. Look, for example, at the work of those two whom we could so illspare--Synge and St. John Hankin. They were as far apart as dramatistswell could be, except that each had found a special medium--the one akind of lyric satire, the other a neat, individual sort of comedy--whichseemed exactly to express his spirit. Both forms were in a senseartificial, but both were quite sincere; for through them each of thesetwo dramatists, so utterly dissimilar, shaped forth the essence of hisbroodings and visions of life, with all their flavour and individuallimitations. And that is all one means by--all one asks of--sincerity. 

Then why make such a fuss about it?

Because it is rare, and an implicit quality of any true work of art, realistic or romantic. 

Art is not art unless it is made out of an artist's genuine feeling andvision, not out of what he has been told he ought to feel and see. Forart exists not to confirm people in their tastes and prejudices, not toshow them what they have seen before, but to present them with a newvision of life. And if drama be an art (which the great public deniesdaily, but a few of us still believe), it must reasonably be expected topresent life as each dramatist sees it, and not to express thingsbecause they pander to popular prejudice, or are sensational, or becausethey pay. 

If you want further evidence that the new dramatic movement is markedout by its struggle for sincerity, and by that alone, examine a littlethe various half-overt oppositions with which it meets. 

Why is the commercial manager against it?

Because it is quite naturally his business to cater for the greatpublic; and, as before said, the majority of the public does not, neverwill, want sincerity; it is too disturbing. The commercial manager willanswer: "The great public does not dislike sincerity, it only dislikesdullness. " Well! Dullness is not an absolute, but a very relativeterm--a term likely to have a different meaning for a man who knowssomething about life and art from that which it has for a man who knowsless. And one may remark that if the great public's standard of what isreally "amusing" is the true one, it is queer that the plays whichtickle the great public hardly ever last a decade, while the plays whichdo not tickle them occasionally last for centuries. The "dullest" plays, one might say roughly, are those which last the longest. WitnessEuripides!

Why are so many actor-managers against the new drama?

Because their hearts are quite naturally set on such insinceredistortions of values as are necessary to a constant succession of "bigparts" for themselves. Sincerity does not necessarily exclude heroiccharacters, but it does exclude those mock heroics which actor-managershave been known to prefer--not to real heroics, perhaps, but to simpleand sound studies of character. 

Why is the Censorship against it?

Because censorship is quite naturally the guardian of the ordinaryprejudices of sentiment and taste, and quaintly innocent of knowledgethat in any art fidelity of treatment is essential to a theme. Indeed, Iam sure that this peculiar office would regard it as fantastic for apoor devil of an artist to want to be faithful or sincere. The demandwould appear pedantic and extravagant. 

Some say that the critics are against the new drama. That is not in themain true. The inclination of most critics is to welcome anything witha flavour of its own; it would be odd indeed if it were not so--they getso much of the other food! They are, in general, friends to sincerity. But the trouble with the critic is rather the fixed idea. He has toprint his opinion of an author's work, while other men have only tothink it; and when it comes to receiving a fresh impression of the sameauthor, his already recorded words are liable to act on him rather asthe eyes of a snake act on a rabbit. Indeed, it must be very awkward, when you have definitely labelled an author this, or that, to find fromhis next piece of work that he is the other as well! The critic who canmake blank his soul of all that he has said before may indeed exist--inParadise!

Why is the greater public against the new drama?

By the greater public I in no sense mean the public who don't keep motorcars--the greater public comes from the West-end as much as ever itcomes from the East-end. Its opposition to the "new drama" is neithercovert, doubtful, nor conscious of itself. The greater public is like anaged friend of mine, who, if you put into his hands anything butSherlock Holmes, or The Waverley Novels, says: "Oh! that dreadful book!"His taste is excellent, only he does feel that an operation should beperformed on all dramatists and novelists by which they should berendered incapable of producing anything but what my aged friend is usedto. The greater public, in fact, is either a too well-dined organismwhich wishes to digest its dinner, or a too hard-worked organism longingfor a pleasant dream. I sympathise with the greater public!. .. 

A friend once said to me: "Champagne has killed the drama. " It was halfa truth. Champagne is an excellent thing, and must not be disturbed. Plays should not have anything in them which can excite the mind. Theyshould be of a quality to just remove the fumes by eleven o'clock andmake ready the organism for those suppers which were eaten before thewar. Another friend once said to me: "It is the rush and hurry andstrenuousness of modern life which is scotching the drama. " Again, itwas half a truth. Why should not the hard-worked man have his pleasantdream, his detective story, his good laugh? The pity is that sinceredrama would often provide as agreeable dreams for the hard-worked man assome of those reveries in which he now indulges, if only he would try itonce or twice. That is the trouble--to get him to give it a chance. 

The greater public will by preference take the lowest article in artoffered to it. An awkward remark, and unfortunately true. But if abetter article be substituted, the greater public very soon enjoys itevery bit as much as the article replaced, and so on--up to a pointwhich we need not fear we shall ever reach. Not that sincere dramatistsare consciously trying to supply the public with a better article. A mancould not write anything sincere with the elevation of the public asincentive. If he tried, he would be as lost as ever were the Phariseesmaking broad their phylacteries. He can only express himself sincerely_by not considering the public at all_. People often say that this is"cant, " but it really isn't. There does exist a type of mind whichcannot express itself in accordance with what it imagines is required;can only express itself for itself, and take the usually unpleasantconsequences. This is, indeed, but an elementary truth, which since thebeginning of the world has lain at the bottom of all real artisticachievement. It is not cant to say that the only things vital in drama, as in every art, are achieved when the maker has fixed his soul on themaking of a thing which shall seem fine to himself. It is the onlystandard; all the others--success, money, even the pleasure and benefitof other people--lead to confusion in the artist's spirit, and to themaking of dust castles. To please your best self is the only way ofbeing sincere. Most weavers of drama, of course, are perfectly sincerewhen they start out to ply their shuttles; but how many persevere inthat mood to the end of their plays, in defiance of outsideconsideration? Here--says one to himself--it will be too strong meat;there it will not be sufficiently convincing; this natural length willbe too short, that end too appalling; in such and such a shape I shallnever get my play taken; I must write that part up and tone thischaracter down. And when it is all done, effectively, falsely--what isthere? A prodigious run, perhaps. But--the grave of all which makes thelife of an artist worth the living. Well! well! We who believe this willnever get too many others to believe it! Those heavens will not fall;theatre doors will remain open; the heavy diners will digest, and theover-driven man will dream. And yet, with each sincere thing made--evenif only fit for reposing within a drawer--its maker is stronger, andwill some day, perhaps, make that which need not lie covered away, butreach out from him to other men. 

It is a wide word--sincerity. "A Midsummer Night's Dream" is no lesssincere than "Hamlet, " "The Mikado" as faithful to its mood of satiricfrolicking as Ibsen's "Ghosts" to its mood of moral horror. Sinceritybars out no themes; it only demands that the dramatist's moods andvisions should be intense enough to keep him absorbed; that he shouldhave something to say so engrossing to himself that he has no need tostray here and there and gather purple plums to eke out what wasintended to be an apple tart. Here is the heart of the matter: Youcannot get sincere drama out of those who do not see and feel withsufficient fervour; and you cannot get good sincere drama out of thosewho will not hoe their rows to the very end. There is no faking and noscamping to the good in art. You may turn out the machine-made articlevery natty, but for the real hand-made thing you must have toiled in thesweat of your brow. In Britain it is a little difficult to persuadepeople that the writing of plays and novels is work. To many it remainsone of those inventions of a certain potentate for idle hands to do. Tosome persons in high life, and addicted to field sports, it is still aspecies of licensed buffoonery, to be regulated by a sort ofcircus-master with a whip in one hand and a gingerbread nut in theother. By the truly simple soul it is thus summed up: "Work! Why, 'esits writin' all day. " To some, both green and young, it shines as avocation entirely glorious and exhilarating. If one may humbly believethe evidence of his own senses, it is not any of these, but a patientcalling, glamorous now and then, but with fifty minutes of hard labourand yearning to every ten of satisfaction. Not a pursuit, maybe, whichone would change, but then, what man with a profession flies to othersthat he knows not of?

Novelists, it is true, even if they have not been taken too seriously bythe people of these islands, have for a long time past respectedthemselves, but the calling of a dramatist till quite of late has beenbut an invertebrate and spiritless concern. Pruned and prismed by thecensor, exploited by the actor, dragooned and slashed by the manager, ignored by the public, who never even bothered to inquire the names ofthose who supplied it with digestives--it was a slave's job. Thanks to alittle sincerity it is not now a slave's job, and will not again, Ithink, become one. 

From time to time in that vehicle of improvisation, that modern fairytale--our daily paper--we read words such as these: "What has become ofthe boasted renascence of our stage?" or: "So much for all thetrumpeting about the new drama!" When we come across such words, weremember that it is only natural for journals to say to-day the oppositeof what they said yesterday. For they have to suit all tastes andpreserve a decent equilibrium!

There is a new safeguard of the self-respecting dramatist which noamount of improvising for or against will explain away. Plays are nownot merely acted, they are published and read, and will be read more andmore. This does not mean, as some say, that they are being written forthe study--they were never being written more deliberately, morecarefully, for the stage. It does mean that they are tending more andmore to comply with fidelity to theme, fidelity to self; and thereforeare more and more able to bear the scrutiny of cold daylight. And forthe first time, perhaps, since the days of Shakespeare there aredramatists in this country, not a few, faithful to themselves. 

Now, all this is not merely fortuitous. For, however abhorrent such anotion may be to those yet wedded to Victorian ideals, we were, evenbefore the war, undoubtedly passing through great changes in ourphilosophy of life. Just as a plant keeps on conforming to itsenvironment, so our beliefs and ideals are conforming to our new socialconditions and discoveries. There is in the air a revolt againstprejudice, and a feeling that things must be re-tested. The spiritwhich, dwelling in pleasant places, would never re-test anything is nowlooked on askance. Even on our stage we are not enamoured of it. It isnot the artist's business (be he dramatist or other) to preach. Admitted! His business is to portray; but portray truly he cannot if hehas any of that glib doctrinaire spirit, devoid of the insight whichcomes from instinctive sympathy. He must look at _life_, not at a mirageof life compounded of authority, tradition, comfort, habit. The sincereartist, by the very nature of him, is bound to be curious andperceptive, with an instinctive craving to identify himself with theexperience of others. This is his value, whether he express it incomedy, epic, satire, or tragedy. Sincerity distrusts tradition, authority, comfort, habit; cannot breathe the air of prejudice, andcannot stand the cruelties which arise from it. So it comes about thatthe new drama's spirit is essentially, inevitably human and--humane, essentially distasteful to many professing followers of the GreatHumanitarian, who, if they were but sincere, would see that theysecretly abhor His teachings and in practice continually invert them. 

It is a fine age we live in--this age of a developing social conscience, and worthy of a fine and great art. But, though no art is fine unless ithas sincerity, no amount of sincere intention will serve unless theexpression of it be well-nigh perfect. An author is judged, not byintention but by achievement; and criticism is innately inclined toremark first on the peccadillo points of a person, a poem, or a play. Ifthere be a scar on the forehead, a few false quantities, or weakendings, if there is an absence in the third act of some one whoappeared in the first--it is always much simpler to complain of thisthan to feel or describe the essence of the whole. But this verypettiness in our criticism is, fortunately, a sort of safeguard. TheFrench writer Buffon said: "_Bien écrire, c'est tout; car bien écrirec'est bien sentir, bien penser, et bien dire. _" . .. Let the artist then, by all means, make his work impeccable, clothe his ideas, feelings, visions, in just such garments as can withstand the winds of criticism. He himself must be his cruellest critic. Before cutting his cloth lethim very carefully determine the precise thickness, shape, and colourbest suited to the condition of his temperature. For there are stillplaywrights who, working in the full blast of an _affaire_ between apoet and the wife of a stockbroker, will murmur to themselves: "Now fora little lyricism!" and drop into it. Or when the strong, silentstockbroker has brought his wife once more to heel: "Now for the moral!"and gives it us. Or when things are getting a little too intense: "Nowfor humour and variety!" and bring in the curate. This kind of tartankilt is very pleasant on its native heath of London; but--hardly thegarment of good writing. Good writing is only the perfect clothing ofmood--the just right form. Shakespeare's form, you will say, wasextraordinarily loose, wide, plastic; but then his spirit was everchanging its mood--a true chameleon. And as to the form of Mr. Shaw--whowas once compared with Shakespeare--why! there is none. And yet, whatform could so perfectly express Mr. Shaw's glorious crusade againststupidity, his wonderfully sincere and lifelong mood of sticking pinsinto a pig!

We are told, _ad nauseam_, that the stage has laws of its own, to whichall dramatists must bow. Quite true! The stage _has_ the highlytechnical laws of its physical conditions, which cannot be neglected. But even when they are all properly attended to, it is only behind theelbow of one who feels strongly and tries to express sincerely thatright expression stands. The imaginative mood, coming who knows when, staying none too long, is a mistress who deserves, and certainlyexpects, fidelity. True to her while she is there, do not, when she isnot there, insult her by looking in every face and thinking it willserve! These are laws of sincerity which not even a past-master in thelaws of the stage can afford to neglect. Anything is better thanresorting to moral sentiments and solutions because they are currentcoin, or to decoration because it is "the thing. " And--as to humour:though nothing is more precious than the genuine topsy-turvy feeling, nothing is more pitifully unhumorous than the dragged-in epigram ordismal knockabout, which has no connection with the persons orphilosophy of the play. 

I suppose it is easy to think oneself sincere; it is certainly difficultto be that same. Imagine the smile, and the blue pencil, of the Spiritof Sincerity if we could appoint him Censor. I would not lift my penagainst that Censorship though he excised--as perhaps he might--the halfof my work. Sometimes one has a glimpse of his ironic face and his swiftfingers, busy with those darkening pages. Once I dreamed about him. Itwas while a certain Commission was sitting on the British Censorship, which still so admirably guards Insincerity, and he was giving evidencebefore them. This, I remember, was what he said:

"You wish to learn of me what is sincerity? Look into yourselves, forwhat lies deepest within you. Each living thing varies from every otherliving thing, and never twice are there quite the same set of premisesfrom which to draw conclusion. Give up asking of any but yourselves forthe whereabouts of truth; and if some one says that he can tell youwhere it is, don't believe him; he might as well lay a trail of sand andthink it will stay there for ever. " He stopped, and I could see himlooking to judge what impression he had made upon the Commission. Butthose gentlemen behaved as if they had not heard him. The Spirit ofSincerity coughed. "By Jove, gentlemen, " he said, "it's clear you don'tcare what impression you make on me. Evidently it is for me to learnsincerity from you!"

There was once a gentleman, lately appointed to assist in the control ofthe exuberance of plays, who stated in public print that there had beenno plays of any value written since 1885, entirely denying that this newdrama was any better than the old drama, cut to the pattern of Scribeand Sardou. Certainly, novelty is not necessarily improvement. Comparison must be left to history. But it is just as well to rememberthat we are not born connoisseurs of plays. Without trying the new weshall not know if it is better than the old. To appreciate even drama atits true value, a man must be educated just a little. When I first wentto the National Gallery in London I was struck dumb with love ofLandseer's stags and a Greuze damsel with her cheek glued to her ownshoulder, and became voluble from admiration of the large Turner and thelarge Claude hung together in that perpetual prize-fight! At a secondvisit I discovered Sir Joshua's "Countess of Albemarle" and old Crome's"Mousehold Heath, " and did not care quite so much for Landseer's stags. And again and again I went, and each time saw a little differently, alittle clearer, until at last my time was spent before Titian's "Bacchusand Ariadne, " Botticelli's "Portrait of a Young Man, " the Francescas, DaMessina's little "Crucifixion, " the Uccello battle picture (that greattest of education), the Velasquez (?) "Admiral, " Hogarth's "FiveServants, " and the immortal "Death of Procris. " Admiration for stags andmaidens--where was it?

This analogy of pictures does not pretend that our "new drama" is as farin front of the old as the "Death of Procris" is in front of Landseer'sstags. Alas, no! It merely suggests that taste is encouraged by an openmind, and is a matter of gradual education. 

To every man his sincere opinion! But before we form opinions, let usall walk a little through our National Gallery of drama, with inquiringeye and open mind, to see and know for ourselves. For, _to know_, a mancannot begin too young, cannot leave off too old. And always he musthave a mind which feels it will never know enough. In this way alone he_will_, perhaps, know something before he dies. 

And even if he require of the drama only buffoonery, or a digestive forhis dinner, why not be able to discern good buffoonery from bad, and thepure digestive from the drug?

One is, I suppose, prejudiced in favour of this "new drama" ofsincerity, of these poor productions of the last fifteen years, or so. It may be, indeed, that many of them will perish and fade away. But theyare, at all events, the expression of the sincere moods of men who askno more than to serve an art, which, heaven knows, has need of a littleserving. 

 * * * * *

So much for the principles underlying the advance of the drama. But whatabout the chances of drama itself under the new conditions which willobtain when the war ends?

For the moment our world is still convulsed, and art of every kindtrails a lame foot before a public whose eyes are fixed on the vast andbloody stage of the war. When the last curtain falls, and rises again onthe scenery of Peace, shall we have to revalue everything? Surely notthe fundamental truths; these reflections on the spirit which underlieall true effort in dramatic art may stand much as they were framed, nowfive years ago. Fidelity to mood, to impression, to self will remainwhat it was--the very kernel of good dramatic art; whether that fidelitywill find a more or less favourable environment remains the interestingspeculation. When we come to after-war conditions a sharp distinctionwill have to be drawn between the chances of sincere drama in Americaand Britain. It is my strong impression that sincere dramatists inAmerica are going to have an easier time than they had before the war, but that with us they are going to have a harder. My reasons arethreefold. The first and chief reason is economic. However much Americamay now have to spend, with her late arrival, vaster resources, andincomparably greater recuperative power, she will feel the economicstrain but little in comparison with Britain. Britain, not at once, butcertainly within five years of the war's close, will find that she hasvery much less money to spend on pleasure. Now, under present conditionsof education, when the average man has little to spend on pleasure, hespends it first in gratifying his coarser tastes. And the average Britonis going to spend his little on having his broad laughs and his crudethrills. By the time he has gratified that side of himself he will haveno money left. Those artists in Britain who respect æsthetic truths andpractise sincerity will lose even the little support they ever had fromthe great public there; they will have to rely entirely on that smallpublic which always wanted truth and beauty, and will want it even morepassionately after the war. But that little public will be poorer also, and, I think, not more numerous than it was. The British public is goingto be split more definitely into two camps--a very big and a very littlecamp. What this will mean to the drama of sincerity only those who havewatched its struggle in the past will be able to understand. The troublein Britain--and I daresay in every country--is that the percentage ofpeople who take art of any kind seriously is ludicrously small. And ourimpoverishment will surely make that percentage smaller by cutting offthe recruiting which was always going on from the ranks of the greatpublic. How long it will take Britain to recover even pre-war conditionsI do not venture to suggest. But I am pretty certain that there is nochance for a drama of truth and beauty there for many years to come, unless we can get it endowed in such a substantial way as shall tide itover--say--the next two decades. What we require is a London theatreundeviatingly devoted to the production of nothing but the real thing, which will go its own way, year in, year out, quite without regard tothe great public; and we shall never get it unless we can find somebenevolent, public-spirited person or persons who will place it in aposition of absolute security. If we could secure this endowment, thattheatre would become in a very few years the most fashionable, if notthe most popular, in London, and even the great public would go to it. Nor need such a theatre be expensive--as theatres go--for it is to themind and not to the eye that it must appeal. A sufficient audience isthere ready; what is lacking is the point of focus, a single-hearted andcoherent devotion to the best, and the means to pursue that idealwithout extravagance but without halting. Alas! in England, thoughpeople will endow or back almost anything else, they will not endow orback an art theatre. 

So much for the economic difficulty in Britain; what about America? Thesame cleavage obtains in public taste, of course, but numbers are somuch larger, wealth will be so much greater, the spirit is so much moreinquiring, the divisions so much less fast set, that I do not anticipatefor America any block on the line. There will still be plenty of moneyto indulge every taste. 

Art, and especially, perhaps, dramatic art, which of all is mostdependent on a favourable economic condition, will gravitate towardsAmerica, which may well become in the next ten years not only themother, but the foster-mother, of the best Anglo-Saxon drama. 

My next reason for thinking that sincerity in art will have a betterchance with Americans than in Britain in the coming years ispsychological. They are so young a nation, we are so old; world-quakesto them are such an adventure, to us a nerve-racking, if not ahealth-shattering event. They will take this war in their stride, wehave had to climb laboriously over it. They will be left buoyant; we, with the rest of Europe, are bound to lie for long years after in thetrough of disillusionment. The national mood with them will be more thanever that of inquiry and exploit. With us, unless I make a mistake, after a spurt of hedonism--a going on the spree--there will belassitude. Every European country has been overtried in this hideousstruggle, and Nature, with her principle of balance, is bound to takeredress. For Americans the war, nationally speaking, will have been buta bracing of the muscles and nerves, a clearing of the skin and eyes. Such a mental and moral condition will promote in them a deeperphilosophy and a more resolute facing of truth. 

And that brings me to my third reason. The American outlook will bepermanently enlarged by this tremendous experience. Materially andspiritually she will have been forced to witness and partake of thelife, thought, culture, and troubles of the old world. She will have, unconsciously, assimilated much, been diverted from the beer andskittles of her isolated development in a great new country. Americanswill find themselves suddenly grown up. Not till a man is grown up doeshe see and feel things deeply enough to venture into the dark well ofsincerity. 

America is an eager nation. She has always been in a hurry. If I had topoint out the capital defect in the attractive temperament of theAmerican people, I should say it was a passion for short cuts. That hasbeen, in my indifferent judgment, the very natural, the inevitableweakness in America's spiritual development. The material possibilities, the opportunities for growth and change, the vast spaces, the climate, the continual influxions of new blood and new habits, the endless shiftsof life and environment, all these factors have been against that deepbrooding over things, that close and long scrutiny into the deepersprings of life, out of which the sincerest and most lasting forms ofart emerge; nearly all the conditions of American existence during thelast fifty years have been against the settled life and atmosphere whichinfluence men to the re-creation in art form of that which has sunkdeep into their souls. Those who have seen the paintings of the Italianartist Segantini will understand what I mean. There have been manypainters of mountains, but none whom I know of save he who hasreproduced the very spirit of those great snowy spaces. He spent hislife among them till they soaked into his nerves, into the very blood ofhim. All else he gave up, to see and feel them so that he mightreproduce them in his art. Or let me take an instance from America. Thatenchanting work of art "Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, " by the greatMark Twain. What reproduction of atmosphere and life; what scent of theriver, and old-time country life, it gives off! How the author must havebeen soaked in it to have produced those books!

The whole tendency of our age has been away from hand-made goods, awayfrom the sort of life which produced the great art of the past. That istoo big a subject to treat of here. But certainly a sort of feverishimpatience has possessed us all, America not least. It may be said thatthis will be increased by the war. I think the opposite. Hard spiritualexperience and contact with the old world will deepen the Americancharacter and cool its fevers, and Americans will be more thorough, less impatient, will give themselves to art and to the sort of lifewhich fosters art, more than they have ever yet given themselves. Greatartists, like Whistler and Henry James, will no longer seek their quietenvironments in Europe. I believe that this war will be for America thebeginning of a great art age; I hope so with all my heart. For art willneed a kind home and a new lease of life. 

A certain humble and yet patient and enduring belief in himself and hisown vision is necessary to the artist. I think that Americans have onlyjust begun to believe in themselves as artists, but that this belief isnow destined to grow quickly. America has a tremendous atmosphere of herown, a wonderful life, a wonderful country, but so far she has beenskating over its surface. The time has come when she will strike down, think less in terms of material success and machine-made perfections. The time has come when she will brood, and interpret more and more theunderlying truths, and body forth an art which shall be a spiritualguide, shed light, and show the meaning of her multiple existence. Itwill reveal dark things, but also those quiet heights to which man'sspirit turns for rest and faith in this bewildering maze of a world. Andto this art about to come--art inevitably moves slowly--into its own, to American drama, poetry, fiction, music, painting, sculpture--sincerity, an unswerving fidelity to self, alone will bring the dignity worthy ofa great and free people. 

1913-1917. 

[C] The first part of this paper was published in the _Hibbert Journal_in 1910. 

SPECULATIONS[D]

"When we survey the world around, the wondrous things which thereabound"--especially the developments of these last years--there mustcome to some of us a doubt whether this civilisation of ours is to havea future. Mr. Lowes Dickenson, in an able book, "The Choice Before Us, "has outlined the alternate paths which the world may tread after thewar--"National Militarism" or "International Pacifism. " He has pointedout with force the terrible dangers on the first of these two paths, theruinous strain and ultimate destruction which a journey down it willinflict on every nation. But, holding a brief for InternationalPacifism, he was not, in that book, at all events, concerned to pointout the dangers which beset Peace. When, in the words of PresidentWilson, we have made the world safe for democracy, it will be high timeto set about making it safe against civilisation itself. 

The first thing, naturally, is to ensure a good long spell of peace. Ifwe do not, we need not trouble ourselves for a moment over the future ofcivilisation--there will be none. But a long spell of peace isprobable; for, though human nature is never uniform, and never as oneman shall we get salvation; sheer exhaustion, and disgust with itspresent bed-fellows--suffering, sacrifice, and sudden death--will almostsurely force the world into international quietude. For the first timein history organised justice, such as for many centuries has ruled therelations between individuals, may begin to rule those between States, and free us from menace of war for a period which may be almostindefinitely prolonged. To perpetuate this great change in the life ofnations is very much an affair of getting men used to that change; ofsetting up a Tribunal which they can see and pin their faith to, whichworks, and proves its utility, which they would miss if it weredissolved. States are proverbially cynical, but if an InternationalCourt of Justice, backed by international force, made good in thesettlement of two or three serious disputes, allayed two or threecrises, it would with each success gain prestige, be firmer and moredifficult to uproot, till it might at last become as much a matter ofcourse in the eyes of the cynical States as our Law Courts are in theeyes of our enlightened selves. 

Making, then, the large but by no means hopeless assumption that such achange may come, how is our present civilisation going to "pan out"?

In Samuel Butler's imagined country, "Erewhon, " the inhabitants hadbroken up all machinery, abandoned the use of money, and lived in astrange elysium of health and beauty. I often wonder how, withoutsomething of the sort, modern man is to be prevented from falling intothe trombone he blows so loudly, from being destroyed by the verymachines he has devised for his benefit. The problem before modern manis clearly that of becoming master, instead of slave, of his owncivilisation. The history of the last hundred and fifty years, especially in England, is surely one long story of ceaseless banquet andacute indigestion. Certain Roman Emperors are popularly supposed to havetaken drastic measures during their feasts to regain their appetites; wehave not their "slim" wisdom; we do not mind going on eating when wehave had too much. 

I do not question the intentions of civilisation--they are mosthonourable. To be clean, warm, well nourished, healthy, decentlyleisured, and free to move quickly about the world, are certainly purebenefits. And these are presumably the prime objects of our toil andingenuity, the ideals to be served, by the discovery of steam, electricity, modern industrial machinery, telephony, flying. If weattained those ideals, and stopped there--well and good. Alas! theamazing mechanical conquests of the age have crowded one on another sofast that we have never had time to digest their effects. Each as itcame we hailed as an incalculable benefit to mankind, and so it was, orwould have been, if we had not the appetites of cormorants and thedigestive powers of elderly gentlemen. Our civilisation reminds one ofthe corpse in the Mark Twain story which, at its own funeral, got up androde with the driver. It is watching itself being buried. We discover, and scatter discovery broadcast among a society uninstructed in theproper use of it. Consider the town-ridden, parasitic condition of GreatBritain--_the country which cannot feed itself_. If we are beaten inthis war, it will be because we have let our industrial system run awaywith us; because we became so sunk in machines and money-getting that weforgot our self-respect. No self-respecting nation would have let itsfood-growing capacity and its country life down to the extent that wehave. If we are beaten--which God forbid--we shall deserve our fate. Andwhy did our industrial system get such a mad grip on us? Because we didnot master the riot of our inventions and discoveries. Remember thespinning jenny--whence came the whole system of Lancashire cottonfactories which drained a countryside of peasants and caused adeterioration of physique from which as yet there has been no recovery. Here was an invention which was to effect a tremendous saving of labourand be of sweeping benefit to mankind. Exploited without knowledge, scruple, or humanity, it also caused untold misery and grievous nationalharm. Read, mark, and learn Mr. And Mrs. Hammond's book, "The TownLabourer. " The spinning jenny and similar inventions have been theforces which have dotted beautiful counties of England with the blackestand most ill-looking towns in the world, have changed the proportion ofcountry- to town-dwellers from about 3 as against 2 in 1761 to 2 asagainst 7 in 1911; have strangled our powers to feed ourselves, and somade us a temptation to our enemies and a danger to the whole world. Wehave made money by it; our standard of wealth has gone up. I rememberhaving a long talk with a very old shepherd on the South Downs, whoseyouth and early married life were lived on eight shillings a week; andhe was no exception. Nowadays our agricultural wage averages over thirtyshillings, though it buys but little more than the eight. Still, thestandard of wealth has superficially advanced, if that be anysatisfaction. But have health, beauty, happiness among the great bulk ofthe population?

Consider the mastery of the air. To what use has it been put, so far? Topractically none, save the destruction of life. About five years beforethe war some of us in England tried to initiate an internationalmovement to ban the use of flying for military purposes. The effort wasentirely abortive. The fact is, man never goes in front of events, always insists on disastrously buying his experience. And I am inclinedto think we shall continue to advance backwards unless we intern ourinventors till we have learned to run the inventions of the last centuryinstead of letting them run us. Counsels of perfection, however, arenever pursued. But what _can_ we do? We can try to ban certain outsidedangers internationally, such as submarines and air-craft, in war; and, inside, we might establish a Board of Scientific Control to ensure thatno inventions are exploited under conditions obviously harmful. 

Suppose, for instance, that the spinning jenny had come before such aBoard, one imagines they might have said: "If you want to use thispeculiar novelty, you must first satisfy us that your employees aregoing to work under conditions favourable to health"--in other words, the Factory Acts, Town Planning, and no Child Labour, from the start. Or, when rubber was first introduced: "You are bringing in this new and, we dare say, quite useful article. We shall, however, first send out andsee the conditions under which you obtain it. " Having seen, they wouldhave added: "You will alter those conditions, and treat your nativelabour humanely, or we will ban your use of this article, " to the griefand anger of those periwig-pated persons who write to the papers aboutgrandmotherly legislation and sickly sentimentalism. 

Seriously, the history of modern civilisation shows that, while we canonly trust individualism to make discoveries, we cannot at all trust itto apply discovery without some sort of State check in the interests ofhealth, beauty, and happiness. Officialdom is on all our nerves. Butthis is a very vital matter, and the suggestion of a Board of ScientificControl is not so fantastic as it seems. Certain results of inventionsand discoveries cannot, of course, be foreseen, but able and impartialbrains could foresee a good many and save mankind from the most rampantresults of raw and unconsidered exploitation. The public is a child; andthe child who suddenly discovers that there is such a thing as candy, ifleft alone, can only be relied on to make itself sick. 

Let us stray for a frivolous moment into the realms of art, since theword art is claimed for what we know as the "film. " This discovery wentas it pleased for a few years in the hands of inventors and commercialagents. In these few years such a raging taste for cowboy, crime, andChaplin films has been developed, that a Commission which has just beensitting on the matter finds that the public will not put up with morethan a ten per cent. Proportion of educational film in the course of anevening's entertainment. Now, the film as a means of transcribing actuallife is admittedly of absorbing interest and great educational value;but, owing to this false start, we cannot get it swallowed in more thanextremely small doses as a food and stimulant, while it is being gulpeddown to the dregs as a drug or irritant. Of the film's claim to the wordart I am frankly sceptical. My mind is open--and when one says that, onegenerally means it is shut. But art is long: the Cro-Magnon men ofEurope decorated the walls of their caves quite beautifully, some saytwenty-five, some say seventy, thousand years ago; so it may wellrequire a generation to tell us what is art and what is not among thenew experiments continually being made. Still, the film is a restlessthing, and I cannot think of any form of art, as hitherto we haveunderstood the word, to which that description could be applied, unlessit be those Wagner operas which I have disliked not merely since the warbegan, but from childhood up. During the filming of the play "Justice" Iattended at rehearsal to see Mr. Gerald du Maurier play the cell scene. Since in that scene there is not a word spoken in the play itself, thereis no difference in _kind_ between the appeal of play or film. But thelive rehearsal for the filming was at least twice as affecting as thedead result of that rehearsal on the screen. The film, of course, is inits first youth, but I see no signs as yet that it will ever overcomethe handicap of its physical conditions, and attain the realemotionalising powers of art. The film sweeps up into itself, of course, a far wider surface of life in a far shorter space of time; but themedium is flat, has no blood in it; and experience tells one that noamount of surface and quantity in art ever make up for lack of depth andquality. Who would not cheerfully give the Albert Memorial for a littlefigure by Donatello! Since, however, the film takes the line of leastresistance, and makes a rapid, lazy, superficial appeal, it may verywell oust the drama. And, to my thinking, of course, that will be all tothe bad, and intensely characteristic of machine-made civilisation, whose motto seems to be: "Down with Shakespeare and Euripides--up withthe Movies!" The film is a very good illustration of the whole tendencyof modern life under the too-rapid development of machines; roughlyspeaking, we seem to be turning up yearly more and more ground to lessand less depth. We are getting to know life as superficially as theEgyptian interpreter knew language, who, [as we read in the _ManchesterGuardian_, ] when the authorities complained that he was overstaying hisleave, wrote back: "My absence is impossible. Some one has removed mywife. My God, I am annoyed. "

There is an expression--"high-brow"--maybe complimentary in origin, butbecome in some sort a term of contempt. A doubter of our generaldivinity is labelled "high-brow" at once, and his doubts drop like wateroff the public's back. Any one who questions our triumphant progress istabooed for a pedant. That will not alter the fact, I fear, that we aregrowing feverish, rushed, and complicated, and have multipliedconveniences to such an extent that we do nothing with them but scrapethe surface of life. We were rattling into a new species of barbarismwhen the war came, and unless we take a pull, shall continue to rattleafter it is over. The underlying cause in every country is the increaseof herd-life, based on machines, money-getting, and the dread of beingdull. Every one knows how fearfully strong that dread is. But to becapable of being dull is in itself a disease. 

And most of modern life seems to be a process of creating disease, thenfinding a remedy which in its turn creates another disease, demandingfresh remedy, and so on. We pride ourselves, for example, on scientificsanitation; well, what is scientific sanitation if not one hugepalliative of evils, which have arisen from herd-life, enablingherd-life to be intensified, so that we shall presently need even morescientific sanitation? The old shepherd on the South Downs had nevercome in contact with it, yet he was very old, very healthy, hardy, andcontented. He had a sort of simple dignity, too, that we have most of uslost. The true elixirs _vitæ_--for there be two, I think--are open-airlife and a proud pleasure in one's work; we have evolved a mode ofexistence in which it is comparatively rare to find these two conjoined. In old countries, such as Britain, the evils of herd-life are at presentvastly more acute than in a new country such as America. On the otherhand, the further one is from hell the faster one drives towards it, andmachines are beginning to run along with America even more violentlythan with Europe. 

When our Tanks first appeared they were described as snouting monsterscreeping at their own sweet will. I confess that this is how my inflamedeye sees all our modern machines--monsters running on their own, dragging us along, and very often squashing us. 

We are, I believe, awakening to the dangers of this "Gadarening, " thisrushing down the high cliff into the sea, possessed and pursued by thedevils of--machinery. But if any man would see how little alarmed hereally is--let him ask himself how much of his present mode of existencehe is prepared to alter. Altering the modes of other people isdelightful; one would have great hope of the future if we had nothingbefore us but that. The medieval Irishman, in Froude, indicted forburning down the cathedral at Armagh, together with the Archbishop, defended himself thus: "As for the cathedral, 'tis true I burned it; butindeed an' I wouldn't have, only they told me himself was inside. " Weare all ready to alter our opponents, if not to burn them. But even ifwe were as ardent reformers as that Irishman we could hardly force mento live in the open, or take a proud pleasure in their work, or enjoybeauty, or not concentrate themselves on making money. No amount oflegislation will make us "lilies of the field" or "birds of the air, "or prevent us from worshipping false gods, or neglecting to reformourselves. 

I once wrote the unpopular sentence, "Democracy at present offers thespectacle of a man running down a road followed at a more and morerespectful distance by his own soul. " I am a democrat, or I should neverhave dared. For democracy, substitute "Modern Civilisation, " whichprides itself on redress after the event, agility in getting out of theholes into which it has snouted, and eagerness to snout into fresh ones. It foresees nothing, and avoids less. It is purely empirical, if one mayuse such a "high-brow" word. 

Politics are popularly supposed to govern the direction, and statesmento be the guardian angels, of Civilisation. It seems to me that theyhave little or no power over its growth. They are of it, and move withit. Their concern is rather with the body than with the mind or soul ofa nation. One needs not to be an engineer to know that to pull a man upa wall one must be higher than he; that to raise general taste one musthave better taste than that of those whose taste he is raising. 

Now, to my indifferent mind, education in the large sense--not politicsat all--is the only agent really capable of improving the trend ofcivilisation, the only lever we can use. Believing this, I think it athousand pities that neither Britain nor America, nor, so far as I know, any other country, has as yet evolved machinery through which theremight be elected a supreme Director, or, say, a little Board of threeDirectors, of the nation's spirit, an Educational President, as it were, with power over the nation's spirit analogous to that which America'selected political President has over America's body. Our Minister ofEducation is as a rule an ordinary Member of the Government, an ordinaryman of affairs--though at the moment an angel happens to have strayedin. Why cannot education be regarded, like religion in the past, assomething sacred, not merely a department of political administration?Ought we not for this most vital business of education to be ever on thewatch for the highest mind and the finest spirit of the day to guide us?To secure the appointment of such a man, or triumvirate, by democraticmeans, would need a special sifting process of election, which couldnever be too close and careful. One might use for the purpose the actualbody of teachers in the country to elect delegates to select a jury tochoose finally the flower of the national flock. It would be worth anyamount of trouble to ensure that we always had the best man or men. Andwhen we had them we should give them a mandate as real and substantialas America now gives to her political President. We should intend themnot for mere lay administrators and continuers of custom, but for truefountain-heads and initiators of higher ideals of conduct, learning, manners, and taste; nor stint them of the means necessary to carry thoseideals into effect. Hitherto, the supposed direction of ideals--inpractice almost none--has been left to religion. But religion as amotive force is at once too personal, too lacking in unanimity, and toospecialised to control the educational needs of a modern State;religion, as I understand it, is essentially emotional and individual;when it becomes practical and worldly it strays outside its trueprovince and loses beneficence. Education as I want to see it would takeover the control of social ethics, and learning, but make no attempt tousurp the emotional functions of religion. Let me give you an example:Those elixirs _vitæ_--open-air life and a proud pleasure in one'swork--imagine those two principles drummed into the heads and hearts ofall the little scholars of the age, by men and women who had been taughtto believe them the truth. Would this not gradually have an incalculableeffect on the trend of our civilisation? Would it not tend to create ademand for a simple and sane life; help to get us back to the land;produce reluctance to work at jobs in which no one can feel pride andpleasure, and so diminish the power of machines and of commercialexploitation? But teachers could only be inspired with such ideals bymaster spirits. And my plea is that we should give ourselves the chanceof electing and making use of such master spirits. We all know fromeveryday life and business that the real, the only problem is to get thebest men to run the show; when we get them the show runs well, when wedon't there is nothing left but to pay the devil. The chief defect ofmodern civilisation based on democracy is the difficulty of getting bestmen quickly enough. Unless Democracy--government by the people--makes ofitself Aristocracy--government by the best people--it is runningsteadily to seed. Democracy to be sound must utilise not only the ablestmen of affairs, but the aristocracy of spirit. The really vital concernof such an elected Head of Education, himself the best man of all, wouldbe the discovery and employment of other best men, best Heads of Schoolsand Colleges, whose chief concern in turn would be the discovery andemployment of best subordinates. The better the teacher the better theideals; quite obviously, the only hope of raising ideals is to raise thestandard of those who teach, from top to toe of the educationalmachine. What we want, in short, is a sort of endless band--throwing upthe finest spirit of the day till he forms a head or apex whence virtueruns swiftly down again into the people who elected him. This is theprinciple, as it seems to me, of the universe itself, whose symbol isneither circle nor spire, but circle and spire mysteriously combined. 

America has given us an example of this in her political system; perhapsshe will now oblige in her educational. I confess that I look veryeagerly and watchfully towards America in many ways. After the war shewill be more emphatically than ever, in material things, the mostimportant and powerful nation of the earth. We British have a legitimateand somewhat breathless interest in the use she will make of herstrength, and in the course of her national life, for this will greatlyinfluence the course of our own. But power for real light and leading inAmerica will depend, not so much on her material wealth, or her armedforce, as on what the attitude towards life and the ideals of hercitizens are going to be. Americans have a certain eagerness forknowledge; they have also, for all their absorption in success, theaspiring eye. They do want the good thing. They don't always know itwhen they see it, but they want it. These qualities, in combinationwith material strength, give America her chance. Yet, if she does notset her face against "Gadarening, " we are all bound for downhill. If shegoes in for spreadeagleism, if her aspirations are towards quantity notquality, we shall all go on being commonised. If she should get thatpurse-and-power-proud fever which comes from national success, we areall bound for another world flare-up. The burden of proving thatdemocracy can be real and yet live up to an ideal of health and beautywill be on America's shoulders, and on ours. What are we and Americansgoing to make of our inner life, of our individual habits of thought?What are we going to reverence, and what despise? Do we mean to lead inspirit and in truth, not in mere money and guns? Britain is an oldcountry, still in her prime, I hope; but America is as yet on thethreshold. Is she to step out into the sight of the world as a greatleader? That is for America the long decision, to be worked out, not somuch in her Senate and her Congress, as in her homes and schools. OnAmerica, after the war, the destiny of civilisation may hang for thenext century. If she mislays, indeed, if she does not improve the powerof self-criticism--that special dry American humour which the greatLincoln had--she might soon develop the intolerant provincialism whichhas so often been the bane of the earth and the undoing of nations. Ifshe gets swelled-head the world will get cold-feet. Above all, if shedoes not solve the problems of town life, of Capital and Labour, of thedistribution of wealth, of national health, and attain to a mastery overinventions and machinery--she is in for a cycle of mere anarchy, disruption, and dictatorships, into which we shall all follow. The motto"_noblesse oblige_" applies as much to democracy as ever it did to theold-time aristocrat. It applies with terrific vividness to America. Ancestry and Nature have bestowed on her great gifts. Behind her standConscience, Enterprise, Independence, and Ability--such were thecompanions of the first Americans, and are the comrades of Americancitizens to this day. She has abounding energy, an unequalled spirit ofdiscovery; a vast territory not half developed, and great naturalbeauty. I remember sitting on a bench overlooking the Grand Canyon ofArizona; the sun was shining into it, and a snow-storm was whirling downthere. All that most marvellous work of Nature was flooded to the brimwith rose and tawny-gold, with white, and wine-dark shadows; thecolossal carvings as of huge rock-gods and sacrificial altars, and greatbeasts, along its sides, were made living by the very mystery of lightand darkness, on that violent day of spring--I remember sitting there, and an old gentleman passing close behind, leaning towards me and sayingin a sly, gentle voice: "How are you going to tell it to the folks athome?" America has so much that one despairs of telling to the folks athome, so much grand beauty to be to her an inspiration and uplifttowards high and free thought and vision. Great poems of Nature she has, wrought in the large, to make of her and keep her a noble people. In ourbeloved Britain--all told, not half the size of Texas--there is a quietbeauty of a sort which America has not. I walked not long ago fromWorthing to the little village of Steyning, in the South Downs. It wassuch a day as one too seldom gets in England; when the sun was dippingand there came on the cool chalky hills the smile of late afternoon, andacross a smooth valley on the rim of the Down one saw a tiny group oftrees, one little building, and a stack, against the clear-blue, palesky--it was like a glimpse of Heaven, so utterly pure in line andcolour, so removed, and touching. The tale of loveliness in our land isvaried and unending, but it is not in the grand manner. America has thegrand manner in her scenery and in her blood, for over there all are thechildren of adventure and daring, every single white man an emigranthimself or a descendant of one who had the pluck to emigrate. She hasalready had past-masters in dignity, but she has still to reach as anation the grand manner in achievement. She knows her own dangers andfailings, her qualities and powers; but she cannot realise the intenseconcern and interest, deep down behind our provoking stolidities, withwhich we of the old country watch her, feeling that what she does reactson us above all nations, and will ever react more and more. Underneathsurface differences and irritations we English-speaking peoples are fastbound together. May it not be in misery and iron! If America walksupright, so shall we; if she goes bowed under the weight of machines, money, and materialism, we, too, shall creep our ways. We run a longrace, we nations; a generation is but a day. But in a day a man mayleave the track, and never again recover it!

Democracies must not be content to leave the ideals of health and beautyto artists and a leisured class; that is the way into a treeless, waterless desert. It has struck me forcibly that we English-speakingdemocracies are all right underneath, and all wrong on the surface; ourhearts are sound, but our skin is in a deplorable condition. Our taste, take it all round, is dreadful. For a petty illustration: Ragtimemusic. Judging by its popularity, one would think it must be a splendiddiscovery; yet it suggests little or nothing but the comic love-makingof two darkies. We ride it to death; but its jigging, jogging, jumpyjingle refuses to die on us, and America's young and ours grow up in thetradition of its soul-forsaken sounds. Take another tiny illustration:The new dancing. Developed from cake-walk, to fox-trot, by way of tango. Precisely the same spiritual origin! And not exactly in the grand mannerto one who, like myself, loves and believes in dancing. Take the"snappy" side of journalism. In San Francisco a few years ago the Presssnapped a certain writer and his wife, in their hotel, and next daythere appeared a photograph of two intensely wretched-looking beingsstricken by limelight, under the headline: "Blank and wife enjoy freedomand gaiety in the air. " Another writer told me that as he set foot on acar leaving a great city a young lady grabbed him by the coat-tail andcried: "Say, Mr. Asterisk, what are your views on a future life?" Not inthe grand manner, all this; but, if you like, a sign of vitality andinterest; a mere excrescence. But are not these excrescences symptoms ofa fever lying within our modern civilisation, a febrility which is goingto make achievement of great ends and great work more difficult? WeBritons, as a breed, are admittedly stolid; we err as much on that scoreas Americans on the score of restlessness; yet we are both subject tothese excrescences. There is something terribly infectious aboutvulgarity; and taste is on the down-grade following the tendencies ofherd-life. It is not a process to be proud of. 

Enough of Jeremiads, there is a bright side to our civilisation. 

This modern febrility does not seem able to attack the real inner man. If there is a lamentable increase of vulgarity, superficiality, andrestlessness in our epoch, there is also an inspiring development ofcertain qualities. Those who were watching human nature before the warwere pretty well aware of how, under the surface, unselfishness, ironicstoicism, and a warm humanity were growing. These are the great TownVirtues; the fine flowers of herd-life. A big price is being paid forthem, but they are almost beyond price. The war has revealed them infull bloom. _Revealed them, not produced them!_ Who, in the future, withthis amazing show before him, will dare to talk about the need for warto preserve courage and unselfishness? From the first shot these wondersof endurance, bravery, and sacrifice were shown by the untrainedcitizens of countries nearly fifty years deep in peace! Never, Isuppose, in the world's history, has there been so marvellous a display, in war, of the bedrock virtues. The soundness at core of the modern manhas had one long triumphant demonstration. Out of a million instances, take that little story of a Mr. Lindsay, superintendent of a pumpingstation at some oil-wells in Mesopotamia. A valve in the oil-pipe hadsplit, and a fountain of oil was being thrown up on all sides, while, thirty yards off, and nothing between, the furnaces were in full blast. To prevent a terrible conflagration and great loss of life, and to savethe wells, it was necessary to shut off those furnaces. That meantdashing through the oil-stream and arriving saturated at the flames. Thesuperintendent did not hesitate a moment, and was burnt to death. Suchdeeds as this men and women have been doing all through the war. 

When you come to think, this modern man is a very new and marvellouscreature. Without quite realising it, we have evolved a fresh species ofstoic, even more stoical, I suspect, than were the old Stoics. Modernman has cut loose from leading-strings; he stands on his own feet. Hisreligion is to take what comes without flinching or complaint, as partof the day's work, which an unknowable God, Providence, CreativePrinciple, or whatever it shall be called, has appointed. Observationtells me that modern man at large, far from inclining towards the new, personal, elder-brotherly God of Mr. Wells, has turned his face theother way. He confronts life and death alone. By courage and kindnessmodern man exists, warmed by the glow of the great human fellowship. Hehas re-discovered the old Greek saying: "God is the helping of man byman"; has found out in his unselfconscious way that if he does not helphimself, and help his fellows, he cannot reach that inner peace whichsatisfies. To do his bit, and to be kind! It is by that creed, ratherthan by any mysticism, that he finds the salvation of his soul. Hisreligion is to be a common-or-garden hero, without thinking anything ofit; for, of a truth, this is the age of conduct. 

After all, does not the only real spiritual warmth, not tinged byPharisaism, egotism, or cowardice, come from the feeling of doing yourwork well and helping others; is not all the rest embroidery, luxury, pastime, pleasant sound and incense? Modern man, take him in the large, does not believe in salvation to beat of drum; or that, by leaning upagainst another person, however idolised and mystical, he can gainsupport. He is a realist with too romantic a sense, perhaps, of themystery which surrounds existence to pry into it. And, like moderncivilisation itself, he is the creature of West and North, ofatmospheres, climates, manners of life which foster neither inertia, reverence, nor mystic meditation. Essentially man of action, in idealaction he finds his only true comfort; and no attempts to discover forhim new gods and symbols will divert him from the path made for him bythe whole trend of his existence. I am sure that padres at the front seethat the men whose souls they have gone out to tend are living thehighest form of religion; that in their comic courage, unselfishhumanity, their endurance without whimper of things worse than death, they have gone beyond all pulpit-and-death-bed teaching. And who arethese men? Just the early manhood of the race, just modern man as he wasbefore the war began and will be when the war is over. 

This modern world, of which we English and Americans are perhaps thetruest types, stands revealed, from beneath its froth, frippery, andvulgar excrescences, sound at core--a world whose implicit motto is:"The good of all humanity. " But the herd-life, which is itscharacteristic, brings many evils, has many dangers; and to preserve asane mind in a healthy body is the riddle before us. Somehow we mustfree ourselves from the driving domination of machines andmoney-getting, not only for our own sakes but for that of all mankind. 

And there is another thing of the most solemn importance: WeEnglish-speaking nations are by chance as it were the ballast of thefuture. It is _absolutely necessary_ that we should remain united. Thecomradeship we now feel must and surely shall abide. For unless we worktogether, and in no selfish or exclusive spirit--good-bye toCivilisation! It will vanish like the dew off grass. The betterment notonly of the British nations and America, but of all mankind, is and mustbe our object. 

When from all our hearts this great weight is lifted; when no longer inthose fields death sweeps his scythe, and our ears at last are free fromthe rustling thereof--then will come the test of magnanimity in allcountries. Will modern man rise to the ordering of a sane, a free, agenerous life? Each of us loves his own country best, be it a littleland or the greatest on earth; but jealousy is the dark thing, thecreeping poison. Where there is true greatness, let us acclaim it; wherethere is true worth, let us prize it--as if it were our own. 

This earth is made too subtly, of too multiple warp and woof, forprophecy. When he surveys the world around, the wondrous things whichthere abound, the prophet closes foolish lips. Besides, as the historiantells us: "Writers have that undeterminateness of spirit which commonlymakes literary men of no use in the world. " So I, for one, prophesy not. Still, we do know this: All English-speaking peoples will go to theadventure of peace with something of big purpose and spirit in theirhearts, with something of free outlook. The world is wide and Naturebountiful enough for all, if we keep sane minds. The earth is fair andmeant to be enjoyed, if we keep sane bodies. Who dare affront this worldof beauty with mean views? There is no darkness but what the ape in usstill makes, and in spite of all his monkey-tricks modern man is atheart further from the ape than man has yet been. 

To do our jobs really well and to be brotherly! To seek health, andensue beauty! If, in Britain and America, in all the English-speakingnations, we can put that simple faith into real and thorough practice, what may not this century yet bring forth? Shall man, the highestproduct of creation, be content to pass his little day in a house, likeunto Bedlam?

When the present great task in which we have joined hands is ended; whenonce more from the shuttered mad-house the figure of Peace steps forthand stands in the sun, and we may go our ways again in the beauty andwonder of a new morning--let it be with this vow in our hearts: "No moreof Madness--in War, in _Peace_!"

1917-18. 

[D] A paper read on March 21st, 1918. 

THE LAND, 1917

I

If once more through ingenuity, courage, and good luck we find thesubmarine menace "well in hand, " and go to sleep again--if we reach theend of the war without having experienced any sharp starvation, and goour ways to trade, to eat, and forget--What then? It is about twentyyears since the first submarine could navigate--and about seventeensince flying became practicable. There are a good many years yet beforethe world, and numberless developments in front of these newaccomplishments. Hundreds of miles are going to be what tens are now;thousands of machines will take the place of hundreds. 

We have ceased to live on an island in any save a technicallygeographical sense, and the sooner we make up our minds to the fact, thebetter. If in the future we act as we have in the past--rather the habitof this country--I can imagine that in fifteen years' time or so weshall be well enough prepared against war of the same magnitude andnature as this war, and that the country which attacks us will launch anassault against defences as many years out of date. 

I can imagine a war starting and well-nigh ending at once, by a quietand simultaneous sinking, from under water and from the air, of mostBritish ships, in port or at sea. I can imagine little standardisedsubmarines surreptitiously prepared by the thousand, and tens ofthousands of the enemy population equipped with flying machines, instructed in flying as part of their ordinary civil life, and ready toserve their country at a moment's notice, by taking a little flight anddropping a little charge of an explosive many times more destructivethan any in use now. The agility of submarines and flying machines willgrow almost indefinitely. And even if we carry our commerce under thesea instead of on the surface, we shall not be guaranteed against attackby air. The air menace is, in fact, infinitely greater than that fromunder water. I can imagine all shipping in port, the Houses ofParliament, the Bank of England, most commercial buildings ofimportance, and every national granary wrecked or fired in a singlenight, on a declaration of war springing out of the blue. The onlythings I cannot imagine wrecked or fired are the British character andthe good soil of Britain. 

These are sinister suggestions, but there is really no end to what mightnow be done to us by any country which deliberately set its owninterests and safety above all considerations of international right, especially if such country were moved to the soul by longing forrevenge, and believed success certain. After this world-tragedy let ushope nations may have a little sense, less of that ghastly provincialismwhence this war sprang; that no nation may teach in its schools that itis God's own people, entitled to hack through, without consideration ofothers; that professors may be no longer blind to all sense ofproportion; Emperors things of the past; diplomacy open and responsible;a real Court of Nations at work; Military Chiefs unable to stampede asituation; journalists obliged to sign their names and held accountablefor inflammatory writings. Let us hope, and let us by every meansendeavour to bring about this better state of the world. But there ismany a slip between cup and lip; there is also such a thing as hatred. And to rely blindly on a peace which, at the best, must take a long timeto prove its reality, is to put our heads again under our wings. Oncebit, twice shy. We shall make a better world the quicker if we tryrealism for a little. 

Britain's situation is now absurdly weak, without and within. And itsweakness is due to one main cause--_the fact that we do not grow our ownfood_. To get the better of submarines in this war will make nodifference to our future situation. A little peaceful study anddevelopment of submarines and aircraft will antiquate our presentantidotes. You cannot chain air and the deeps to war uses and think youhave done with their devilish possibilities a score of years afterwardsbecause for the moment the submarine menace or the air menace is "wellin hand. "

At the end of the war I suppose the Channel Tunnel will be made. Andquite time too! But even that will not help us. We get no food fromEurope, and never shall again. Not even by linking ourselves to Europecan we place ourselves in security from Europe. Faith may removemountains, but it will not remove Britain to the centre of the Atlantic. Here we shall remain, every year nearer and more accessible to secretand deadly attack. 

The next war, if there be one--which Man forbid--may be fought withoutthe use of a single big ship or a single infantryman. It may begin, instead of ending, by being a war of starvation; it may start, as itwere, where it leaves off this time. And the only way of making evenreasonably safe is to grow our own food. If for years to come we have tosupplement by State granaries, they must be placed underground; not eventhere will they be too secure. Unless we grow our own food after thiswar we shall be the only great country which does not, and a constanttemptation to any foe. To be self-sufficing will be the first precautiontaken by our present enemies, in order that blockade may no longer be aweapon in our hands, so far as _their_ necessary food is concerned. 

Whatever arrangements the world makes after the war to control theconduct of nations in the future, the internal activities of thosenations will remain unfettered, capable of deadly shaping and plausibledisguise in the hands of able and damnable schemers. 

The submarine menace of the present is merely awkward, and no doubtsurmountable--it is nothing to the submarine-_cum_-air menace of peacetime a few years hence. _It will be impossible to guard against surpriseunder the new conditions. _ If we do not grow our own food, we could beknocked out of time in the first round. 

But besides the danger from overseas, we have an inland danger to ourfuture just as formidable--the desertion of our countryside and thetown-blight which is its corollary. 

Despair seizes on one reading that we should cope with the danger of thefuture by new cottages, better instruction to farmers, better kinds ofmanure and seed, encouragement to co-operative societies, a cheerfulspirit, and the storage of two to three years' supply of grain. Excellent and necessary, in their small ways--they are a mere stone tothe bread we need. 

In that programme and the speech which put it forward I see insufficientgrasp of the outer peril and hardly any of the gradual destruction withwhich our overwhelming town life threatens us; not one allusion to thephysical and moral welfare of our race, except this: "That boys shouldbe in touch with country life and country tastes is of first importance, and that their elementary education should be given in terms of countrythings is also of enormous importance. " That is all, and it shows howfar we have got from reality, and how difficult it will be to getback; for the speaker was once Minister for Agriculture. 

Our justifications for not continuing to feed ourselves were: Pursuit ofwealth, command of the sea, island position. Whatever happens in thiswar, we have lost the last two in all but a superficial sense. Let ussee whether the first is sufficient justification for perseverance in amode of life which has brought us to an ugly pass. 

Our wonderful industrialism began about 1766, and changed us fromexporting between the years 1732 and 1766 11, 250, 000 quarters of wheatto importing 7, 500, 000 quarters between the years 1767 and 1801. In onehundred and fifty years it has brought us to the state of importing morethan three-quarters of our wheat, and more than half our total food. Whereas in 1688 (figures of Gregory and Davenant) about four-fifths ofthe population of England was rural, in 1911 only about two-ninths wasrural. This transformation has given us great wealth, extremelyill-distributed; plastered our country with scores of busy, populous, and hideous towns; given us a merchant fleet which before the war had agross tonnage of over 20, 000, 000, or not far short of half the world'sshipping. It has, or had, fixed in us the genteel habit of eating verydoubtfully nutritious white bread made of the huskless flour of wheat;reduced the acreage of arable land in the United Kingdom from itsalready insufficient maximum of 23, 000, 000 acres to its 1914 figure of19, 000, 000 acres; made England, all but its towns, look very like apleasure garden; and driven two shibboleths deep into our minds, "Allfor wealth" and "Hands off the food of the people. "

All these "good" results have had certain complementary disadvantages, some of which we have just seen, some of which have long been seen. 

Of these last, let me first take a small sentimental disadvantage. Wehave become more parasitic by far than any other nation. To eat we haveto buy with our manufactures an overwhelming proportion of our vitalfoods. The blood in our veins is sucked from foreign bodies, in returnfor the clothing we give them--not a very self-respecting thought. Wehave a green and fertile country, and round it a prolific sea. Ourcountry, if we will, can produce, with its seas, all the food we need toeat. We know that quite well, but we elect to be nourished on foreignstuff, because we are a practical people and prefer shekels tosentiment. We do not mind being parasitic. Taking no interest nationallyin the growth of food, we take no interest nationally in the cooking ofit; the two accomplishments subtly hang together. Pride in the foodcapacity, the corn and wine and oil, of their country has made thecooking of the French the most appetising and nourishing in the world. The French do cook: we open tins. The French preserve the juices oftheir home-grown food: we have no juices to preserve. The life of ourpoorer classes is miserably stunted of essential salts and savours. Theythrow away skins, refuse husks, make no soups, prefer pickle to genuineflavour. But home-grown produce really is more nourishing than tinnedand pickled and frozen foods. If we honestly feed ourselves we shall notagain demand the old genteel flavourless white bread without husk orbody in it; we shall eat wholemeal bread, and take to that salutarysubstance, oatmeal, which, if I mistake not, has much to say in makingthe Scots the tallest and boniest race in Europe. 

Now for a far more poignant disadvantage. We have become tied up inteeming congeries, to which we have grown so used that we are no longerable to see the blight they have brought on us. Our great industrialtowns, sixty odd in England alone, with a population of 15, 000, 000 to16, 000, 000, are our glory, our pride, and the main source of our wealth. They are the growth, roughly speaking, of five generations. They beganat a time when social science was unknown, spread and grew in uncheckedriot of individual moneymaking, till they are the nightmare of socialreformers, and the despair of all lovers of beauty. They have masteredus so utterly, morally and physically, that we regard them and theirresults as matter of course. They _are_ public opinion, so that for thebattle against town-blight there is no driving force. They paralyse theimaginations of our politicians because their voting power is soenormous, their commercial interests are so huge, and the foodnecessities of their populations seem so paramount. 

I once bewailed the physique of our towns to one of our most cultivatedand prominent Conservative statesmen. He did not agree. He thought thatprobably physique was on the up-grade. This commonly held belief is basedon statistics of longevity and sanitation. But the same superiorsanitation and science applied to a rural population would havelengthened the lives of a much finer and better-looking stock. Here aresome figures: Out of 1, 650 passers-by, women and men, observed inperhaps the "best" district of London--St. James's Park, TrafalgarSquare, Westminster Bridge, and Piccadilly--in May of this year, only310 had any pretensions to not being very plain or definitely ugly-notone in five. And out of that 310 only eleven had what might be calledreal beauty. Out of 120 British soldiers observed round Charing Cross, sixty--just one-half--passed the same standard. But out of seventy-twoAustralian soldiers, fifty-four, or three-quarters, passed, and severalhad real beauty. Out of 120 men, women, and children taken at random ina remote country village (five miles from any town, and eleven milesfrom any town of 10, 000 inhabitants) ninety--or just three-quartersalso--pass this same standard of looks. It is significant that theaverage here is the same as the average among Australian soldiers, who, though of British stock, come from a country as yet unaffected by townlife. You ask, of course, what standard is this? A standard which coversjust the very rudiments of proportion and comeliness. People in smallcountry towns, I admit, have little or no more beauty than people inlarge towns. This is curious, but may be due to too much inbreeding. 

The first counter to conclusions drawn from such figures is obviously:"The English are an ugly people. " I said that to a learned and æstheticfriend when I came back from France last spring. He started, and thenremarked: "Oh, well; not as ugly as the French, anyway. " A great error;much plainer if you take _the bulk, and not the pick_, of the populationin both countries. It may not be fair to attribute French superiority inlooks entirely to the facts that they grow nearly all their own food(and cook it well), and had in 1906 four-sevenths of their population inthe country as against our own two-ninths in 1911, because there is theconsiderable matter of climate. But when you get so high a proportion ofcomeliness in _remote_ country districts in England, it _is_ fair toassume that climate does not account for anything like all thedifference. I do not believe that the English are naturally an uglypeople. The best English type is perhaps the handsomest in the world. The physique and looks of the richer classes are as notoriously betterthan those of the poorer classes as the physique and looks of the remotecountry are superior to those of crowded towns. Where conditions arefree from cramp, poor air, poor food, and _herd-life_, English physiquequite holds its own with that of other nations. 

We do not realise the great deterioration of our stock, the squashed-in, stunted, disproportionate, commonised look of the bulk of our people, because, as we take our walks abroad, we note only faces and figureswhich strike us as good-looking; the rest pass unremarked. Ugliness hasbecome a matter of course. There is no reason, save town life, why thisshould be so. But what does it matter if we _have_ become ugly? We workwell, make money, and have lots of moral qualities. A fair inside isbetter than a fair outside. I do think that we are in many ways a verywonderful people; and our townsfolk not the least wonderful. But that isall the more reason for trying to preserve our physique. 

Granted that an expressive face, with interest in life stamped on it, isbetter than "chocolate box" or "barber's block" good looks, that agilityand strength are better than symmetry without agility and strength; thetrouble is that there is no interest stamped on so many of our faces, no agility or strength in so many of our limbs. If there were, thosefaces and limbs would pass my standard. The old Greek cult of the bodywas not to be despised. I defy even the most rigid Puritans to provethat a satisfactory moral condition can go on within an exterior whichexhibits no signs of a live, able, and serene existence. By living onits nerves, overworking its body, starving its normal aspirations forfresh air, good food, sunlight, and a modicum of solitude, a country canget a great deal out of itself, a terrific lot of wealth, in three orfour generations; but it is living on its capital, physically speaking. This is precisely what we show every sign of doing; and partly what Imean by "town-blight. "

II

The impression I get, in our big towns, is most peculiar--consideringthat we are a free people. The faces and forms have a look of beingpossessed. To express my meaning exactly is difficult. There is a dulledand driven look, and yet a general expression of "Keep smiling--Are wedown-hearted? No. " It is as if people were all being forced along by ahuge invisible hand at the back of their necks, whose pressure theyresent yet are trying to make the best of, because they cannot tellwhence it comes. To understand, you must watch the grip from its verybeginnings. The small children who swarm in the little grey playgroundstreets of our big towns pass their years in utter abandonment. Theyroll and play and chatter in conditions of amazing unrestraint anddevil-may-care-dom in the midst of amazing dirt and ugliness. Theyounger they are, as a rule, the chubbier and prettier they are. Gradually you can see herd-life getting hold of them, the impact of uglysights and sounds commonising the essential grace and individuality oftheir little features. On the lack of any standard or restraint, anyreal glimpse of Nature, any knowledge of a future worth striving for, orindeed of any future at all, they thrive forward into that hand-to-mouthmood from which they are mostly destined never to emerge. Quick andscattery as monkeys, and never alone, they become, at a rake's progress, little fragments of the herd. On poor food, poor air, and habits ofleast resistance, they wilt and grow distorted, acquiring withal thesort of pathetic hardihood which a Dartmoor pony will draw out of moorlife in a frozen winter. All round them, by day, by night, stretches thehuge, grey, grimy waste of streets, factory walls, chimneys, murkycanals, chapels, public-houses, hoardings, posters, butchers' shops--awaste where nothing beautiful exists save a pretty cat or pigeon, a bluesky, perhaps, and a few trees and open spaces. The children of the classabove, too, of the small shop-people, the artisans--do they escape? Notreally. The same herd-life and the same sights and sounds pursue themfrom birth; they also are soon divested of the grace and free look whichyou see in country children walking to and from school or roaming thehedges. Whether true slum children, or from streets a little better off, quickly they all pass out of youth into the iron drive of commerce andmanufacture, into the clang and clatter, the swish and whirr of wheels, the strange, dragging, saw-like hubbub of industry, or the clicking andpigeon-holes of commerce; perch on a devil's see-saw from monotonouswork to cheap sensation and back. Considering the conditions it iswonderful that they stand it as well as they do; and I should be thelast to deny that they possess remarkable qualities. But the modernindustrial English town is a sort of inferno where people dwell with amarvellous philosophy. What would you have? They have never seen any wayout of it. And this, perhaps, would not be so pitiful if for eachbond-servant of our town-tyranny there was in store a prize--someportion of that national wealth in pursuit of which the tyrant drivesus; if each worker had before him the chance of emergence at, say, fifty. But, Lord God! for five that emerge, ninety-and-five stay bound, less free and wealthy at the end of the chapter than they were at thebeginning. And the quaint thing is--they know it; know that they willspend their lives in smoky, noisy, crowded drudgery, and in crowdeddrudgery die. Wealth goes to wealth, and all they can hope for is a fewextra shillings a week, with a corresponding rise in prices. They knowit, but it does not disturb them, for they were born of the towns, havenever glimpsed at other possibilities. Imprisoned in town life frombirth, they contentedly perpetuate the species of a folk with an ebbingfuture. Yes, ebbing! For if it be not, why is there now so muchconscious effort to arrest the decay of town workers' nerves and sinews?Why do we bother to impede a process which is denied? If there be notown-blight on us, why a million indications of uneasiness and athousand little fights against the march of a degeneration so natural, vast, and methodical, that it brings them all to naught? Our physique isslowly rotting, and that is the plain truth of it. 

But it does not stop with deteriorated physique. Students of faces inthe remoter country are struck by the absence of what, for want of abetter word, we may call vulgarity. That insidious defacement is seen tobe a thing of towns, and not at all a matter of "class. " The simplestcountry cottager, shepherd, fisherman, has as much, often a deal more, dignity than numbers of our upper classes, who, in spite of the desireto keep themselves unspotted, are still, from the nature of theirexistence, touched by the herd-life of modern times. For vulgarity isthe natural product of herd-life; an amalgam of second-hand thought, cheap and rapid sensation, defensive and offensive self-consciousness, gradually plastered over the faces, manners, voices, whole beings, ofthose whose elbows are too tightly squeezed to their sides by thepressure of their fellows, whose natures are cut off from Nature, whosesenses are rendered imitative by the too insistent impact of certainsights and sounds. Without doubt the rapid increase of town-life isresponsible for our acknowledged vulgarity. The same process is going onin America and in Northern Germany; but we unfortunately had the lead, and seem to be doing our best to keep it. Cheap newspapers, on thesensational tip-and-run system, perpetual shows of some kind or other, work in association, every kind of thing in association, at a speed toogreat for individual digestion, and in the presence of every device forremoving the need for individual thought; the thronged streets, thefootball match with its crowd emotions; beyond all, the cinema--acompendium of all these other influences--make town-life a veritableforcing-pit of vulgarity. We are all so deeply in it that we do not seethe process going on; or, if we admit it, hasten to add: "But what doesit matter?--there's no harm in vulgarity; besides, it's inevitable, youcan't set the tide back. " Obviously, the vulgarity of town-life cannotbe exorcised by Act of Parliament; there is not indeed the faintestchance that Parliament will recognise such a side to the question atall, since there is naturally no public opinion on this matter. 

Everybody must recognise and admire certain qualities specially fosteredby town-life; the extraordinary patience, cheerful courage, philosophicirony, and unselfishness of our towns-people--qualities which in thiswar, both at the front and at home, have been of the greatest value. They are worth much of the price paid. But in this life all is aquestion of balance; and my contention is, not so much that town-life initself is bad, as that we have pushed it to a point of excess terriblydangerous to our physique, to our dignity, and to our sense of beauty. Must our future have no serene and simple quality, not even a spice ofthe influence of Nature, with her air, her trees, her fields, and wideskies? Say what you like, it is elbow-room for limbs and mind and lungswhich keeps the countryman free from that dulled and driven look, andgives him individuality. I know all about the "dullness" and "monotony"of rural life, bad housing and the rest of it. All true enough, but thecure is not exodus, it is improvement in rural-life conditions, moreco-operation, better cottages, a fuller, freer social life. What we inEngland now want more than anything is air--for lungs and mind. We haveoverdone herd-life. We _are_ dimly conscious of this, feel vaguely thatthere is something "rattling" and wrong about our progress, for we havehad many little spasmodic "movements" back to the land these last fewyears. But what do they amount to? Whereas in 1901 the proportion oftown to country population in England and Wales was 3 10/37--1, in 1911it was 3 17/20--1; very distinctly greater! At this crab's march weshall be some time getting "back to the land. " Our effort, so far, hasbeen something like our revival of Morris dancing, very pleasant andæsthetic, but without real economic basis or strength to stand upagainst the lure of the towns. And how queer, ironical, and pitiful isthat lure, when you consider that in towns one-third of the populationare just on or a little below the line of bare subsistence; that thegreat majority of town workers have hopelessly monotonous work, stuffyhousing, poor air, and little leisure. But there it is--the charm of thelighted-up unknown, of company, and the streets at night! The countrymangoes to the town in search of adventure. Honestly--does he really findit? He thinks he is going to improve his prospects and his mind. Hisprospects seldom brighten. He sharpens his mind, only to lose it andacquire instead that of the herd. 

To compete with this lure of the towns, there must first be _national_consciousness of its danger; then coherent _national_ effort to fightit. We must destroy the shibboleth: "All for wealth!" and re-write it:"All for health!"--the only wealth worth having. Wealth is not an end, surely. Then, to what is it the means, if not to health? Once we admitthat in spite of our wealth our national health is going downhillthrough town-blight, we assert the failure of our country's ideals andlife. And if, having got into a vicious state of congested townexistence, we refuse to make an effort to get out again, because it isnecessary to "hold our own commercially, " and feed "the people" cheaply, we are in effect saying: "We certainly are going to hell, but look--howsuccessfully!" I suggest rather that we try to pull ourselves up againout of the pit of destruction, even if to do so involves us in a certainamount of monetary loss and inconvenience. Yielding to no one in desirethat "the people" should be well, nay better, fed, I decline utterly toaccept the doctrine that there is no way of doing this compatible withan increased country population and the growth of our own food. Innational matters, where there is a general and not a mere Party will, there is a way, and the way is not to be recoiled from because the firstyears of the change may necessitate Governmental regulation. Many peoplehold that our salvation will come through education. Education on rightlines underlies everything, of course; but unless education includes thegrowth of our own food and return to the land in substantial measure, education cannot save us. 

It may be natural to want to go to hell; it is certainly easy; we havegone so far in that direction that we cannot hope to be haloed in ourtime. For good or evil, the great towns are here, and we can butmitigate. The indicated policy of mitigation is fivefold:--

(1) Such solid economic basis to the growth of our food as will give usagain national security, more arable land than we have ever had, and onit a full complement of well-paid workers, with better cottages, and alivened village life. 

(2) A vast number of small holdings, State-created, with co-operativeworking. 

(3) A wide belt-system of garden allotments round every town, industrialor not. 

(4) Drastic improvements in housing, feeding, and sanitation in thetowns themselves. 

(5) Education that shall raise not only the standard of knowledge butthe standard of taste in town and country. 

All these ideals are already well in the public eye--on paper. But theyare incoherently viewed and urged; they do not as yet form a nationalcreed. Until welded and supported by all parties in the State, they willnot have driving power enough to counteract the terrific momentum withwhich towns are drawing us down into the pit. One section pins its faithto town improvement; another to the development of small holdings; athird to cottage building; a fourth to education; a fifth to support ofthe price of wheat; a sixth to the destruction of landlords. Comprehensive vision of the danger is still lacking, and comprehensivegrasp of the means to fight against it. 

We are by a long way the most town-ridden country in the world; ourtowns by a long way the smokiest and worst built, with the most inbredtown populations. We have practically come to an end of ourcountry-stock reserves. Unless we are prepared to say: "This is adesirable state of things; let the inbreeding of town stocks go on--weshall evolve in time a new type immune to town life; a little rattyfellow all nerves and assurance, much better than any countryclod!"--which, by the way, is exactly what some of us do say! Unless wemean as a nation to adopt this view and rattle on, light-heartedly, careless of menace from without and within, assuring ourselves thathealth and beauty, freedom and independence, as hitherto understood, have always been misnomers, and that nothing whatever matters so long aswe are rich--unless all this, we must give check to the present state ofthings, restore a decent balance between town and country stock, growour own food, and establish a permanent tendency away from towns. 

All this fearfully unorthodox and provocative of sneers, and--goodnessknows--I do not enjoy saying it. But needs must when the devil drives. It may be foolish to rave against the past and those factors andconditions which have put us so utterly in bond to towns--especiallysince this past and these towns have brought us such great wealth and sodominating a position in the world. It cannot be foolish, now that wehave the wealth and the position, to resolve with all our might to freeourselves from bondage, to be masters, not servants, of our fate, to getback to firm ground, and make Health and Safety what they ever shouldbe--the true keystones of our policy. 

III

In the midst of a war like this the first efforts of any Government haveto be directed to immediate ends. But under the pressure of the war theGovernment has a unique chance to initiate the comprehensive, far-reaching policy which alone can save us. Foundations to safety willonly be laid if our representatives can be induced now to see thisquestion of the land as _the_ question of the future, no matter whathappens in the war; to see that, whatever success we attain, we cannotremove the two real dangers of the future, sudden strangulation throughswift attack by air and under sea--unless we grow our own food; and slowstrangulation by town-life--unless we restore the land. Our imaginationsare stirred, the driving force is here, swift action possible, andcertain extraordinary opportunities are open which presently must closeagain. 

On demobilisation we have the chance of our lives to put men on theland. Because this is still a Party question, to be sagaciously debatedup hill and down dale three or four years hence, we shall very likelygrasp the mere shadow and miss the substance of that opportunity. If theGovernment had a mandate "Full steam ahead" we could add at the end ofthe war perhaps a million men (potentially four million people) to ourfood-growing country population; as it is, we may add thereto a fewthousands, lose half a million to the Colonies, and discourage therest--patting our own backs the while. To put men on the land we musthave the land ready in terms of earth, not of paper; and have it in theright places, within easy reach of town or village. Things can be donejust now. We know, for instance, that in a few months half a millionallotment-gardens have been created in urban areas and more progressmade with small holdings than in previous years. I repeat, we have achance which will not recur to scotch the food danger, and to restore ahealthier balance between town and country stocks. Shall we bepenny-wise and lose this chance for the luxury of "free and fulldiscussion of a controversial matter at a time when men's minds are notfull of the country's danger"? This _is_ the country's danger--there is noother. And this is the moment for full and free discussion of it, forfull and free action too. Who doubts that a Government which broughtthis question of the land in its widest aspects to the touch-stone offull debate at once, would get its mandate, would get the power itwanted--not to gerrymander, but to build?

Consider the Corn Production Bill. I will quote Mr. Prothero: "Nationalsecurity is not an impracticable dream. It is within our reach, withinthe course of a few years, and it involves no great dislocation of otherindustries. " (Note that. ) "For all practical purposes, if we could growat home here 82 per cent, of all the food that we require for fiveyears, we should be safe, and that amount of independence of sea-bornesupplies we can secure, and secure within a few years. .. . We couldobtain that result if we could add 8, 000, 000 acres of arable land to ourexisting area--that is to say, if we increased it from 19, 000, 000 acresto 27, 000, 000 acres. If you once got that extension of your arable area, the nation would be safe from the nightmare of a submarine menace, andthe number of additional men who would be required on the land would besomething about a quarter of a million. " (Note that. ) "The present Billis much less ambitious. " It is. And it is introduced by one who knowsand dreads, as much as any of us, the dangerous and unballastedcondition into which we have drifted; introduced with, as it were, apology, as if he feared that, unambitious though, it be, it willstartle the nerves of Parliament. On a question so vast and vital youare bound to startle by any little measure. Nothing but an heroicmeasure would arouse debate on a scale adequate to reach and stir thedepths of our national condition, and wake us all, politicians andpublic, to appreciate the fact that our whole future is in this matter, and that it must be tackled. 

If we are not capable now of grasping the vital nature of this issue weassuredly never shall be. Only five generations have brought us to theparasitic, town-ridden condition we are in. The rate of progress indeterioration will increase rapidly with each coming generation. Wehave, as it were, turned seven-ninths of our population out into poorpaddocks, to breed promiscuously among themselves. We have the chance tomake our English and Welsh figures read: Twenty-four millions oftown-dwellers to twelve of country, instead of, as now, twenty-eightmillions to eight. Consider what that would mean to the breeding of thenext generation. In such extra millions of country stock our nationalhope lies. What we should never dream of permitting with our domesticanimals, we are not only permitting but encouraging among ourselves; weare doing all we can to perpetuate and increase poor stock; stockwithout either quality or bone, run-down, and ill-shaped. And, just asthe progress in the "stock" danger is accelerated with each generation, so does the danger from outside increase with every year which seesflying and submarining improve, and our food capacity standing still. 

The great argument against a united effort to regain our ballast is: Wemust not take away too many from our vital industries. Why, even theMinister of Agriculture, who really knows and dreads the danger, almostapologises for taking two hundred and fifty thousand from those vitalindustries, to carry out, not his immediate, but his ideal, programme. Vital industries! Ah! vital to Britain's destruction within the next fewgenerations unless we mend our ways! The great impediment is the forceof things as they are, the huge vested interests, the iron network ofvast enterprises frightened of losing profit. If we pass this moment, when men of every class and occupation, even those who most thrive onour town-ridden state, are a little frightened; if we let slip thischance for a real reversal--can we hope that anything considerable willbe done, with the dice loaded as they are, the scales weighted sohopelessly in favour of the towns? Representatives of seven-ninths willalways see that representatives of two-ninths do not outvote them. Thisis a crude way of putting it, but it serves; because, after all, anelector is only a little bundle of the immediate needs of his localityand mode of life, outside of which he cannot see, and which he does notwant prejudiced. He is not a fool, like me, looking into the future. Andhis representatives have got to serve him. The only chance, in aquestion so huge, vital, and _long_ as this, is that greatly distrustedagent--Panic Legislation. When panic makes men, for a brief space, opentheir eyes and see truth, then it is valuable. Before our eyes closeagain and see nothing but the darkness of the daily struggle forexistence, let us take advantage, and lay foundations which will bedifficult, at least, to overturn. 

What has been done so far, and what more can be done? A bounty on cornhas been introduced. I suppose nobody, certainly not its promoter, isenamoured of this. But it does not seem to have occurred to every onethat you cannot eat nuts without breaking their shells, or get out ofevil courses without a transition period of extreme annoyance toyourself. "Bounty" is, in many quarters, looked on as a piece of pettingto an interest already pampered. Well--while we look on the land as an"interest" in competition with other "interests" and not as _the_ vitalinterest of the country, underlying every other, so long shall wecontinue to be "in the soup. " The land needs fostering, and againfostering, because the whole vicious tendency of the country's life hasbrought farming to its present pass and farmers to their attitude ofmistrust. Doctrinaire objections are now ridiculous. An economic basismust be re-established, or we may as well cry "Kamerad" at once and holdup our hands to Fate. The greater the arable acreage in this country, the less will be the necessity for a bounty on corn. Unlike moststimulants, it is one which gradually stimulates away the need for it. With every year and every million acres broken up, not only will theneed for bounty diminish, but the present mistrustful breed of farmerwill be a step nearer to extinction. Shrewd, naturally conservative, andsomewhat intolerant of anything so dreamy as a national point of view, they will not live for ever. The up-growing farmer will not be likethem, and about the time the need for bounty is vanishing the new farmerwill be in possession. But in the meantime land must be broken up until8, 000, 000 acres at least are conquered; and bounty is the only lever. Itwill not be lever enough without constant urging. In Mr. Prothero'shistory of English farming occur these words: "A Norfolk farmer migratedto Devonshire in 1780, where he drilled and hoed his roots; though hiscrops were far superior to those of other farmers in the district, yetat the close of the century no neighbour had followed his example. "

But even the break-up of 8, 000, 000 acres, though it may make us safe forfood, will only increase our country population by 250, 000 labourers andtheir families (a million souls)--a mere beginning towards thesatisfaction of our need. We want in operation, before demobilisationbegins, a great national plan for the creation of good small holdingsrun on co-operative lines. And to this end, why should not thesuggestion of tithe redemption, thrown out by Mr. Prothero, on pages 399and 400 of "English Farming: Past and Present, " be adopted? The annualvalue of tithes is about £5, 000, 000. Their extinction should provide theGovernment with about 2, 500, 000 acres, enough at one stroke to putthree or four hundred thousand soldiers on the land. The tithe-holderswould get their money, landlords would not be prejudiced; theGovernment, by virtue of judicious choice and discretionary compulsion, would obtain the sort of land it wanted, and the land would be for everfree of a teasing and vexatious charge. The cost to the Governmentwould be £100, 000, 000 (perhaps more) on the best security it could have. "Present conditions, " I quote from the book, "are favourable to such atransaction. The price of land enables owners to extinguish the rentcharge by the surrender of a reasonable acreage, and the low price ofConsols enables investors to obtain a larger interest for their money. "For those not familiar with this notion, the process, in brief, is this:The Government pays the tithe-holder the capitalised value of his tithe, and takes over from the landlord as much land as produces in net annualrent the amount of the tithe-rent charge, leaving the rest of his landtithe-free for ever. There are doubtless difficulties and objections, but so there must be to any comprehensive plan for obtaining an amountof land at all adequate. Time is of desperate importance in this matter. It is already dangerously late, but if the Government would turn-to nowwith a will, the situation could still be saved, and this unique chancefor re-stocking our countryside would not be thrown away. 

I alluded to the formation within a few months of half a milliongarden-allotments--plots of ground averaging about ten poles each, takenunder the Defence of the Realm Act from building and other land inurban areas, and given to cultivators, under a guarantee, for the growthof vegetables. This most valuable effort, for which the Board ofAgriculture deserves the thanks of all, is surely capable of very greatextension. Every town, no matter how quickly it may be developing, isalways surrounded by a belt of dubious land--not quite town and notquite country. When town development mops up plots in cultivation, ahole can be let out in an elastic belt which is capable of almostindefinite expansion. But this most useful and health-giving work hasonly been possible under powers which will cease when the immediatedanger to the State has passed. If a movement, which greatly augmentsour home-grown food supply and can give quiet, healthy, open-air, interesting work for several hours a week to perhaps a million out ofour congested town populations--if such a movement be allowed tocollapse at the coming of peace, it will be nothing less than criminal. I plead here that the real danger to the State will not pass but ratherbegin, with the signing of peace, that the powers to acquire and grantthese garden-allotments should be continued, and every effort made tofoster and _extend_ the movement. Considering that, whatever we do tore-colonise our land, we must still have in this country a dangerouslyhuge town population, this kitchen-garden movement can be ofincalculable value in combating town-blight, in securing just that airto lungs and mind, and just that spice of earth reality which alltown-dwellers need so much. 

Extension of arable land by at least 8, 000, 000 acres; creation ofhundreds of thousands of small holdings by tithe redemption, oranother scheme still in the blue; increase and perpetuation ofgarden-allotments--besides all these we want, of course, agriculturalschools and facilities for training; _co-operatively organised finance, transport, and marketing of produce_; for without schooling, andco-operation, no system of small holding on a large scale can possiblysucceed. We now have the labourer's minimum wage, which, I think, willwant increasing; but we want good rural housing on an economically soundbasis, an enlivened village life, and all that can be done to give theworker on the land a feeling that he can rise, the sense that he is nota mere herd, at the beck and call of what has been dubbed the "tyrannyof the countryside. " The land gives work which is varied, alive, andinteresting beyond all town industries, save those, perhaps, of art andthe highly-skilled crafts and professions. If we can once get land-lifeback on to a wide and solid basis, it should hold its own. 

Dare any say that this whole vast question of the land, with itsthrobbing importance, yea--seeing that demobilisations do not come everyyear--its desperately immediate importance, is not fit matter forinstant debate and action; dare any say that we ought to relegate it tothat limbo "After the war"? In grim reality it takes precedence of everyother question. It is infinitely more vital to our safety and our healththan consideration of our future commercial arrangements. In our presentParliament--practically, if not sentimentally speaking--all shades ofopinion are as well represented as they are likely to be in futureParliaments--even the interests of our women and our soldiers; to putoff the good day when this question is threshed out, is to crane at animagined hedge. 

Let us know now at what we are aiming, let us admit and record in theblack and white of legislation that we intend to trim our course oncemore for the port of health and safety. If this Britain of ours is goingto pin her whole future to a blind pursuit of wealth, withoutconsidering whether that wealth is making us all healthier and happier, many of us, like Sancho, would rather retire at once, and be made"governors of islands. " For who can want part or lot on a ship whichgoes yawing with every sail set into the dark, without rudder, compass, or lighted star?

I, for one, want a Britain who refuses to take the mere immediate lineof least resistance, who knows and sets her course, and that a worthyone. So do we all, I believe, at heart--only, the current is so mightyand strong, and we are so used to it!

By the parasitic and town-ridden condition we are in now, and in whichwithout great and immediate effort we are likely to remain, we degradeour patriotism. That we should have to tremble lest we be starved is amiserable, a humiliating thought. To have had so little pride andindependence of spirit as to have come to this, to have been suchgobblers at wealth--who dare defend it? We have made our bed; let us, now, refuse to lie thereon. Better the floor than this dingy feathercouch of suffocation. 

Our country is dear to us, and many are dying for her. There can be noconsecration of their memory so deep or so true as this regeneration ofThe Land. 

1917

THE LAND, 1918

I

INTRODUCTORY

Can one assume that the pinch of this war is really bringing home to usthe vital need of growing our own food henceforth? I do not think so. Isthere any serious shame felt at our parasitic condition? None. Are we inearnest about the resettlement of the land? Not yet. 

All our history shows us to be a practical people with short views. "_Tiens! Une montagne!_" Never was a better summing up of Britishcharacter than those words of the French cartoonist during the Boer War, beneath his picture of a certain British General of those days, ridingat a hand gallop till his head was butting a cliff. Without seeing ahand's breadth before our noses we have built our Empire, our towns, ourlaw. We are born empiricists, and must have our faces ground by hardfacts, before we attempt to wriggle past them. We have thriven so far, but the ruin of England is likely to be the work of practical men whoburn the house down to roast the pig, because they cannot see beyond thenext meal. Visions are airy; but I propose to see visions for a moment, and Britain as she _might_ be in 1948. 

I see our towns, not indeed diminished from their present size, but nolarger; much cleaner, and surrounded by wide belts of garden allotments, wherein town workers spend many of their leisure hours. I see in GreatBritain fifty millions instead of forty-one; but the town populationonly thirty-two millions as now, and the rural population eighteenmillions instead of the present nine. I see the land farmed in threeways: very large farms growing corn and milk, meat and wool, or sugarbeet; small farms _co-operatively run_ growing everything; and largegroups of co-operative small holdings, growing vegetables, fruit, pigs, poultry, and dairy produce to some extent. There are no game laws tospeak of, and certainly no large areas of ground cut to waste forprivate whims. I see very decent cottages everywhere, with large plotsof ground at economic rents, and decently waged people paying them; notithes, but a band of extinguished tithe-holders, happy with theircompensation. The main waterways of the country seem joined by widecanals, and along these canals factories are spread out on the gardencity plan, with allotments for the factory workers. Along better roadsrun long chains of small holdings, so that the co-operated holders haveno difficulty in marketing their produce. I see motor transport; tractorploughs; improved farm machinery; forestry properly looked after, andforeshores reclaimed; each village owning its recreation hall, withstage and cinema attached; and public-houses run only on the principleof no commission on the drink sold; every school teaching the truth thathappiness and health, not mere money and learning, are the prizes oflife and the objects of education, and for ever impressing on thescholars that life in the open air and pleasure in their work are thetwo chief secrets of health and happiness. In every district a modelfarm radiates scientific knowledge of the art of husbandry, bringinginstruction to each individual farmer, and leaving him no excuse forignorance. The land produces what it ought; not, as now, feeding witheach hundred acres only fifty persons, while a German hundred acres, notnearly so favoured by Nature, feeds seventy-five. Every little girl hasbeen taught to cook. Farmers are no longer fearful of bankruptcy, as inthe years from 1875 to 1897, but hold their own with all comers, proudof their industry, the spine and marrow of a country which respectsitself once more. There seems no longer jealousy or division betweentown and country; and statesmen by tacit consent leave the land freefrom Party politics. I see taller and stronger men and women, rosier andhappier children; a race no longer narrow, squashed, anddisproportionate; no longer smoke-dried and nerve-racked, with thedriven, don't-care look of a town-ridden land. And surely the words "OldEngland" are spoken by all voices with a new affection, as of a land nolonger sucking its sustenance from other lands, but sound and sweet, theworthy heart once more of a great commonwealth of countries. 

All this I seem to see, if certain things are done now and persevered inhereafter. But let none think that we can restore self-respect and theland-spirit to this country under the mere momentary pressure of ourpresent-day need. Such a transformation cannot come unless we aregenuinely ashamed that Britain should be a sponge; unless we truly wishto make her again sound metal, ringing true, instead of a splay-footedcreature, dependent for vital nourishment on oversea supplies--a cockshyfor every foe. 

We are practically secured by Nature, yet have thrown security to thewinds because we cannot feed ourselves! We have as good a climate andsoil as any in the world, not indeed for pleasure, but for health andfood, and yet, I am sure, we are rotting physically faster than anyother people!

Let the nation put that reflection in its pipe and smoke it day by day;for only so shall we emerge from a bad dream and seize again on ourbirthright. 

Let us dream a little of what we might become. Let us not crawl on withour stomachs to the ground, and not an ounce of vision in our heads forfear lest we be called visionaries. And let us rid our minds of one ortwo noxious superstitions. It is not true that country life need meandull and cloddish life; it has in the past, because agriculture as beenneglected for the false glamour of the towns, and village life left toseed down. There is no real reason why the villager should not have allhe needs of social life and sane amusement; village life only wantsorganising. It is not true that country folk must be worse fed and worseplenished than town folk. This has only been so sometimes because astarved industry which was losing hope has paid starvation wages. It isnot true that our soil and climate are of indifferent value for thegrowth of wheat. The contrary is the case. "The fact which has been lostsight of in the past twenty years must be insisted on nowadays, thatEngland is naturally one of the best, if not the very best wheat-growingcountry in the world. Its climate and soil are almost ideal for theproduction of the heaviest crops": Professor R. H. Biffen. "The view ofleading German agriculturists is that their soils and climate aredistinctly inferior to those of Britain": Mr. T. H. Middleton, AssistantSecretary to the Board of Agriculture. 

We have many mouths in this country, but no real excuse for not growingthe wherewithal to feed them. 

To break the chains of our lethargy and superstitions, let us keepbefore us a thought and a vision--the thought that, since the air ismastered and there are pathways under the sea, we, the proudest peoplein the world, will exist henceforth by mere merciful accident, _until wegrow our own food_; and the vision of ourselves as a finer race in bodyand mind than we have ever yet been. And then let us be practical by allmeans; for in the practical measures of the present, spurred on by thatthought, inspired by that vision, alone lies the hope and safety of thefuture. 

What are those measures?

II

WHEAT

The measure which underlies all else is the ploughing up of permanentgrass--the reconversion of land which was once arable, the addition toarable of land which has never been arable, so as to secure the onlypossible basis of success--the wheat basis. 

I have before me a Report on the Breaking up of Grass Land in fifty-fivecounties for the winter of 1916-1917, which shows four successes forevery failure. The Report says: "It has been argued during the past fewmonths that it is hopeless to attempt to plough out old grass land inthe expectation of adding to the nation's food. The experience of 1917does not support this contention. It shows not only that the successesfar outnumber the failures, but that the latter are to some extentpreventable. "

The Government's 1918 tillage programme for England and Wales was toincrease (as compared with 1916), (1) the area under corn by 2, 600, 000acres, (2) the area under potatoes and mangolds by 400, 000 acres, (3)the arable land by 2, 000, 000 acres. I have it on the best authority thatthe Government hopes to better this in the forth-coming harvest. Thatshows what our farmers can do with their backs to the wall. It sometimeshappens in this world that we act virtuously without in any waybelieving that virtue is its own reward. Most of our farmers are hoeingtheir rows in this crisis in the full belief that they are serving thecountry to the hurt of their own interests; they will not, I imagine, realise that they are laying the foundations of a future prosperitybeyond their happiest dreams until the crisis is long past. All the morecredit to them for a great effort. They by no means grasp at present thefact that with every acre they add to arable, with each additional acreof wheat, they increase their own importance and stability, and set thesnowball of permanent prosperity in their industry rolling anew. Pasturewas a policy adopted by men who felt defeat in their bones, sawbankruptcy round every corner. Those who best know seem agreed thatafter the war the price of wheat will not come down with a run. Theworld shortage of food and shipping will be very great, and the "newworld's" surplus will be small. Let our farmers take their courage intheir hands, play a bold game, and back their own horse for the nextfour or five seasons, and they will, _if supported by the country_, bein a position once more to defy competition. Let them have faith and gofor the gloves and they will end by living without fear of the newworlds. "There is a tide in the affairs of men. " This is the Britishfarmer's tide, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. But onlyif the British farmer intends that Britain shall feed herself; only ifhe farms the land of Britain so that acre by acre it yields the maximumof food. A hundred acres under potatoes feeds 420 persons; a hundredacres under wheat feeds 200 persons; a hundred acres of grass feedsfifteen persons. It requires no expert to see that the last is thelosing horse; for increase of arable means also increase of winter food, and in the long run increase, not decrease, of live stock. In Denmark(1912) arable was to permanent grass as about 4 to 5; in the UnitedKingdom it was only as about 5 to 7. Yet in Denmark there were fivecattle to every eight acres of grass, and in the United Kingdom onlyfour cattle to every nine acres. 

Let me quote Professor Biffen on the prospects of wheat: "In the UnitedStates the amount exported tends to fall. The results are so marked thatwe find American agricultural experts seriously considering thepossibility of the United States having to become a wheat importingcountry in order to feed the rapidly growing population. " When she does, that wheat will come from Canada; and "there are several other factswhich lead one to question the statement so frequently made that Canadawill shortly be the Empire's granary. .. . " He thinks that the Argentine(which trebles her population every forty years) is an uncertain source;that Russia, where the population also increases with extreme rapidity, is still more uncertain; that neither India nor Australia are dependablefields of supply. "The world's crop continues to increase slowly, andconcurrently the number of wheat consumers increases. .. . Prices havetended to rise of late years, a fact which may indicate that the world'sconsumption is increasing faster than its rate of production. There arenow no vast areas of land comparable with those of North and SouthAmerica awaiting the pioneer wheat growers, and consequently _there isno likelihood of any repetition of the over-production characteristic ofthe period of 1874-1894_. .. . 

"If as there is every reason to hope the problem of breedingsatisfactory strong wheats" (for this country) "has been solved, thentheir cultivation should add about £1 to the value of the produce ofevery acre of wheat in the country. .. . 

"At a rough estimate the careful use of artificials might increase theaverage yield of the acre from four quarters up to five. .. . 

"England is one of the best, if not the very best wheat-growing countryin the world. "

That, shortly, is the wheat position for this country in the view of ourmost brilliant practical expert. I commend it to the notice of those whoare faint-hearted about the future of wheat in Britain. 

With these prospects and possibilities before him, _and a fair price forwheat guaranteed him_, is the British farmer going to let down the landto grass again when the war is over? The fair price for wheat will bethe point on which his decision will turn. When things have settled downafter the war, the fair price will be that at which the _average_ farmercan profitably grow wheat, and such a price must be maintained--bybounty, if necessary. It never can be too often urged on politicians andelectorate that they, who thwart a policy which makes wheat-growing firmand profitable, are knocking nails in the coffin of their country. Weare no longer, and never shall again be, an island. The air ishenceforth as simple an avenue of approach as Piccadilly is to LeicesterSquare. If we are ever attacked there will be no time to get our secondwind, unless we can feed ourselves. And since we are constitutionallyliable to be caught napping, we shall infallibly be brought to theGerman heel next time, if we are not self-supporting. But if we are, there will be no next time. An attempt on us will not be worth the cost. Further, we are running to seed physically from too much town-life andthe failure of country stocks; we shall never stem that rot unless were-establish agriculture on a large scale. To do that, in the view ofnearly all who have thought this matter out, we must found our farmingon wheat; grow four-fifths instead of one-fifth of our supply, and allelse will follow. 

In England and Wales 11, 246, 106 acres were arable land in 1917, and15, 835, 375 permanent grass land. To reverse these figures, at least, isthe condition of security, perhaps even of existence in the present andthe only guarantee of a decent and safe future. 

III

HOLDINGS

One expert pins faith to large farms; another to small holdings. Howagreeable to think that both are right. We cannot afford to neglect anytype of holding; all must be developed and supported, for all servevital purposes. For instance, the great development of small holdings inGermany is mainly responsible for the plentiful supply of labour on theland there; "until measures can be devised for greatly increasing thearea under holdings of less than 100 acres in Britain we are not likelyto breed and maintain in the country a sufficient number of that classof worker which will be required if we are greatly to extend our arableland": Mr. T. H. Middleton, Assistant Secretary to the Board ofAgriculture. But I am not going into the _pros_ and _cons_ of theholdings question. I desire rather to point out here that a moment isapproaching, which will never come again, for the resettling of theland. 

A rough census taken in 1916 among our soldiers gave the astoundingfigure of 750, 000 desirous of going on the land. That figure will shrinkto a mere skeleton unless on demobilisation the Government is ready witha comprehensive plan. The men fall roughly into two classes: those whowere already on the land; those who were not. The first will want to goback to their own districts, but not to the cottages and wages they hadbefore the war. For them, it is essential to provide new cottages withlarger gardens, otherwise they will go to the Dominions, to America, orto the towns. A fresh census should be taken and kept up to date, thewants of each man noted, and a definite attempt made now to earmarksites and material for building, to provide the garden plots, and planthe best and prettiest type of cottage. For lack of labour and materialno substantial progress can be made with housing while the war is on, but if a man can see his cottage and his ground ready, in the air, hewill wait; if he cannot, he will be off, and we shall have lost him. Wages are not to fall again below twenty-five shillings, and willprobably stay at a considerably higher level. The cottage and the gardenground for these men will be the determining factor, and that gardenground should be at least an acre. A larger class by far will be men whowere not on the land, but having tasted open-air life, think they wishto continue it. A fresh census of this class and their wants should betaken also. It will subdivide them into men who want the life ofindependent medium and small holders, with from 100 to 20 acres of land, and men who with 5 or 10 acres of their own are willing to supplementtheir living by seasonal work on the large farms. For all acut-and-dried scheme providing land and homes is absolutely essential. If they cannot be assured of having these within a few months of theirreturn to civil life, they will go either to the Dominions or back tothe towns. One of them, I am told, thus forecasts their future wants:"When we're free we shall have a big spree in the town; we shall thentake the first job that comes along; if it's an indoor job we shan't beable to stick it and shall want to get on the land. " I am pretty surehe's wrong. He will want his spree, of course; but _if he is allowed togo back to a town job_ he is not at all likely to leave it again. Men sosoon get used to things, and the towns have a fierce grip. For thissecond class, no less than the first, it is vital to have the landready, and the cottages estimated for. I think men of both theseclasses, when free, should be set at once to the building of their ownhomes and the preparation of their land. I think huts ought to be readyfor them and their wives till their homes are habitable. A man who takesa hand in the building of his house, and the first work on his newholding, is far less likely to abandon his idea of settling on the landthan a man who is simply dumped into a ready-made concern. That is humannature. Let him begin at the beginning, and while his house is going upbe assisted and instructed. Frankly, I am afraid that in the difficultyof fixing on an ideal scheme and ideal ways of working it, we shallforget that the moment of demobilisation is unique. Any scheme, howeverrough and ready, which will fix men or their intention of settling onthe land in Britain at the moment of demobilisation will be worth ahundred better-laid plans which have waited for perfection till that oneprecious moment is overpast. While doctors quarrel, or lay their headstogether, the patient dies. 

The Government, I understand, have adopted a scheme by which they cansecure land. If they have not ascertained from these men what land theywill want, and secured that land by the time the men are ready, thatscheme will be of little use to them. 

The Government, I gather, have decided on a huge scheme for urban andrural housing. About that I have this to say. The rural housing ought totake precedence of the urban, not because it is more intrinsicallynecessary, but because if the moment of demobilisation is let slip forwant of rural cottages, we shall lose our very life blood, our futuresafety, perhaps our existence as a nation. We must seize on this oneprecious chance of restoring the land and guaranteeing our future. Thetowns can wait a little for their housing, the country cannot. It is asort of test question for our leaders in every Party. Surely they willrise to the vital necessity of grasping this chance! If, when the dangerof starvation has been staring us hourly in the face for years on end, and we have for once men in hundreds of thousands waiting and hoping tobe settled on the land, to give us the safety of the future--if, in suchcircumstances, we cannot agree to make the most of that chance, it willshow such lack of vision that I really feel we may as well throw up thesponge. If jealousy by towns of country can so blind public opinion toour danger and our chance, so that no precedence can be given to ruralneeds, well, then, frankly we are not fit to live as a nation. 

I am told that Germany has seen to this matter. She does not mean to bestarved in the future; she intends to keep the backbone of her countrysound. She, who already grew 80 per cent. Of her food, will grow it all. She, who already appreciated the dangers of a rampant industrialism, will take no further risks with the physique of her population. We whodid not grow one-half of our food, and whose riotous industrialism hasmade far greater inroads on our physique; we who, though we have not yetsuffered the privations of Germany, have been in far more realdanger--we shall talk about it, say how grave the situation is, how"profoundly" we are impressed by the need to feed ourselves--and weshall act, I am very much afraid, too late. 

There are times when the proverb: "Act in haste and repent at leisure"should be written "Unless you act in haste you will repent at leisure. "This is such a time. We can take, of course, the right steps or thewrong steps to settle our soldiers on the land; but no wrong step we cantake will be so utterly wrong as to let the moment of demobilisationslip. We have a good and zealous Minister of Agriculture, we have goodmen alive to the necessity, working on this job. If we miss the chanceit will be because "interests" purblind, selfish and perverse, and alethargic public opinion, do not back them; because we want to talk itout; because trade and industry think themselves of superior importanceto the land. Henceforth trade and industry are of secondary importancein this country. There is only one thing of absolutely vital importance, and that is agriculture. 

IV

INSTRUCTION

I who have lived most of my time on a farm for many years, in dailycontact with farmer and labourer, do really appreciate what variety anddepth of knowledge is wanted for good farming. It is a lesson to thearmchair reformer to watch a farmer walking across the "home meadow"whence he can see a good way over his land. One can feel the slow wisdomworking in his head. A halt, a look this way and that, a whistle, thecall of some instruction so vernacular that only a native couldunderstand; the contemplation of sheep, beasts, sky, crops; alwayssomething being noted, and shrewd deductions made therefrom. It is agreat art, and, like all art, to be learned only with the sweat of thebrow and a long, minute attention to innumerable details. You cannotplay at farming, and you cannot "mug it up. " One understands thecontempt of the farmer born and bred for the book-skilled gentleman whotries to instruct his grandmother in the sucking of eggs. The farmer'sknowledge, acquired through years of dumb wrestling with Nature, in hisown particular corner, is his strength and--his weakness. Vision of theland at large, of its potentialities, and its needs is almost ofnecessity excluded. The practical farmers of our generation might wellbe likened unto sailing-ship seamen in an age when it has suddenlybecome needful to carry commerce by steam. They are pupils of the sterntaskmaster bankruptcy; the children of the years from 1874-1897, whenthe nation had turned its thumb down on British farmers, and left themto fight, unaided, against extinction. They have been brought up tocarry on against contrary winds and save themselves as best they could. Well, they have done it; and now they are being asked to reverse theirprocesses in the interests of a country which left them in the lurch. Naturally they are not yet persuaded that the country will not leavethem in the lurch again. 

Instruction of the British farmer begins with the fortification of hiswill by confidence. When you ask him to plough up grass land, to revisethe rotation of his crops, to grow wheat, to use new brands of corn, toplough with tractors, and to co-operate, you are asking a man deeply anddeservedly cynical about your intentions and your knowledge. He has seenwheat fail all his life, he has seen grass succeed. Grass has saved him, and now he is asked to turn his back on it. Little wonder that he cursesyou for a meddling fool. "Prove it!" he says--and you cannot. You couldif you had it in your power to show him that your guarantee of a fairprice for wheat was "good as the Bank. " Thus, the first item ofinstruction to the farmer consists in the definite alteration of publicopinion towards the land by adoption of the _sine quâ non_ that infuture we will feed ourselves. The majority of our farmers do not thinktheir interests are being served by the present revolution of farming. Patriotic fear for the country, and dread of D. O. R. A. --not quite thesame thing--are driving them on. Besides, it is the townsmen of Britain, _not the farmers_, who are in danger of starvation, not merely now, buthenceforth for evermore until we feed ourselves. If starvation reallyknocked at our doors, the only houses it would not enter would be thehouses of those who grow food. The farmers in Germany are all right;they would be all right here. The townsmen of this country wereentirely responsible for our present condition, and the very least theycan do is to support their own salvation. But while with one corner oftheir mouths the towns are now shouting: "Grow food! Feed us, please!"with the other they are still inclined to add: "You pampered industry!"Alas! we cannot have it both ways. 

The second point I want to make about instruction is the importance ofyouth. In America, where they contemplate a labour shortage of 2, 000, 000men on their farms, they are using boys from sixteen to twenty-one, whentheir military age begins. Can we not do the same here? Most of our boysfrom fifteen to eighteen are now on other work. But the work they aredoing could surely be done by girls or women. If we could put even acouple of hundred thousand boys of that age on the land it would be thesolution of our present agricultural labour shortage, and the very bestthing that could happen for the future of farming. The boys would learnat first hand; they would learn slowly and thoroughly; and many of themwould stay on the land. They might be given specialised schooling inagriculture, the most important schooling we can give our risinggeneration, while all of them would gain physically. By employing womenon the land, where we can employ boys of from fifteen to eighteen, weare blind-alleying. Women will not stay on the land in any numbers; fewwill wish that they should. Boys will, and every one would wish thatthey may. 

The third point I want to make concerns the model farm. If we are tohave resettlement on any large scale and base our farming on crops infuture, the accessibility of the best practical advice is an absoluteessential. 

Till reformed education begins to take effect, the advice and aid of"model" farmers should be available in every district. Some recogniseddiploma might with advantage be given to farmers for outstanding meritand enterprise. No instruction provided from our advisory agriculturalcouncils or colleges can have as much prestige and use in any districtas the advice of the leading farmer who had been crowned as a successfulexpert. It is ever well in this country to take advantage of thecompetitive spirit which lies deep in the bones of our race. To give thebest farmers a position and prestige to which other farmers can aspirewould speed up effort everywhere. We want more competition in actualhusbandry and less competition in matters of purchase and sale. And thatbrings us to the vital question of co-operation. 

V

CO-OPERATION (SMALL HOLDINGS)

"The most important economic question for all nations in the past hasbeen, and in the future will be, the question of a sufficient foodsupply, independent of imports. 

"It is doubtful whether the replacement of German agriculture on a soundbasis in the last ten years is to be ascribed in a greater measure totechnical advance in agricultural methods, or to the development of theco-operative system. Perhaps it would be right to say that for the largefarms it is due to the first, and for the smaller farms (three quartersof the arable land in Germany) to the second. _For it is only throughco-operation that the advantages of farming on a large scale are madepossible for smaller farmers. _ The more important of those advantagesare the regulated purchase of all raw materials and half-finishedproducts (artificial manures, feeding stuffs, seeds, etc. ), betterprices for products, facilities for making use, in moderation, ofpersonal credit at a cheap rate of interest, together with thepossibility of saving and putting aside small sums of interest; allthese advantages of the large farmer have been placed within the reachof the small farmers by local co-operative societies for buying, selling, and farming co-operatively, as well as by saving and otherbanks, all connected to central associations and central co-operativesocieties. 

"_Over two million small farmers are organised in Germany onco-operative lines. _"[E]

Nearly two million small farmers co-operated in Germany; and here-howmany? The Registrar returns the numbers for 1916 at 1, 427 small holders. 

In the view of all authorities co-operation is essential for the successof small farmers and small holders; but it needs no brilliant intellect, nor any sweep of the imagination to see a truth plainer than the nose ona man's face. 

"There is some reason to hope, " says Mr. Middleton, "that after the waragriculturalists will show a greater disposition to co-operate; but wecannot expect co-operation to do as much for British agriculture as ithas done for the Germans, who so readily join societies and supportco-operative efforts. "

So much the worse for us!

The Agricultural Organisation Society, the officially recognised agencyfor fostering the co-operative principle, has recently formed anAgricultural Wholesale Society with a large subscribed capital, for thepurchase of all farming requirements, and the marketing of produce, tobe at the disposal of all co-operated farmers, small holders, andallotment holders, whose societies are affiliated to the AgriculturalOrganisation. Society. This is a step of infinite promise. The drawingtogether of these three classes of workers on the land is in itself amatter of great importance. One of the chief complaints of small holdersin the past has been that large holders regard them askance. The same, perhaps, applies to the attitude of the small holder to the allotmentholder. That is all bad. Men and women on the land should be one bigfamily, with interests, and sympathies in common and a neighbourlyfeeling. 

A leaflet of the Agricultural Organisation Society thus describes acertain co-operative small holdings' society with seventeen membersrenting ninety acres. "It owns a team of horses, cart, horse-hoe, plough, ridger, harrow, Cambridge roller, marker; and hires otherimplements as required; it insures, buys, and sells co-operatively. Thisyear (for patriotic reasons) wheat and potatoes form the chief crop, with sufficient oats, barley, beans and mangolds to feed the horses andthe pigs, of which there are many. The society last year marketed morefat pigs than the rest of the village and adjoining farms put together. 

"The land, on the whole, is undoubtedly better cultivated and cropped, and _supports a far larger head of population per acre than theneighbouring large farms_. " Even allowing that the first statement maybe disputed, the last is beyond dispute, and is _the_ important thing tobear in mind about small holdings from the national point of view; forevery extra man and woman on the land is a credit item in the bank bookof the nation's future. 

"In addition, " says the leaflet, "there is a friendly spirit prevalentamong the members, who are always willing to help each other, and atharvest time combine to gather in the crops. "

With more land, not only some, but all the members of this littlesociety could support themselves entirely on their holdings. "Themembers value their independence and freedom, but recognise the value ofcombined action and new ideas. "

Now this is exactly what we want. For instance, these members have foundout that the profit on potatoes when home-grown farmyard manure alonewas used was only 14_s. _ 6_d. _ per acre; and that a suitable combinationof artificial manures gave a profit of £14 12_s. _ 6_d. _ an acre, withdouble the yield. Mutual help and the spread of knowledge; more men andwomen on the land--this is the value of the agricultural co-operativemovement, whose importance to this country it is impossible toover-estimate. 

From letters of small holders I take the following remarks:--

"Of course it's absolutely necessary that the prospective small holdershould have a thorough knowledge of farming. "

"In regard to implements, you need as many of some sorts on a smallholding as you do on a large farm. A small man can't afford to buy all, so he has to work at a disadvantage. .. . Then as to seeds, why not buythem wholesale, and sell them to the small holder, also manures, andmany other things which the small holder has to pay through the nosefor. "

"Men with no actual knowledge of land work would rarely succeed whateverfinancial backing they might receive. "

"About here small holdings are usually let to men who have beentradesmen or pitmen, and they of course cannot be expected to make themost of them. "

"When you restrict a farmer to 50 acres he ought to be provided withample and proper buildings for every kind of stock he wishes to keep. "

These few remarks, which might be supplemented _ad libitum_, illustratethe difficulties and dangers which beset any large scheme of landsettlement by our returning soldiers and others. Such a scheme is boundto fail unless it is based most firmly on co-operation, for, withoutthat, the two absolute essentials--knowledge, with the benefit ofpractical advice and help; and assistance by way of co-operativefinance, and co-operatively-owned implements, will be lacking. 

Set the returning soldier down on the land to work it on his own and, whatever his good-will, you present the countryside with failure. Placeat his back pooled labour, monetary help and knowledge, and, above all, the spirit of mutual aid, and you may, and I believe will, triumph overdifficulties, which are admittedly very great. 

VI

CO-OPERATION (ALLOTMENTS)

The growth of allotment gardens is a striking feature of ouragricultural development under stimulus of the war. They say a millionand a half allotment gardens are now being worked on. That is, no doubt, a papery figure; nor is it so much the number, as what is being done onthem, that matters. Romance may have "brought up the nine-fifteen, " butit will not bring up potatoes. Still, these new allotments without doubtadd very greatly to our food supply, give hosts of our town populationhealthy work in the open air, and revive in them that "earth instinct"which was in danger of being utterly lost. The spade is a grandcorrective of nerve strain, and the more town and factory workers takeup allotment gardens, the better for each individual, and for us all asa race. 

They say nearly all the ground available round our towns has alreadybeen utilised. But DORA, in her wild career, may yet wring out anotherhundred thousand acres. I wish her well in this particular activity. Andthe Government she serves with such devotion will betray her if, whenDORA is in her grave--consummation devoutly to be wished--her work onallotment gardens is not continued. There is always a ring of land rounda town, like a halo round the moon. As the town's girth increases, soshould that halo; and even in time of peace, larger and larger, not lessand less, should grow the number of town dwellers raising vegetables, fruit and flowers, resting their nerves and expanding lungs and muscleswith healthy outdoor work. 

"In no direction is the co-operative principle more adaptable or moreuseful than in the matter of Allotment Associations. "

There are now allotment associations in many parts of the country. Oneat Winchester has over 1, 000 tenant members. And round the greatmanufacturing towns many others have been formed. 

To illustrate the advantages of such co-operation, let me quote a littlefrom the Hon. Secretary of the Urmston Allotments Association, nearManchester: "Though the Urmston men had foremost in their mind the aimof producing payable crops . .. They determined that their allotmentsshould be convenient and comfortable to work, and pleasing to lookupon. .. . It is a delusion often found among novices that ordinary groundtakes a long time to get into decent order; and is an expensivebusiness. But enlightened and energetic men _working together_ can dowonderful things. They did them at Urmston. The ground was only brokenup in March, 1916, but in the same season splendid crops of peas, potatoes and other vegetables were raised by the holders, _the majorityof whom had little or no previous experience of gardening_. .. . So as todeal with the main needs of the members co-operatively in the mosteffective manner a Trading Committee was appointed to advise and makecontracts. .. . Manure, lime, salt, and artificial manures have beenordered collectively; and seeds and other gardening requisites arrangedfor at liberal discounts. "

Besides all this the association has fought the potato wart disease; hadits soil analyzed; educated its members through literature and lectures;made roads and fences; looked after the appearance of its plots, andencouraged flower-growing. Finally, a neighbourly feeling of friendlyemulation has grown up among its members. And this is their conclusion:"The advantages of co-operation are not confined to economy in time andmoney, for the common interest that binds all members to seek thesuccess of the Association, also provides the means of developing andutilising the individual talents of the members for communal andnational purposes. "

They speak, indeed, like a book, and every word is true--which is notalways the same thing. 

The Agricultural Organization Society gives every assistance in formingthese associations; and the more there are of them the greater will bethe output of food, the strength and knowledge of the individualplot-holder, the stability of his tenure, and the advantage of thenation. 

Mistrust and reserve between workers on the land, be they largefarmers, small farmers, or plotholders is the result of combininghusbandry with the habits and qualities of the salesman. If a man'sbusiness is to get the better of his neighbours on market days, it willbe his pleasure to doubt them on all other days. 

The co-operative system, by conducting purchase and sale impersonally, removes half the reason and excuse for curmudgeonery, besides securingbetter prices both at sale and purchase. To the disgust of the cynic, moral and material advantage here go hand in hand. Throughoutagriculture co-operation will do more than anything else to restorespirit and economy to an industry which had long become dejected, suspicious and wasteful; and it will help to remove jealousy anddistrust between townsmen and countrymen. The allotment holder, ifencouraged and given fixity of tenure, or at all events the power ofgetting fresh ground if he must give up what he has--a vitalmatter--will become the necessary link between town and country, withmind open to the influence of both. The more he is brought into workingcontact with the small holder and the large farmer the better he willappreciate his own importance to the country and ensure theirs. But thiscontact can only be established through some central body, and by use ofa wholesale society for trading and other purposes, such as has justbeen set up for all classes of co-operated agriculturalists. 

Addressing a recent meeting of its members, the Chairman of theAgricultural Organisation Society, Mr. Leslie Scott, spoke thus:--"Wehave to cover the country" (with co-operative societies), "and we havegot to get all the farmers in! If we can carry out any such scheme asthis, which will rope in all the farmers of the country, what amagnificent position we shall be in! You will have your great tradingorganisation with its central wholesale society! You will have yourorganisation side with the Agricultural Organisation Society at thecentre. .. . You will be able to use that side for all the ancillarypurposes connected with farming; and do a great deal in the way ofexpert assistance. And through your electing the Board of Governors ofthe Agricultural Organisation Society, with the provincial branchCommittees, you will have what is in effect a central Parliament inLondon. .. . You will be able to put before the country, both locally andhere in London, the views of the farming community, and, those viewswill get from Government Departments an attention which the farmingindustry in the past has failed to get. You will command a power in thecountry. "

And in a letter to Mr. Scott, read at the same meeting, the presentMinister of Agriculture had this to say about co-operation:

"Farming is a business in which as in every other industry union isstrength. .. . Every farmer should belong to a co-operative society. .. . Small societies like small farmers, must" (in their turn)"co-operate. .. . The word 'farmers' is intended to include all those whocultivate the land. In this sense allotment holders are farmers, and Itrust that the union of all cultivators of the land in this sense willhelp to bridge the gap between town and country. "

That townsman and countryman should feel their interests to be at bottomthe same goes to the root of any land revival. 

VII

VALEDICTORY

"There are many who contend that the nation will never again allow itsrural industry to be neglected and discouraged as it was in the past;that the war has taught a lesson which will not soon be forgotten. Thisview of the national temperament is considered by others to be tooconfident. It is the firm conviction of this school that the consumerwill speedily return to his old habit of indifference to nationalstability in the matter of food, and that Parliament acting at hisbidding, will manifest equal apathy. "

These words, taken from a leader in _The Times_ of February 11th, 1918, bring me back to the starting point of these ragged reflections. Therewill be no permanent stablishing of our agriculture, no lasting advancetowards safety and health, if we have not vision and a fixed ideal. Theruts of the past were deep, and our habit is to walk along withoutlooking to left or right. A Liberalism worthy of the word should liftits head and see new paths. The Liberalism of the past, bent on theimprovement of the people and the growth of good-will between nations, forgot in that absorption to take in the whole truth. Fixing its eyes onmeasures which should redeem the evils of the day, it did not see thatthose evils were growing faster than all possible remedy, because we hadforgotten that a great community bountifully blessed by Nature has nobusiness to exist parasitically on the earth produce of othercommunities; and because our position under pure free trade, and pureindustrialism, was making us a tempting bait for aggression, andretarding the very good-will between nations which it desired soearnestly. 

The human animal perishes if not fed. We have gone so far with ourhappy-go-lucky scheme of existence that it has become necessary toremind ourselves of that. So long as we had money we thought we couldcontinue to exist. Not so. Henceforth till we feed ourselves again, welive on sufferance, and dangle before all eyes the apple of discord. Aself-supporting Britain, free from this carking fear, would become oncemore a liberalising power. A Britain fed from overseas can only be anImperialistic Junker, armed to the teeth, jealous and doubtful of eachmove by any foreigner; prizing quantity not quality; indifferent aboutthe condition of his heart. Such a Britain dare not be liberal if itwill. 

The greatest obstacle to a true League of Nations, with the exception ofthe condition of Russia, will be the condition of Britain, till she canfeed herself. 

I believe in the principle of free trade, because it forces man to puthis best leg foremost. But all is a question of degree in this world. Itis no use starting a donkey, in the Derby, and bawling in its ear: "Afair field and no favour!" especially if all your money is on thedonkey. All our money is henceforth on our agriculture till we havebrought it into its own. And that can only be done at present with thehelp of bounty. 

The other day a Canadian free trader said: "It all depends on what sortof peace we secure; if we have a crushing victory, I see no reason whyBritain should not go on importing her food. "

Fallacy--politically and biologically! The worst thing that could happento us after the war would be a sense of perfect security, in which tocontinue to neglect our agriculture and increase our towns. Does any manthink that a momentary exhaustion of our enemy is going to prevent thathuge and vigorous nation from becoming strong again? Does he believethat we can trust a League of Nations--a noble project, for which wemust all work--to prevent war till we have seen it successful for atleast a generation? Does he consider that our national physique willstand another fifty years of rampant industrialism without fresh countrystocks to breed from? Does he suppose that the use of the air and theunderparts of the sea is more than just beginning?

Politically, our independence in the matter of food is essential to goodwill between the nations. Biologically, more country life is essentialto British health. The improvement of town and factory conditions may dosomething to arrest degeneration, but in my firm conviction it cannothope to do enough in a land where towns have been allowed to absorbseven-ninths of the population, and--such crowded, grimy towns!

Even from the economic point of view it will be far cheaper to restorethe countryside and re-establish agriculture on a paying basis than todemolish and rebuild our towns till they become health resorts. Andbehind it all there is this: Are we satisfied with the trend of ourmodern civilisation? Are we easy in our consciences? Have not machines, and the demands of industry run away with our sense of proportion? Grantfor a moment that this age marks the highest water so far of Britishadvance. Are we content with that high-water mark? In health, happiness, taste, beauty, we are surely far from the ideal. I do not say thatrestoration of the land will work a miracle; but I do say that nothingwe can do will benefit us so potently as the redress of balance betweentown and country life. 

We are at the parting of the ways. The war has brought us realisationand opportunity. We can close our eyes again and drift, or we can moveforward under the star of a new ideal. The principle which alonepreserves the sanity of nations is the principle of balance. Not eventhe most enraged defender of our present condition will dare maintainthat we have followed out that principle. The scales are loaded infavour of the towns, till they almost touch earth; unless our eyes arecleared to see that, unless our will is moved to set it right, we shallbump the ground before another two decades have slipped away, and in themud shall stay, an invitation to any trampling heel. 

I have tried to indicate general measures and considerations vital tothe resettlement of the land, conscious that some of my readers willhave forgotten more than I know, and that what could be said would fillvolumes. But the thought which, of all others, I have wished to conveyis this: Without vision we perish. Without apprehension of danger andardour for salvation in the great body of this people there is no hopeof anything save a momentary spurt, which will die away, and leave usplodding down the hill. There are two essentials. The farmer--and thatmeans every cultivator of the land--must have faith in the vitalimportance of his work and in the possibility of success; the townsmanmust see and believe that the future of the country, and with it his ownprosperity, is involved in the revival of our agriculture and bound upwith our independence of oversea supply. Without that vision and beliefin the townsman the farmer will never regain faith, and without thatfaith of the farmer agriculture will not revive. 

Statesmen may contrive, reformers plan, farmers struggle on, but ifthere be not conviction in the body politic, it will be no use. 

Resettlement of the land, and independence of outside food supply, isthe only hope of welfare and safety for this country. Ferventlybelieving that, I have set down these poor words. 

1918. 

[E] From an essay by the President of the German Agricultural Council, quoted by Mr. T. H. Middleton, of the Board of Agriculture, in hisreport on the recent development of German agriculture. 

GROTESQUES

Κυνηδόν

I

The Angel Æthereal, on his official visit to the Earth in 1947, pausedbetween the Bank and the Stock Exchange to smoke a cigarette andscrutinise the passers-by. 

"How they swarm, " he said, "and with what seeming energy--in such anatmosphere! Of what can they be made?"

"Of money, sir, " replied his dragoman; "in the past, the present, or thefuture. Stocks are booming. The barometer of joy stands very high. Nothing like it has been known for thirty years; not, indeed, since thedays of the Great Skirmish. "

"There is, then, a connection between joy and money?" remarked theAngel, letting smoke dribble through his chiselled nostrils. 

"Such is the common belief; though to prove it might take time. I will, however, endeavour to do this if you desire it, sir. "

"I certainly do, " said the Angel; "for a less joyous-looking crowd Ihave seldom seen. Between every pair of brows there is a furrow, and noone whistles. "

"You do not understand, " returned his dragoman; "nor indeed is itsurprising, for it is not so much the money as the thought that some dayyou need no longer make it which causes joy. "

"If that day is coming to all, " asked the Angel, "why do they not lookjoyful?"

"It is not so simple as that, sir. To the majority of these persons thatday will never come, and many of them know it--these are called clerks;to some amongst the others, even, it will not come--these will be calledbankrupts; to the rest it will come, and they will live at Wimblehurstand other islands of the blessed, when they have become so accustomed tomaking money that to cease making it will be equivalent to boredom, ifnot torture, or when they are so old that they can but spend it intrying to modify the disabilities of age. "

"What price joy, then?" said the Angel, raising his eyebrows. "For that, I fancy, is the expression you use?"

"I perceive, sir, " answered his dragoman, "that you have not yetregained your understanding of the human being, and especially of thebreed which inhabits this country. Illusion is what we are after. Without our illusions we might just as well be angels or Frenchmen, whopursue at all events to some extent the sordid reality known as '_leplaisir_, ' or enjoyment of life. In pursuit of illusion we go on makingmoney and furrows in our brows, for the process is wearing. I speak, ofcourse, of the bourgeoisie or Patriotic classes; for the practice of theLaborious is different, though their illusions are the same. "

"How?" asked the Angel briefly. 

"Why, sir, both hold the illusion that they will one day be joyfulthrough the possession of money; but whereas the Patriotic expect tomake it through the labour of the Laborious, the Laborious expect tomake it through the labour of the Patriotic. "

"Ha, ha!" said the Angel. 

"Angels may laugh, " replied his dragoman, "but it is a matter to makemen weep. "

"You know your own business best, " said the Angel, "I suppose. "

"Ah! sir, if we did, how pleasant it would be. It is frequently my fateto study the countenances and figures of the population, and I find thejoy which the pursuit of illusion brings them is insufficient tocounteract the confined, monotonous and worried character of theirlives. "

"They are certainly very plain, " said the Angel. 

"They are, " sighed his dragoman, "and getting plainer every day. Takefor instance that one, " and he pointed to a gentleman going up thesteps. "Mark how he is built. The top of his grizzled head is narrow, the bottom of it broad. His body is short and thick and square; his legseven thicker, and his feet turn out too much; the general effect isalmost pyramidal. Again, take this one, " and he indicated a gentlemancoming down the steps, "you could thread his legs and body through aneedle's eye, but his head would defy you. Mark his boiled eyes, hisflashing spectacles, and the absence of all hair. Disproportion, sir, has become endemic. "

"Can this not be corrected?" asked the Angel. 

"To correct a thing, " answered his dragoman, "you must first be aware ofit, and these are not; no more than they are aware that it isdisproportionate to spend six days out of every seven in acounting-house or factory. Man, sir, is the creature of habit, and whenhis habits are bad, man is worse. "

"I have a headache, " said the Angel; "the noise is more deafening thanit was when I was here in 1910. "

"Yes, sir; since then we have had the Great Skirmish, an event whichfuriously intensified money-making. We, like every other people, haveever since been obliged to cultivate the art of getting five out oftwo-and-two. The progress of civilisation has been considerably speededup thereby, and everything but man has benefited; even horses, for theyare no longer overloaded and overdriven up Tower Hill or any other. "

"How is that, " asked the Angel, "if the pressure of work is greater?"

"Because they are extinct, " said his dragoman; "entirely superseded byelectric and air traction, as you see. "

"You appear to be inimical to money, " the Angel interjected, with apenetrating look. "Tell me, would you really rather own one shillingthan five and sixpence?"

"Sir, " replied his dragoman, "you are putting the candidate before thecaucus, as the saying is. For money is nothing but the power to purchasewhat one wants. You should rather be inquiring what I want. "

"Well, what do you?" said the Angel. 

"To my thinking, " answered his dragoman, "instead of endeavouring toincrease money when we found ourselves so very bankrupt, we should haveendeavoured to decrease our wants. The path of real progress, sir, isthe simplification of life and desire till we have dispensed even withtrousers and wear a single clean garment reaching to the knees; till weare content with exercising our own limbs on the solid earth; theeating of simple food we have grown ourselves; the hearing of our ownvoices, and tunes on oaten straws; the feel on our faces of the sun andrain and wind; the scent of the fields and woods; the homely roof, andthe comely wife unspoiled by heels, pearls, and powder; the domesticanimals at play, wild birds singing, and children brought up to colderwater than their fathers. It should have been our business to pursuehealth till we no longer needed the interior of the chemist's shop, theoptician's store, the hairdresser's, the corset-maker's, the thousandand one emporiums which patch and prink us, promoting our fancies anddisguising the ravages which modern life makes in our figures. Ourambition should have been to need so little that, with our presentscientific knowledge, we should have been able to produce it very easilyand quickly, and have had abundant leisure and sound nerves and bodieswherewith to enjoy nature, art, and the domestic affections. The tragedyof man, sir, is his senseless and insatiate curiosity and greed, together with his incurable habit of neglecting the present for the sakeof a future which will never come. "

"You speak like a book, " said the Angel. 

"I wish I did, " retorted his dragoman, "for no book I am able to procureenjoins us to stop this riot, and betake ourselves to the pleasurablesimplicity which alone can save us. "

"You would be bored stiff in a week, " said the Angel. 

"We should, sir, " replied his dragoman, "because from our schooldays weare brought up to be acquisitive, competitive, and restless. Considerthe baby in the perambulator, absorbed in contemplating the heavens andsucking its own thumb. Existence, sir, should be like that. "

"A beautiful metaphor, " said the Angel. 

"As it is, we do but skip upon the hearse of life. "

"You would appear to be of those whose motto is: 'Try never to leavethings as you find them, '" observed the Angel. 

"Ah, sir!" responded his dragoman, with a sad smile, "the part of adragoman is rather ever to try and find things where he leaves them. "

"Talking of that, " said the Angel dreamily, "when I was here in 1910, Ibought some Marconi's for the rise. What are they at now?"

"I cannot tell you, " replied his dragoman in a deprecating voice, "butthis I will say: Inventors are not only the benefactors but the cursesof mankind, and will be so long as we do not find a way of adaptingtheir discoveries to our very limited digestive powers. The chronicdyspepsia of our civilisation, due to the attempt to swallow everypabulum which ingenuity puts before it, is so violent that I sometimeswonder whether we shall survive until your visit in 1984. "

"Ah!" said the Angel, pricking his ears; "you really think there is achance?"

"I do indeed, " his dragoman answered gloomily. "Life is now one longtelephone call--and what's it all about? A tour in darkness! A rattlingof wheels under a sky of smoke! A never-ending game of poker!"

"Confess, " said the Angel, "that you have eaten something which has notagreed with you?"

"It is so, " answered his dragoman; "I have eaten of modernity, thedamndest dish that was ever set to lips. Look at those fellows, " he wenton, "busy as ants from nine o'clock in the morning to seven in theevening. And look at their wives!"

"Ah! yes, " said the Angel cheerily; "let us look at their wives, " andwith three strokes of his wings he passed to Oxford Street. 

"Look at them!" repeated his dragoman, "busy as ants from ten o'clock inthe morning to five in the evening. "

"Plain is not the word for _them_, " said the Angel sadly. "What are theyafter, running in and out of these shop-holes?"

"Illusion, sir. The romance of business there, the romance of commercehere. They have got into these habits and, as you know, it is so mucheasier to get in than to get out. Would you like to see one of theirhomes?"

"No, no, " said the Angel, starting back and coming into contact with alady's hat. "Why do they have them so large?" he asked, with a certainirritation. 

"In order that they may have them small next season, " replied hisdragoman. "The future, sir; the future! The cycle of beauty and eternalhope, and, incidentally, _the good of trade_. Grasp that phrase and youwill have no need for further inquiry, and probably no inclination. "

"One could get American sweets in here, I guess, " said the Angel, entering. 

II

"And where would you wish to go to-day, sir?" asked his dragoman of theAngel who was moving his head from side to side like a dromedary in theHaymarket. 

"I should like, " the Angel answered, "to go into the country. "

"The country!" returned his dragoman, doubtfully. "You will find verylittle to see there. "

"Natheless, " said the Angel, spreading his wings. 

"These, " gasped his dragoman, after a few breathless minutes, "are theChilterns--they will serve; any part of the country is now the same. Shall we descend?"

Alighting on what seemed to be a common, he removed the cloud moisturefrom his brow, and shading his eyes with his hand, stood peering intothe distance on every side. "As I thought, " he said; "there has been nomovement since I brought the Prime here in 1944; we shall have somedifficulty in getting lunch. "

"A wonderfully peaceful spot, " said the Angel. 

"True, " said his dragoman. "We might fly sixty miles in any directionand not see a house in repair. "

"Let us!" said the Angel. They flew a hundred, and alighted again. 

"Same here!" said his dragoman. "This is Leicestershire. Note therolling landscape of wild pastures. "

"I am getting hungry, " said the Angel. "Let us fly again. "

"I have told you, sir, " remarked his dragoman, while they were flying, "that we shall have the greatest difficulty in finding any inhabiteddwelling in the country. Had we not better alight at Blackton orBradleeds?"

"No, " said the Angel. "I have come for a day in the fresh air. "

"Would bilberries serve?" asked his dragoman; "for I see a man gatheringthem. "

The Angel closed his wings, and they dropped on to a moor close to anaged man. 

"My worthy wight, " said the Angel, "we are hungry. Would you give ussome of your bilberries?"

"Wot oh!" ejaculated the ancient party; "never 'eard yer comin'. Beenflyin' by wireless, 'ave yer? Got an observer, I see, " he added, jerkinghis grizzled chin at the dragoman. "Strike me, it's the good old dyes o'the Gryte Skirmish over agyne. "

"Is this, " asked the Angel, whose mouth was already black withbilberries, "the dialect of rural England?"

"I will interrogate him, sir, " said his dragoman, "for in truth I am ata loss to account for the presence of a man in the country. " He took theold person by his last button and led him a little apart. Returning tothe Angel, who had finished the bilberries, he whispered:

"It is as I thought. This is the sole survivor of the soldiers settledon the land at the conclusion of the Great Skirmish. He lives onberries and birds who have died a natural death. "

"I fail to understand, " answered the Angel. "Where is all the ruralpopulation, where the mansions of the great, the thriving farmer, thecontented peasant, the labourer about to have his minimum wage, the Old, the Merrie England of 1910?"

"That, " responded his dragoman somewhat dramatically, extending his handtowards the old man, "_that_ is the rural population, and he a cockneyhardened in the Great Skirmish, or he could never have stayed thecourse. "

"What!" said the Angel; "is no food grown in all this land!"

"Not a cabbage, " replied his dragoman; "not a mustard and cress--outsidethe towns, that is. "

"I perceive, " said the Angel, "that I have lost touch with much that isof interest. Give me, I pray, a brief sketch of the agriculturalmovement. "

"Why, sir, " replied his dragoman, "the agricultural movement in thiscountry since the days of the Great Skirmish, when all were talking ofresettling the land, may be summed up in two words: 'Town Expansion. ' Inorder to make this clear to you, however, I must remind you of thepolitical currents of the past thirty years. You will not recollectthat during the Great Skirmish, beneath the seeming absence of politics, there were germinating the Parties of the future. A secret but resoluteintention was forming in all minds to immolate those who had played anypart in politics before and during the important world-tragedy which wasthen being enacted, especially such as continued to hold portfolios, orpersisted in asking questions in the House of Commons, as it was thencalled. It was not that people held them to be responsible, but nervesrequired soothing, and there is no anodyne, as you know, sir, equal tohuman sacrifice. The politician was, as one may say--'off. ' No sooner, of course, was peace declared than the first real General Election washeld, and it was with a certain chagrin that the old Parties foundthemselves in the soup. The Parties which had been forming beneath thesurface swept the country; one called itself the Patriotic, and wascalled by its opponents the Prussian Party; the other called itself theLaborious, and was called by its opponents the Loafing Party. Theirrepresentatives were nearly all new men. In the first flush of peace, with which the human mind ever associates plenty, they came out on suchan even keel that no Government could pass anything at all. Since, however, it was imperative to find the interest on a National Debt of£8, 000, 000, 000, a further election was needed. This time, though theword Peace remained, the word Plenty had already vanished; and theLaborious Party, which, having much less to tax, felt that it could taxmore freely, found itself in an overwhelming majority. You will becurious to hear, sir, of what elements this Party was composed. Itssolid bulk were the returned soldiers, and the other manual workers ofthe country; but to this main body there was added a rump, of pundits, men of excellent intentions, brains, and principles, such as in old dayshad been known as Radicals and advanced Liberals. These had joined outof despair, feeling that otherwise their very existence was jeopardised. To this collocation--and to one or two other circumstances, as you willpresently see, sir--the doom of the land must be traced. Now, theLaborious Party, apart from its rump, on which it would or could notsit--we shall never know now--had views about the resettlement of theland not far divergent from those held by the Patriotic Party, and theyproceeded to put a scheme into operation, which, for perhaps a year, seemed to have a prospect of success. Many returned soldiers wereestablished in favourable localities, and there was even a dispositionto place the country on a self-sufficing basis in regard to food. Butthey had not been in power eighteen months when their rump--which, as Ihave told you, contained nearly all their principles--had a severeattack of these. 'Free Trade, '--which, say what you will, follows theline of least resistance and is based on the 'good of trade'--was, theyperceived, endangered, and they began to agitate against bonuses on cornand preferential treatment of a pampered industry. The bonus on corn wasin consequence rescinded in 1924, and in lieu thereof the system ofsmall holdings was extended--on paper. At the same time the somewhatstunning taxation which had been placed upon the wealthy began to causethe break-up of landed estates. As the general bankruptcy and exhaustionof Europe became more and more apparent the notion of danger from futurewar began to seem increasingly remote, and the 'good of trade' becameagain the one object before every British eye. Food from overseas wascheapening once more. The inevitable occurred. Country mansions became adrug in the market, farmers farmed at a loss; small holders went bustdaily, and emigrated; agricultural labourers sought the towns. In 1926the Laborious Party, who had carried the taxation of their opponents toa pitch beyond the power of human endurance, got what the racy call'the knock, ' and the four years which followed witnessed the bitterestinternecine struggle within the memory of every journalist. In thecourse of this strife emigration increased and the land emptied rapidly. The final victory of the Laborious Party, in 1930, saw them, stillpropelled by their rump, committed, among other things, to a pure townpolicy. They have never been out of power since; the result you see. Food is now entirely brought from overseas, largely by submarine and airservice, in tabloid form, and expanded to its original proportions onarrival by an ingenious process discovered by a German. The country isnow used only as a subject for sentimental poets, and to fly over, or bylovers on bicycles at week-ends. "

"_Mon Dieu!_" said the Angel thoughtfully. "To me, indeed, it seems thatthis must have been a case of: 'Oh! What a surprise!'"

"You are not mistaken, sir, " replied his dragoman; "people still opentheir mouths over this consummation. It is pre-eminently an instance ofwhat will happen sometimes when you are not looking, even to theEnglish, who have been most fortunate in this respect. For you mustremember that all Parties, even the Pundits, have always declared thatrural life and all that, don't you know, is most necessary, and haveever asserted that they were fostering it to the utmost. But theyforgot to remember that our circumstances, traditions, education, andvested interests so favoured town life and the 'good of trade' that itrequired a real and unparliamentary effort not to take that line ofleast resistance. In fact, we have here a very good example of what Itold you the other day was our most striking characteristic--neverknowing where we are till after the event. But what with fog andprinciples, how can you expect we should? Better be a little townblighter with no constitution and high political principles, than yourmere healthy country product of a pampered industry. But you have notyet seen the other side of the moon. "

"To what do you refer?" asked the Angel. 

"Why, sir, to the glorious expansion of the towns. To this I shallintroduce you to-morrow, if such is your pleasure. "

"Is London, then, not a town?" asked the Angel playfully. 

"London?" cried his dragoman; "a mere pleasure village. To which realtown shall I take you? Liverchester?"

"Anywhere, " said the Angel, "where I can get a good dinner. " So-saying, he paid the rural population with a smile and spread his wings. 

III

"The night is yet young, " said the Angel Æthereal on leaving the WhiteHeart Hostel at Liverchester, "and I have had perhaps too much to eat. Let us walk and see the town. "

"As you will, sir, " replied his dragoman; "there is no differencebetween night and day, now that they are using the tides for theprovision of electric power. "

The Angel took a note of the fact. "What do they manufacture here?" heasked. 

"The entire town, " returned his dragoman, "which now extends from theold Liverpool to the old Manchester (as indeed its name implies), isoccupied with expanding the tabloids of food which are landed in itsport from the new worlds. This and the town of Brister, reaching fromthe old Bristol to the old Gloucester, have had the monopoly of foodexpansion for the United Kingdom since 1940. "

"By what means precisely?" asked the Angel. 

"Congenial environment and bacteriology, " responded his dragoman. Theywalked for some time in silence, flying a little now and then in thedirtier streets, before the Angel spoke again:

"It is curious, " he said, "but I perceive no difference between thistown and those I remember on my visit in 1910, save that the streetsare better lighted, which is not an unmixed joy, for they are dirty andfull of people whose faces do not please me. "

"Ah! sir, " replied his dragoman, "it is too much to expect that thewonderful darkness which prevailed at the time of the Great Skirmishcould endure; then, indeed, one could indulge the hope that the houseswere all built by Wren, and the people all clean and beautiful. There isno poetry now. "

"No!" said the Angel, sniffing, "but there is atmosphere, and it is notagreeable. "

"Mankind, when herded together, _will_ smell, " answered his dragoman. "You cannot avoid it. What with old clothes, patchouli, petrol, friedfish and the fag, those five essentials of human life, the atmosphere ofTurner and Corot are as nothing. "

"But do you not run your towns to please yourselves?" said the Angel. 

"Oh, no, sir! The resistance would be dreadful. They run us. You see, they are so very big, and have such prestige. Besides, " he added, "evenif we dared, we should not know how. For, though some great and good manonce brought us plane-trees, we English are above getting the best outof life and its conditions, and despise light Frenchified taste. Noticethe principle which governs this twenty-mile residential stretch. It wasintended to be light, but how earnest it has all turned out! You cantell at a glance that these dwellings belong to the species 'house' andyet are individual houses, just as a man belongs to the species 'man, 'and yet, as they say, has a soul of his own. This principle wasintroduced off the Avenue Road a few years before the Great Skirmish, and is now universal. Any person who lives in a house identical withanother house is not known. Has anything heavier and more conscientiousever been seen?"

"Does this principle also apply to the houses of the working-man?"inquired the Angel. 

"Hush, sir!" returned his dragoman, looking round him nervously; "adangerous word. The LABORIOUS dwell in palaces built after the design ofan architect called Jerry, with communal kitchens and baths. "

"Do they use them?" asked the Angel with some interest. 

"Not as yet, indeed, " replied his dragoman; "but I believe they arethinking of it. As you know, sir, it takes time to introduce a custom. Thirty years is but as yesterday. "

"The Japanese wash daily, " mused the Angel. 

"Not a Christian nation, " replied his dragoman; "nor have they the dirtto contend with which is conspicuous here. Let us do justice to thediscouragement which dogs the ablutions of such as know they will soonbe dirty again. It was confidently supposed, at the time of the GreatSkirmish, which introduced military discipline and so entirely abolishedcaste, that the habit of washing would at last become endemic throughoutthe whole population. Judge how surprised were we of that day when thefacts turned out otherwise. Instead of the Laborious washing more, thePatriotic washed less. It may have been the higher price of soap, ormerely that human life was not very highly regarded at the time. Wecannot tell. But not until military discipline disappeared, and castewas restored, which happened the moment peace returned, did thesurvivors of the Patriotic begin to wash immoderately again, leaving theLaborious to preserve a level more suited to democracy. "

"Talking of levels, " said the Angel; "is the populace increasing instature?"

"Oh, no, indeed!" responded his dragoman; "the latest statistics give adiminution of one inch and a half during the past generation. "

"And in longevity?" asked the Angel. 

"As to that, babies and old people are now communally treated, and allthose diseases which are curable by lymph are well in hand. "

"Do people, then, not die?"

"Oh, yes, sir! About as often as before. There are new complaints whichredress the balance. "

"And what are those?"

"A group of diseases called for convenience Scienticitis. Some thinkthey come from the present food system; others from the accumulation oflymphs in the body; others, again, regard them as the result of dwellingon the subject--a kind of hypnotisation by death; a fourth school holdthem traceable to town air; while a fifth consider them a meremanifestation of jealousy on the part of Nature. They date, one may say, with confidence, from the time of the Great Skirmish, when men's mindswere turned with some anxiety to the question of statistics, and babieswere at a premium. "

"Is the population, then, much larger?"

"You mean smaller, sir, do you not? Not perhaps so much smaller as youmight expect; but it is still nicely down. You see, the Patriotic Party, including even those Pontificals whose private practice most discouragedall that sort of thing, began at once to urge propagation. But theirpropaganda was, as one may say, brain-spun; and at once bumpedup--pardon the colloquialism--against the economic situation. Theexisting babies, it is true, were saved; the trouble was rather that thebabies began not to exist. The same, of course, obtained in everyEuropean country, with the exception of what was still, in a manner ofspeaking, Russia; and if that country had but retained its homogeneity, it would soon by sheer numbers have swamped the rest of Europe. Fortunately, perhaps, it did not remain homogeneous. An incurablereluctance to make food for cannon and impose further burdens on selvesalready weighted to the ground by taxes, developed in the peoples ofeach Central and Western land; and in the years from 1920 to 1930 thedownward curve was so alarming in Great Britain that if the PatrioticParty could only have kept office long enough at a time they would, nodoubt, have enforced conception at the point of the bayonet. Luckily orunluckily, according to taste, they did not; and it was left for morenatural causes to produce the inevitable reaction which began to set inafter 1930, when the population of the United Kingdom had been reducedto some twenty-five millions. About that time commerce revived. Thequestion of the land had been settled by its unconscious abandonment, and people began to see before them again the possibility of supportingfamilies. The ingrained disposition of men and women to own pets, together with 'the good of trade, ' began once more to have its way; andthe population rose rapidly. A renewed joy in life, and the assurance ofnot having to pay the piper, caused the slums, as they used to becalled, to swarm once more, and filled the communal crèches. And had itnot been for the fact that any one with physical strength, or love offresh air, promptly emigrated to the Sister Nations on attaining the ageof eighteen we might now, sir, be witnessing an overcrowding equal tothat of the times before the Great Skirmish. The movement is receivingan added impetus with the approach of the Greater Skirmish between theTeutons and Mongolians, for it is expected that trade will boom and muchwealth accrue to those countries which are privileged to look on withequanimity at this great new drama, as the editors are already callingit. "

"In all this, " said the Angel Æthereal, "I perceive something rathersordid. "

"Sir, " replied his dragoman earnestly, "your remark is characteristic ofthe sky, where people are not made of flesh and blood; pay, I believe, no taxes; and have no experience of the devastating consequences of war. I recollect so well when I was a young man, before the Great Skirmishbegan, and even when it had been going on several years, how glibly theleaders of opinion talked of human progress, and how blind they were tothe fact that it has a certain connection with environment. You mustremember that ever since that large and, as some still think, rathertragic occurrence environment has been very dicky and Utopia notunrelated to thin air. It has been perceived time and again that theleaders of public opinion are not always confirmed by events. The newworld, which was so sapiently prophesied by rhetoricians, is now nighthirty years old, and, for my part, I confess to surprise that it is notworse than it actually is. I am moralising, I fear, however, for thesesuburban buildings grievously encourage the philosophic habit. Ratherlet us barge along and see the Laborious at their labours, which arenever interrupted now by the mere accident of night. "

The Angel increased his speed till they alighted amid a forest of tallchimneys, whose sirens were singing like a watch of nightingales. 

"There is a shift on, " said the dragoman. "Stand here, sir; we shall seethem passing in and out. "

The Laborious were not hurrying, and went by uttering the words: "Cheeroh!" "So long!" and "Wot abaht it!"

The Angel contemplated them for a time before he said: "It comes back tome now how they used to talk when they were doing up my flat on my visitin 1910. "

"Give me, I pray, an imitation, " said his dragoman. 

The Angel struck the attitude of one painting a door. "William, " hesaid, rendering those voices of the past, "what money are youobtaining?"

"Not half, Alfred. "

"If that is so, indeed, William, should you not rather leave your toolsand obtain better money? I myself am doing this. "

"Not half, Alfred. "

"Round the corner I can obtain more money by working for fewer hours. Inmy opinion there is no use in working for less money when you can obtainmore. How much does Henry obtain?"

"Not half, Alfred. "

"What I am now obtaining is, in my opinion, no use at all. "

"Not half, Alfred. "

Here the Angel paused, and let his hand move for one second in amasterly exhibition of activity. 

"It is doubtful, sir, " said his dragoman, "whether you would bepermitted to dilute your conversation with so much labour in these days;the rules are very strict. "

"Are there, then, still Trades Unions?" asked the Angel. 

"No, indeed, " replied his dragoman; "but there are Committees. Thathabit which grew up at the time of the Great Skirmish has flourishedever since. Statistics reveal the fact that there are practically noadults in the country between the ages of nineteen and fifty who are notsitting on Committees. At the time of the Great Skirmish all Committeeswere nominally active; they are now both active and passive. In everyindustry, enterprise, or walk of life a small active Committee directs;and a large passive Committee, formed of everybody else, resists thatdirection. And it is safe to say that the Passive Committees are activeand the Active Committees passive; in this way no inordinate amount ofwork is done. Indeed, if the tongue and the electric button had notusurped practically all the functions of the human hand, the State wouldhave some difficulty in getting its boots blacked. But a ha'poth ofvisualisation is worth three lectures at ten shillings the stall, soenter, sir, and see for yourself. "

Saying this, he pushed open the door. 

In a shed, which extended beyond the illimitable range of the Angel'seye, machinery and tongues were engaged in a contest which filled theozone with an incomparable hum. Men and women in profusion were leaningagainst walls or the pillars on which the great roof was supported, assiduously pressing buttons. The scent of expanding food revived theAngel's appetite. 

"I shall require supper, " he said dreamily. 

"By all means, sir, " replied his dragoman; "after work--play. It willafford you an opportunity to witness modern pleasures in our greatindustrial centres. But what a blessing is electric power!" he added. "Consider these lilies of the town, they toil not, neither do theyspin----"

"Yet Solomon in all his glory, " chipped in the Angel eagerly, "had nottheir appearance, you bet. "

"Indeed they are an insouciant crowd, " mused his dragoman. "How tinklingis their laughter! The habit dates from the days of the Great Skirmish, when nothing but laughter would meet the case. "

"Tell me, " said the Angel, "are the English satisfied at last with theirindustrial conditions, and generally with their mode of life in theseexpanded towns?"

"Satisfied? Oh dear, no, sir! But you know what it is: They are obligedto wait for each fresh development before they can see what they have tocounteract; and, since that great creative force, 'the good of trade, 'is always a little stronger than the forces of criticism and reform, each development carries them a little further on the road to----"

"Hell! How hungry I am again!" exclaimed the Angel. "Let us sup!"

IV

"Laughter, " said the Angel Æthereal, applying his wineglass to his nose, "has ever distinguished mankind from all other animals with theexception of the dog. And the power of laughing at nothing distinguishesman even from that quadruped. "

"I would go further, sir, " returned his dragoman, "and say that thepower of laughing at that which should make him sick distinguishes theEnglishman from all other varieties of man except the negro. Kindlyobserve!" He rose, and taking the Angel by the waist, fox-trotted himamong the little tables. 

"See!" he said, indicating the other supper-takers with a circularmovement of his beard, "they are consumed with laughter. The habit offox-trotting in the intervals of eating has been known ever since itwas introduced by Americans a generation ago, at the beginning of theGreat Skirmish, when that important people had as yet nothing else todo; but it still causes laughter in this country. A distressing custom, "he wheezed, as they resumed their seats, "for not only does it disturbthe oyster, but it compels one to think lightly of the human species. Not that one requires much compulsion, " he added, "now that music-hall, cinema, and restaurant are conjoined. What a happy idea that was ofBerlin's, and how excellent for business! Kindly glance for amoment--but not more--at the left-hand stage. "

The Angel turned his eyes towards a cinematograph film which was beingdisplayed. He contemplated it for the moment without speaking. 

"I do not comprehend, " he said at last, "why the person with thearrested moustaches is hitting so many people with that sack of flour. "

"To cause amusement, sir, " replied his dragoman. "Look at the laughingfaces around you. "

"But it is not funny, " said the Angel. 

"No, indeed, " returned his dragoman. "Be so good as to carry your eyesnow to the stage on the right, but not for long. What do you see?"

"I see a very red-nosed man beating a very white-nosed man about thebody. "

"It is a real scream, is it not?"

"No, " said the Angel drily. "Does nothing else ever happen on thesestages?"

"Nothing. Stay! _Revues_ happen!"

"What are _revues_?" asked the Angel. 

"Criticisms of life, sir, as it would be seen by persons inebriated onvarious intoxicants. "

"They should be joyous. "

"They are accounted so, " his dragoman replied; "but for my part, Iprefer to criticise life for myself, especially when I am drunk. "

"Are there no plays, no operas?" asked the Angel from behind his glass. 

"Not in the old and proper sense of these words. They disappearedtowards the end of the Great Skirmish. "

"What food for the mind is there, then?" asked the Angel, adding anoyster to his collection. 

"None in public, sir, for it is well recognised, and has been ever sincethose days, that laughter alone promotes business and removes thethought of death. You cannot recall, as I can, sir, the continual streamwhich used to issue from theatres, music-halls, and picture-palaces inthe days of the Great Skirmish, nor the joviality of the Strand and themore expensive restaurants. I have often thought, " he added with a touchof philosophy, "what a height of civilisation we must have reached togo jesting, as we did, to the Great Unknown. "

"Is that really what the English did at the time of the Great Skirmish?"asked the Angel. 

"It is, " replied his dragoman solemnly. 

"Then they are a very fine people, and I can put up with much about themwhich seems to me distressing. "

"Ah! sir, though, being an Englishman, I am sometimes inclined todisparage the English, I am yet convinced that you could not fly aweek's journey and come across another race with such a peculiarnobility, or such an unconquerable soul, if you will forgive my using aword whose meaning is much disputed. May I tempt you with a clam?" headded, more lightly. "We now have them from America--in fairpreservation, and very nasty they are, in my opinion. "

The Angel took a clam. 

"My Lord!" he said, after a moment of deglutition. 

"Quite so!" replied his dragoman. "But kindly glance at the right-handstage again. There is a _revue_ on now. What do you see?"

The Angel made two holes with his forefingers and thumbs and, puttingthem to his eyes, bent a little forward. 

"Tut, tut!" he said; "I see some attractive young females with very fewclothes on, walking up and down in front of what seem to me, indeed, tobe two grown-up men in collars and jackets as of little boys. Whatprecise criticism of life is this conveying?"

His dragoman answered in reproachful accents:

"Do you not feel, sir, from your own sensations, how marvellously thisinforms one of the secret passions of mankind? Is there not in it astriking revelation of the natural tendencies of the male population?Remark how the whole audience, including your august self, is leaningforward and looking through their thumb-holes?"

The Angel sat back hurriedly. 

"True, " he said, "I was carried away. But that is not the criticism oflife which art demands. If it had been, the audience, myself included, would have been sitting back with their lips curled dry, instead ofwatering. "

"For all that, " replied his dragoman, "it is the best we can give you;anything which induces the detached mood of which you spoke, has beenbanned from the stage since the days of the Great Skirmish; it is sovery bad for business. "

"Pity!" said the Angel, imperceptibly edging forward; "the mission ofart is to elevate. "

"It is plain, sir, " said his dragoman, "that you have lost touch withthe world as it is. The mission of art--now truly democratic--is tolevel--in principle up, in practice down. Do not forget, sir, that theEnglish have ever regarded æstheticism as unmanly, and grace as immoral;when to that basic principle you add the principle of serving the tasteof the majority, you have perfect conditions for a sure and gradualdecrescendo. "

"Does taste, then, no longer exist?" asked the Angel. 

"It is not wholly, as yet, extinct, but lingers in the communal kitchensand canteens, as introduced by the Young Men's Christian Association inthe days of the Great Skirmish. While there is appetite there is hope, nor is it wholly discouraging that taste should now centre in thestomach; for is not that the real centre of man's activity? Who dareaffirm that from so universal a foundation the fair structure ofæstheticism shall not be rebuilt? The eye, accustomed to the look ofdainty dishes and pleasant cookery, may once more demand thearchitecture of Wren, the sculpture of Rodin, the paintings of--dearme--whom? Why, sir, even before the days of the Great Skirmish, when youwere last on earth, we had already begun to put the future ofæstheticism on a more real basis, and were converting the concert-hallsof London into hotels. Few at the time saw the far-reachingsignificance of that movement, or realised that æstheticism was to belevelled down to the stomach, in order that it might be levelled upagain to the head, on true democratic principles. "

"But what, " said the Angel, with one of his preternatural flashes ofacumen, "what if, on the other hand, taste should continue to sink andlose even its present hold on the stomach? If all else has gone, whyshould not the beauty of the kitchen go?"

"That indeed, " sighed his dragoman, placing his hand on his heart, "is athought which often gives me a sinking sensation. Two liqueur brandies, "he murmured to the waiter. "But the stout heart refuses to despair. Besides, advertisements show decided traces of æsthetic advance. All thegreat painters, poets, and fiction writers are working on them; themovement had its origin in the propaganda demanded by the GreatSkirmish. You will not recollect the war poetry of that period, thepatriotic films, the death cartoons, and other remarkable achievements. We have just as great talents now, though their object has not perhapsthe religious singleness of those stirring times. Not a food, corset, orcollar which has not its artist working for it! Toothbrushes, nutcrackers, babies' baths--the whole caboodle of manufacture--are nowset to music. Such themes are considered subliminal if not sublime. No, sir, I will not despair; it is only at moments when I have dined poorlythat the horizon seems dark. Listen--they have turned on the'Kalophone, ' for you must know that all music now is beautifully made bymachine--so much easier for every one. "

The Angel raised his head, and into his eyes came the glow associatedwith celestial strains. 

"The tune, " he said, "is familiar to me. "

"Yes, sir, " answered his dragoman, "for it is 'The Messiah' in ragtime. No time is wasted, you notice; all, even pleasure, is intensivelycultivated, on the lines of least resistance, thanks to the feverishnessengendered in us by the Great Skirmish, when no one knew if he wouldhave another chance, and to the subsequent need for fostering industry. But whether we really enjoy ourselves is perhaps a question to answerwhich you must examine the English character. "

"That I refuse to do, " said the Angel. 

"And you are wise, sir, for it is a puzzler, and many have cracked theirheads over it. But have we not been here long enough? We can pursue ourresearches into the higher realms of art to-morrow. "

A beam from the Angel's lustrous eyes fell on a lady at the next table. "Yes, perhaps we had better go, " he sighed. 

V

"And so it is through the fields of true art that we shall walk thismorning?" said the Angel Æthereal. 

"Such as they are in this year of Peace 1947, " responded his dragoman, arresting him before a statue; "for the development of this hobby hasbeen peculiar since you were here in 1910, when the childlike andcontortionist movement was just beginning to take hold of the British. "

"Whom does this represent?" asked the Angel. 

"A celebrated publicist, recently deceased at a great age. You see himunfolded by this work of multiform genius, in every aspect known to art, religion, nature, and the population. From his knees downwards he isclearly devoted to nature, and is portrayed as about to enter his bath. From his waist to his knees he is devoted to religion--mark the completedisappearance of the human aspect. From his neck to his waist he isdevoted to public affairs; observe the tweed coat, the watch chain, andother signs of practical sobriety. But the head is, after all, the crownof the human being, and is devoted to art. This is why you cannot makeout that it is a head. Note its pyramidal severity, its cunning littleears, its box-built, water-tightal structure. The hair you note to be inflames. Here we have the touch of beauty--the burning shrub. In thewhole you will observe that aversion from natural form and the singlepoint of view, characteristic of all twentieth-century æsthetics. Thewhole thing is a very great masterpiece of childlike contortionism. Todo things as irresponsibly as children and contortionists--what a happydiscovery of the line of least resistance in art that was! Mark, by theway, this exquisite touch about the left hand. "

"It appears to be deformed, " said the Angel, going a step nearer. 

"Look closer still, " returned his dragoman, "and you will see that it isholding a novel of the great Russian, upside down. Ever since thatsimple master who so happily blended the childlike with thecontortionist became known in this country they have been trying to gohim one better, in letters, in painting, in sculpture, and in music, refusing to admit that he was the last cry; and until they have beatenhim this movement simply cannot cease; it may therefore go on for ever, for he was the limit. That hand symbolises the whole movement. "

"How?" said the Angel. 

"Why, sir, somersault is its mainspring. Did you never observe the greatRussian's method? Prepare your characters to do one thing, and make themvery swiftly do the opposite. Thus did that terrific novelistdemonstrate his overmastering range of vision and knowledge of thedepths of human nature. Since his characters never varied this routinein the course of some eight thousand pages, people have lightly saidthat he repeated himself. But what of that? Consider what perfectdissociation he thereby attained between character and action; whatnebulosity of fact; what a truly childlike and mystic mix-up of allhuman values hitherto known! And here, sir, at the risk of tickling you, I must whisper. " The dragoman made a trumpet of his hand: "Fiction canonly be written by those who have exceptionally little knowledge ofordinary human nature, and great fiction only by such as have none atall. "

"How is that?" said the Angel, somewhat disconcerted. 

"Surprise, sir, is the very kernel of all effects in art, and in reallife people _will_ act as their characters and temperaments determinethat they shall. This dreadful and unmalleable trait would have upsetall the great mystic masters from generation to generation if they hadonly noticed it. But did they? Fortunately not. These greater mennaturally put into their books the greater confusion and flux in whichtheir extraordinary selves exist! The nature they portray is not human, but super- or subter-human, which you will. Who would have it otherwise?"

"Not I, " said the Angel. "For I confess to a liking for what is calledthe 'tuppence coloured. ' But Russians are not as other men, are they?"

"They are not, " said his dragoman, "but the trouble is, sir, that sincethe British discovered him, every character in our greater fiction has aRussian soul, though living in Cornwall or the Midlands, in a Britishbody under a Scottish or English name. "

"Very piquant, " said the Angel, turning from the masterpiece before him. "Are there no undraped statues to be seen?"

"In no recognisable form. For, not being educated to the detachedcontemplation which still prevailed to a limited extent even as late asthe days of the Great Skirmish, the populace can no longer be trustedwith such works of art; they are liable to rush at them, for embrace, ordemolition, as their temperaments may dictate. "

"The Greeks are dead, then, " said the Angel. 

"As door-nails, sir. They regarded life as a thing to be enjoyed--avice you will not have noticed in the British. The Greeks were anoutdoor people, who lived in the sun and the fresh air, and had none ofthe niceness bred by the life of our towns. We have long been renownedfor our delicacy about the body; nor has the tendency been decreased byconstituting Watch Committees of young persons in every borough. Theseare now the arbiters of art, and nothing unsuitable to the child ofseven passes their censorship. "

"How careful!" said the Angel. 

"The result has been wonderful, " remarked his dragoman. "Wonderful!" herepeated, dreamily. "I suppose there is more smouldering sexual desireand disease in this country than in any other. "

"Was that the intention?" asked the Angel. 

"Oh! no, sir! That is but the natural effect of so remarkably pure asurface. All is within instead of without. Nature has now whollydisappeared. The process was sped up by the Great Skirmish. For, sincethen, we have had little leisure and income to spare on thegratification of anything but laughter; this and the 'unco-guid' havemade our art-surface glare in the eyes of the nations, thin and spotlessas if made of tin. "

The Angel raised his eyebrows. "I had hoped for better things, " hesaid. 

"You must not suppose, sir, " pursued his dragoman, "that there is notplenty of the undraped, so long as it is vulgar, as you saw just nowupon the stage, for that is good business; the line is only drawn at thedanger-point of art, which is always very bad business in this country. Yet even in real life the undraped has to be grotesque to be admitted;the one fatal quality is natural beauty. The laugh, sir, the laugh--eventhe most hideous and vulgar laugh--is such a disinfectant. I should, however, say in justice to our literary men, that they have notaltogether succumbed to the demand for cachinnations. A school, whichfirst drew breath before the Great Skirmish began, has perfected itself, till now we have whole tomes where hardly a sentence would beintelligible to any save the initiate; this enables them to defy theWatch Committees, with other Philistines. We have writers whomysteriously preach the realisation of self by never considering anybodyelse; of purity through experience of exotic vice; of courage throughhabitual cowardice; and of kindness through Prussian behaviour. They aregenerally young. We have others whose fiction consists of autobiographyinterspersed with philosophic and political fluencies. These may be ofany age from eighty odd to the bitter thirties. We have also the copiousand chatty novelist; and transcribers of the life of the Laborious, whom the Laborious never read. Above all, we have the great Patrioticschool, who put the national motto first, and write purely what is goodfor trade. In fact, we have every sort, as in the old days. "

"It would appear, " said the Angel, "that the arts have stood somewhatstill. "

"Except for a more external purity, and a higher internal corruption, "replied his dragoman. 

"Are artists still noted for their jealousies?" asked the Angel. 

"They are, sir; for that is inherent in the artistic temperament, whichis extremely touchy about fame. "

"And do they still get angry when those gentlemen--the----"

"Critics, " his dragoman suggested. "They get angry, sir; but critics areusually anonymous, and from excellent reasons; for not only are thepassions of an angry artist very high, but the knowledge of an angrycritic is not infrequently very low, especially of art. It is kinder tosave life, where possible. "

"For my part, " said the Angel, "I have little regard for human life, andconsider that many persons would be better buried. "

"That may be, " his dragoman retorted with some irritation; "'_errareest humanum_. ' But I, for one, would rather be a dead human being anyday than a live angel, for I think they are more charitable. "

"Well, " said the Angel genially, "you have the prejudice of your kind. Have you an artist about the place, to show me? I do not recollect anyat Madame Tussaud's. "

"They have taken to declining that honour. We could see one in real lifeif we went to Cornwall. "

"Why Cornwall?"

"I cannot tell you, sir. There is something in the air which affectstheir passions. "

"I am hungry, and would rather go to the Savoy, " said the Angel, walkingon. 

"You are in luck, " whispered his dragoman, when they had seatedthemselves at a table covered with prawns; "for at the next on your leftis our most famous exponent of the mosaic school of novelism. "

"Then here goes!" replied the Angel. And, turning to his neighbour, heasked pleasantly: "How do you do, sir? What is your income?"

The gentleman addressed looked up from his prawn, and replied wearily:"Ask my agent. He may conceivably possess the knowledge you require. "

"Answer me this, at all events, " said the Angel, with more dignity, ifpossible: "How do you write your books? For it must be wonderful tosummon around you every day the creatures of your imagination. Do youwait for afflatus?"

"No, " said the author; "er--no! I--er--" he added weightily, "sit downevery morning. "

The Angel rolled his eyes and, turning to his dragoman, said in awell-bred whisper: "He sits down every morning! My Lord, how good fortrade!"

VI

"A glass of sherry, dry, and ham sandwich, stale, can be obtained here, sir, " said the dragoman; "and for dessert, the scent of parchment andbananas. We will then attend Court 45, where I shall show you howfundamentally our legal procedure has changed in the generation that haselapsed since the days of the Great Skirmish. "

"Can it really be that the Law has changed? I had thought it immutable, "said the Angel, causing his teeth to meet with difficulty: "What will bethe nature of the suit to which we shall listen?"

"I have thought it best, sir, to select a divorce case, lest you shouldsleep, overcome by the ozone and eloquence in these places. "

"Ah!" said the Angel: "I am ready. "

The Court was crowded, and they took their seats with difficulty, and alady sitting on the Angel's left wing. 

"The public _will_ frequent this class of case, " whispered his dragoman. "How different when you were here in 1910!"

The Angel collected himself: "Tell me, " he murmured, "which of thegrey-haired ones is the judge?"

"He in the bag-wig, sir, " returned his dragoman; "and that little lot isthe jury, " he added, indicating twelve gentlemen seated in two rows. 

"What is their private life?" asked the Angel. 

"No better than it should be, perhaps, " responded his dragomanfacetiously; "but no one can tell that from their words and manner, asyou will presently see. These are special ones, " he added, "and payincome tax, so that their judgment in matters of morality is ofconsiderable value. "

"They have wise faces, " said the Angel. "Which is the prosecutor?"

"No, no!" his dragoman answered, vividly: "This is a civil case. That isthe plaintiff with a little mourning about her eyes and a touch of redabout her lips, in the black hat with the aigrette, the pearls, and thefashionably sober clothes. "

"I see her, " said the Angel: "an attractive woman. Will she win?"

"We do not call it winning, sir; for this, as you must know, is a sadmatter, and implies the breaking-up of a home. She will most unwillinglyreceive a decree, at least, I think so, " he added; "though whether itwill stand the scrutiny of the King's Proctor we may wonder a little, from her appearance. "

"King's Proctor?" said the Angel. "What is that?"

"A celestial Die-hard, sir, paid to join together again those whom manhave put asunder. "

"I do not follow, " said the Angel fretfully. 

"I perceive, " whispered his dragoman, "that I must make clear to you thespirit which animates our justice in these matters. You know, of course, that the intention of our law is ever to penalise the wrong-doer. Ittherefore requires the innocent party, like that lady there, to beexceptionally innocent, not only before she secures her divorce, but forsix months afterwards. "

"Oh!" said the Angel. "And where is the guilty party?"

"Probably in the south of France, " returned his dragoman, "with the newpartner of his affections. They have a place in the sun; this one aplace in the Law Courts. "

"Dear me!" said the Angel. "Does she prefer that?"

"There are ladies, " his dragoman replied, "who find it a pleasure toappear, no matter where, so long as people can see them in a pretty hat. But the great majority would rather sink into the earth than do thisthing. "

"The face of this one is most agreeable to me; I should not wish her tosink, " said the Angel warmly. 

"Agreeable or not, " resumed his dragoman, "they have to bring theirhearts for inspection by the public if they wish to become free from theparty who has done them wrong. This is necessary, for the penalisationof the wrong-doer. "

"And how will he be penalised?" asked the Angel naïvely. 

"By receiving his freedom, " returned his dragoman, "together with thepower to enjoy himself with his new partner, in the sun, until, in duecourse, he is able to marry her. "

"This is mysterious to me, " murmured the Angel. "Is not the boot on thewrong leg?"

"Oh! sir, the law would not make a mistake like that. You are bringinga single mind to the consideration of this matter, but that will neverdo. This lady is a true and much-wronged wife; that is--let us hopeso!--to whom our law has given its protection and remedy; but she isalso, in its eyes, somewhat reprehensible for desiring to avail herselfof that protection and remedy. For, though the law is now purely theaffair of the State and has nothing to do with the Appointed, it stillsecretly believes in the religious maxim: 'Once married, alwaysmarried, ' and feels that however much a married person is neglected orill-treated, she should not desire to be free. "

"She?" said the Angel. "Does a man never desire to be free?"

"Oh, yes! sir, and not infrequently. "

"Does your law, then, not consider him reprehensible in that desire?"

"In theory, perhaps; but there is a subtle distinction. For, sir, as youobserve from the countenances before you, the law is administeredentirely by males, and males cannot but believe in the divine right ofmales to have a better time than females; and, though they do not sayso, they naturally feel that a husband wronged by a wife is more injuredthan a wife wronged by a husband. "

"There is much in that, " said the Angel. "But tell me how the oracle isworked--for it may come in handy!"

"You allude, sir, to the necessary procedure? I will make this clear. There are two kinds of cases: what I may call the 'O. K. ' and what I maycall the 'rig. ' Now in the 'O. K. ' it is only necessary for theplaintiff, if it be a woman, to receive a black eye from her husband andto pay detectives to find out that he has been too closely in thecompany of another; if it be a man, he need not receive a black eye fromhis wife, and has merely to pay the detectives to obtain the samenecessary information. "

"Why this difference between the sexes?" asked the Angel. 

"Because, " answered his dragoman, "woman is the weaker sex, things aretherefore harder for her. "

"But, " said the Angel, "the English have a reputation for chivalry. "

"They have, sir. "

"Well----" began the Angel. 

"When these conditions are complied with, " interrupted his dragoman, "asuit for divorce may be brought, which may or may not be defended. Now, the 'rig, ' which is always brought by the wife, is not so simple, for itmust be subdivided into two sections: 'Ye straight rig' and 'Ye crookedrig. ' 'Ye straight rig' is where the wife cannot induce her husband toremain with her, and discovering from him that he has been in the closecompany of another, wishes to be free of him. She therefore tells theCourt that she wishes him to come back to her, and the Court will tellhim to go back. Whereon, if he obey, the fat is sometimes in the fire. If, however, he obeys not, which is the more probable, she may, after ashort delay, bring a suit, adducing the evidence she has obtained, andreceive a decree. This may be the case before you, or, on the otherhand, it may not, and will then be what is called 'Ye crooked rig. ' Ifthat is so, these two persons, having found that they cannot live inconjugal friendliness, have laid their heads together for the last time, and arranged to part; the procedure will now be the same as in 'Yestraight rig. ' But the wife must take the greatest care to lead theCourt to suppose that she really wishes her husband to come back; for, if she does not, it is collusion. The more ardent her desire to partfrom him, the more care she must take to pretend the opposite! But thissort of case is, after all, the simplest, for both parties are incomplete accord in desiring to be free of each other, so neither doesanything to retard that end, which is soon obtained. "

"About that evidence?" said the Angel. "What must the man do?"

"He will require to go to an hotel with a lady friend, " replied hisdragoman; "once will be enough. And, provided they are called in themorning, there is no real necessity for anything else. "

"H'm!" said the Angel. "This, indeed, seems to me to be all around aboutthe bush. Could there not be some simple method which would notnecessitate the perversion of the truth?"

"Ah, no!" responded his dragoman. "You forget what I told you, sir. However unhappy people may be together, our law grudges theirseparation; it requires them therefore to be immoral, or to lie, orboth, before they can part. "

"Curious!" said the Angel. 

"You must understand, sir, that when a man says he will take a woman, and a woman says she will take a man, for the rest of their naturalexistence, they are assumed to know all about each other, though notpermitted, of course, by the laws of morality to know anything of realimportance. Since it is almost impossible from a modest acquaintanceshipto make sure whether they will continue to desire each other's companyafter a completed knowledge, they are naturally disposed to go it'blind, ' if I may be pardoned the expression, and will take each otherfor ever on the smallest provocations. For the human being, sir, makesnothing of the words 'for ever, ' when it sees immediate happiness beforeit. You can well understand, therefore, how necessary it is to make itvery hard for them to get untied again. "

"I should dislike living with a wife if I were tired of her, " said theAngel. 

"Sir, " returned his dragoman confidentially, "in that sentiment youwould have with you the whole male population. And, I believe, the wholeof the female population would feel the same if they were tired of you, as the husband. "

"That!" said the Angel, with a quiet smile. 

"Ah! yes, sir; but does not this convince you of the necessity to forcepeople who are tired of each other to go on living together?"

"No, " said the Angel, with appalling frankness. 

"Well, " his dragoman replied soberly, "I must admit that some havethought our marriage laws should be in a museum, for they are unique;and, though a source of amusement to the public, and emolument to theprofession, they pass the comprehension of men and angels who have notthe key of the mystery. "

"What key?" asked the Angel. 

"I will give it you, sir, " said his dragoman: "The English have a geniusfor taking the shadow of a thing for its substance. 'So long, ' they say, 'as our marriages, our virtue, our honesty, and happiness _seem_ to be, they _are_. ' So long, therefore, as we do not dissolve a marriage itremains virtuous, honest and happy though the parties to it may beunfaithful, untruthful, and in misery. It would be regarded as awful, sir, for marriage to depend on mutual liking. We English cannot bearthe thought of defeat. To dissolve an unhappy marriage is to recognisedefeat by life, and we would rather that other people lived inwretchedness all their days than admit that members of our race had comeup against something too hard to overcome. The English do not care aboutmaking the best out of this life in reality so long as they can do it inappearance. "

"Then they believe in a future life?"

"They did to some considerable extent up to the 'eighties of the lastcentury, and their laws and customs were no doubt settled in accordancetherewith, and have not yet had time to adapt themselves. We are asomewhat slow-moving people, always a generation or two behind our realbeliefs. "

"They have lost their belief, then?"

"It is difficult to arrive at figures, sir, on such a question. But ithas been estimated that perhaps one in ten adults now has somesemblance of what may be called active belief in a future existence. "

"And the rest are prepared to let their lives be arranged in accordancewith the belief of that tenth?" asked the Angel, surprised. "Tell me, dothey think their matrimonial differences will be adjusted over there, orwhat?"

"As to that, all is cloudy; and certain matters would be difficult toadjust without bigamy; for general opinion and the law permit theremarriage of persons whose first has gone before. "

"How about children?" said the Angel; "for that is no inconsiderableitem, I imagine. "

"Yes, sir, they are a difficulty. But here, again, my key will fit. Solong as the marriage _seems_ real, it does not matter that the childrenknow it isn't and suffer from the disharmony of their parents. "

"I think, " said the Angel acutely, "there must be some more earthlyreason for the condition of your marriage laws than those you give me. It's all a matter of property at bottom, I suspect. "

"Sir, " said his dragoman, seemingly much struck, "I should not besurprised if you were right. There is little interest in divorce whereno money is involved, and our poor are considered able to do without it. But I will never admit that this is the reason for the state of ourdivorce laws. No, no; I am an Englishman. "

"Well, " said the Angel, "we are wandering. Does this judge believe whatthey are now saying to him?"

"It is impossible to inform you, for judges are very deep and know allthat is to be known on these matters. But of this you may be certain: ifanything is fishy to the average apprehension, he will not suffer it topass his nose. "

"Where is the average apprehension?" asked the Angel. 

"There, sir, " said his dragoman, pointing to the jury with his chin, "noted for their common sense. "

"And these others with grey heads who are calling each other friend, though they appear to be inimical?"

"Little can be hid from them, " returned his dragoman; "but this case, though defended as to certain matters of money, is not disputed inregard to the divorce itself. Moreover, they are bound by professionaletiquette to serve their clients through thin and thick. "

"Cease!" said the Angel; "I wish to hear this evidence, and so does thelady on my left wing. "

His dragoman smiled in his beard, and made no answer. 

"Tell me, " remarked the Angel, when he had listened, "does this womanget anything for saying she called them in the morning?"

"Fie, sir!" responded his dragoman; "only her expenses to the Court andback. Though indeed, it is possible that after she had called them, shegot half a sovereign from the defendant to impress the matter on hermind, seeing that she calls many people every day. "

"The whole matter, " said the Angel with a frown, "appears to be in thenature of a game; nor are the details as savoury as I expected. "

"It would be otherwise if the case were defended, sir, " returned hisdragoman; "then, too, you would have had an opportunity of understandingthe capacity of the human mind for seeing the same incident to be bothblack and white; but it would take much of your valuable time, and theCourt would be so crowded that you would have a lady sitting on yourright wing also, and possibly on your knee. For, as you observe, ladiesare particularly attached to these dramas of real life. "

"If my wife were a wrong one, " said the Angel, "I suppose that, according to your law, I could not sew her up in a sack and place it inthe water?"

"We are not now in the days of the Great Skirmish, " replied his dragomansomewhat coldly. "At that time any soldier who found his wife unfaithful, as we call it, could shoot her with impunity and receive the plaudits and possibly apresentation from the populace, though he himself may not have beenimpeccable while away--a masterly method of securing a divorce. But, asI told you, our procedure has changed since then; and even soldiers nowhave to go to work in this roundabout fashion. "

"Can he not shoot the paramour?" asked the Angel. 

"Not even that, " answered his dragoman. "So soft and degenerate are thedays. Though, if he can invent for the paramour a German name, he willstill receive but a nominal sentence. Our law is renowned for neverbeing swayed by sentimental reasons. I well recollect a case in the daysof the Great Skirmish, when a jury found contrary to the plainest factssooner than allow that reputation for impartiality to be tarnished. "

"Ah!" said the Angel absently; "what is happening now?"

"The jury are considering their verdict. The conclusion is, however, foregone, for they are not retiring. The plaintiff is now using hersmelling salts. "

"She is a fine woman, " said the Angel emphatically. 

"Hush, sir! The judge might hear you. "

"What if he does?" asked the Angel in surprise. 

"He would then eject you for contempt of Court. "

"Does he not think her a fine woman, too?"

"For the love of justice, sir, be silent, " entreated his dragoman. "Thisconcerns the happiness of three, if not of five lives. Look! She islifting her veil; she is going to use her handkerchief. "

"I cannot bear to see a woman cry, " said the Angel, trying to rise;"please take this lady off my left wing. "

"Kindly sit tight!" murmured his dragoman to the lady, leaning acrossbehind the Angel's back. "Listen, sir!" he added to the Angel: "The juryare satisfied that what is necessary has taken place. All is well; shewill get her decree. "

"Hurrah!" said the Angel in a loud voice. 

"If that noise is repeated, I will have the Court cleared. "

"I am going to repeat it, " said the Angel firmly; "she is beautiful!"

His dragoman placed a hand respectfully over the Angel's mouth. "Oh, sir!" he said soothingly, "do not spoil this charming moment. Hark! Heis giving her a decree _nisi_, with costs. To-morrow it will be in allthe papers, for it helps to sell them. See! She is withdrawing; we cannow go. " And he disengaged the Angel's wing. 

The Angel rose quickly and made his way towards the door. "I am going towalk out with her, " he announced joyously. 

"I beseech you, " said his dragoman, hurrying beside him, "remember theKing's Proctor! Where is your chivalry? For _he_ has none, sir--not alittle bit!"

"Bring him to me; I will give it him!" said the Angel, kissing the tipsof his fingers to the plaintiff, who was vanishing in the gloom of thefresh air. 

VII

In the Strangers' room of the Strangers' Club the usual solitude wasreigning when the Angel Æthereal entered. 

"You will be quiet here, " said his dragoman, drawing up two leatherchairs to the hearth, "and comfortable, " he added, as the Angel crossedhis legs. "After our recent experience, I thought it better to bring youwhere your mind would be composed, since we have to consider soimportant a subject as morality. There is no place, indeed, where wecould be so completely sheltered from life, or so free to evolve fromour inner consciousness the momentous conclusions of the armchairmoralist. When you have had your sneeze, " he added, glancing at theAngel, who was taking snuff, "I shall make known to you the conclusionsI have formed in the course of a chequered career. "

"Before you do that, " said the Angel, "it would perhaps be as well tolimit the sphere of our inquiry. "

"As to that, " remarked his dragoman, "I shall confine my information tothe morals of the English since the opening of the Great Skirmish, in1914, just a short generation of three and thirty years ago; and youwill find my theme readily falls, sir, into the two main compartments ofpublic and private morality. When I have finished you can ask me anyquestions. "

"Proceed!" said the Angel, letting his eyelids droop. 

"Public morality, " his dragoman began, "is either superlative, comparative, positive, or negative. And superlative morality is found, of course, only in the newspapers. It is the special prerogative ofleader-writers. Its note, remote and unchallengeable, was well struck byalmost every organ at the commencement of the Great Skirmish, and may besummed up in a single solemn phrase: 'We will sacrifice on the altar ofduty the last life and the last dollar--except the last life and dollarof the last leader-writer. ' For, as all must see, that one had to bepreserved, to ensure and comment on the consummation of the sacrifice. What loftier morality can be conceived? And it has ever been a grief tothe multitude that the lives of those patriots and benefactors of theirspecies should, through modesty, have been unrevealed to such as pant tocopy them. Here and there the lineaments of a tip-topper werediscernible beneath the disguise of custom; but what fair existenceswere screened! I may tell you at once, sir, that the State was so muchstruck at the time of the Great Skirmish by this doctrine of the uttersacrifice of others that it almost immediately adopted the idea, and hasstruggled to retain it ever since. Indeed, only the unaccountablereluctance of 'others' to be utterly sacrificed has ensured theirperpetuity. "

"In 1910, " said the Angel, "I happened to notice that the Prussians hadalready perfected that system. Yet it was against the Prussians thatthis country fought?"

"That is so, " returned his dragoman; "there were many who drew attentionto the fact. And at the conclusion of the Great Skirmish the reactionwas such that for a long moment even the leader-writers wavered in theirselfless doctrines; nor could continuity be secured till the LaboriousParty came solidly to the saddle in 1930. Since then the principle hasbeen firm but the practice has been firmer, and public morality hasnever been altogether superlative. Let us pass to comparative publicmorality. In the days of the Great Skirmish this was practised by thosewith names, who told others what to do. This large and capable bodyincluded all the preachers, publicists, and politicians of the day, andin many cases there is even evidence that they would have been willingto practise what they preached if their age had not been so venerable ortheir directive power so invaluable. "

"_In_-valuable, " murmured the Angel; "has that word a negativesignification?"

"Not in all cases, " said his dragoman with a smile; "there were men whomit would have been difficult to replace, though not many, and thoseperhaps the least comparatively moral. In this category, too, wereundoubtedly the persons known as conchies. "

"From conch, a shell?" asked the Angel. 

"Not precisely, " returned his dragoman; "and yet you have hit it, sir, for into their shells they certainly withdrew, refusing to have anythingto do with this wicked world. Sufficient unto them was the voice within. They were not well treated by an unfeeling populace. "

"This is interesting to me, " said the Angel. "To what did they object?"

"To war, " replied his dragoman. "'What is it to us, ' they said, 'thatthere should be barbarians like these Prussians, who override the lawsof justice and humanity?'--words, sir, very much in vogue in those days. 'How can it affect our principles if these rude foreigners have not ourviews, and are prepared, by cutting off the food supplies of thisisland, to starve us into submission to their rule? Rather than turn adeaf ear to the voice within we are prepared for general starvation;whether we are prepared for the starvation of our individual selves wecannot, of course, say until we experience it. But we hope for the best, and believe that we shall go through with it to death, in the undesiredcompany of all who do not agree with us. ' And it is certain, sir, thatsome of them were capable of this; for there is, as you know, a type ofman who will die rather than admit that his views are too extreme tokeep himself and his fellow-men alive. "

"How entertaining!" said the Angel. "Do such persons still exist?"

"Oh! yes, " replied the dragoman; "and always will. Nor is it, in myopinion, altogether to the disadvantage of mankind, for they afford asalutary warning to the human species not to isolate itself in fancyfrom the realities of existence and extinguish human life before itstime has come. We shall now consider the positively moral. At the timeof the Great Skirmish these were such as took no sugar in their tea andinvested all they had in War Stock at five per cent. Without waiting forwhat were called Premium Bonds to be issued. They were a large andhealthy group, more immediately concerned with commerce than the war. But the largest body of all were the negatively moral. These were theywho did what they crudely called 'their bit, ' which I may tell you, sir, was often very bitter. I myself was a ship's steward at the time, andfrequently swallowed much salt water, owing to the submarines. But I wasnot to be deterred, and would sign on again when it had been pumped outof me. Our morality was purely negative, if not actually low. We acted, as it were, from instinct, and often wondered at the sublime sacrificeswhich were being made by our betters. Most of us were killed or injuredin one way or another; but a blind and obstinate mania for not giving inpossessed us. We were a simple lot. " The dragoman paused and fixed hiseyes on the empty hearth. "I will not disguise from you, " he added, "that we were fed-up nearly all the time; and yet--we couldn't stop. Odd, was it not?"

"I wish I had been with you, " said the Angel, "for--to use that wordwithout which you English seem unable to express anything--you wereheroes. "

"Sir, " said his dragoman, "you flatter us by such encomium. We were, Ifear, dismally lacking in commercial spirit, just men and women in thestreet having neither time nor inclination to examine our conduct andmotives, nor to question or direct the conduct of others. Purelynegative beings, with perhaps a touch of human courage and humankindliness in us. All this, however, is a tale of long ago. You can nowask me any questions, sir, before I pass to private morality. "

"You alluded to courage and kindliness, " said the Angel: "How do thesequalities now stand?"

"The quality of courage, " responded his dragoman, "received a set-backin men's estimation at the time of the Great Skirmish, from which it hasnever properly recovered. For physical courage was then, for the firsttime, perceived to be most excessively common; it is, indeed, probably amere attribute of the bony chin, especially prevalent in theEnglish-speaking races. As to moral courage, it was so hunted down thatit is still somewhat in hiding. Of kindliness there are, as you know, two sorts: that which people manifest towards their own belongings; andthat which they do not as a rule manifest towards every one else. "

"Since we attended the Divorce Court, " remarked the Angel withdeliberation, "I have been thinking. And I fancy no one can be reallykind unless they have had matrimonial trouble, preferably in conflictwith the law. "

"A new thought to me, " observed his dragoman attentively; "and yet youmay be right, for there is nothing like being morally outcast to makeyou feel the intolerance of others. But that brings us to privatemorality. "

"Quite!" said the Angel, with relief. "I forgot to ask you this morninghow the ancient custom of marriage was now regarded in the large?"

"Not indeed as a sacrament, " replied his dragoman; "such a view wasbecoming rare already at the time of the Great Skirmish. Yet the notionmight have been preserved but for the opposition of the Pontifical ofthose days to the reform of the Divorce Laws. When principle opposescommon sense too long, a landslide follows. "

"Of what nature, then, is marriage now?"

"Purely a civil, or uncivil, contract, as the case may be. The holystate of judicial separation, too, has long been unknown. "

"Ah!" said the Angel, "that was the custom by which the man became amonk and the lady a nun, was it not?"

"In theory, sir, " replied his dragoman, "but in practice not a littlebit, as you may well suppose. The Pontifical, however, and the women, old and otherwise, who supported them, had but small experience of lifeto go on, and honestly believed that they were punishing thosestill-married but erring persons who were thus separated. These, on thecontrary, almost invariably assumed that they were justified in freecompanionships, nor were they particular to avoid promiscuity! So itever is, sir, when the great laws of Nature are violated in deference tothe Higher Doctrine. "

"Are children still born out of wedlock?" asked the Angel. 

"Yes, " said his dragoman, "but no longer considered responsible for thepast conduct of their parents. "

"Society, then, is more humane?"

"Well, sir, we shall not see the Millennium in that respect for someyears to come. Zoos are still permitted, and I read only yesterday aletter from a Scottish gentleman pouring scorn on the humane proposalthat prisoners should be allowed to see their wives once a month withoutbars or the presence of a third party; precisely as if we still lived inthe days of the Great Skirmish. Can you tell me why it is that suchletters are always written by Scotsmen?"

"Is it a riddle?" asked the Angel. 

"It is indeed, sir. "

"Then it bores me. Speaking generally, are you satisfied with currentvirtue now that it is a State matter, as you informed me yesterday?"

"To tell you the truth, sir, I do not judge my neighbours; sufficientunto myself is the vice thereof. But one thing I observe, the lessvirtuous people assume themselves to be, the more virtuous they commonlyare. Where the limelight is not, the flower blooms. Have you notfrequently noticed that they who day by day cheerfully endure mostunpleasant things, while helping their neighbours at the expense oftheir own time and goods, are often rendered lyrical by receiving asovereign from some one who would never miss it, and are ready toenthrone him in their hearts as a king of men? The truest virtue, sir, must be sought among the lowly. Sugar and snow may be seen on the top, but for the salt of the earth one must look to the bottom. "

"I believe you, " said the Angel. "It is probably harder for a man in thelimelight to enter virtue than for the virtuous to enter the limelight. Ha, ha! Is the good old custom of buying honour still preserved?"

"No, sir; honour is now only given to such as make themselves too noisyto be endured, and saddles the recipient with an obligation to preservepublic silence for a period not exceeding three years. That maximumsentence is given for a dukedom. It is reckoned that few can survive sofearful a term. "

"Concerning the morality of this new custom, " said the Angel, "I feeldoubtful. It savours of surrender to the bully and the braggart, does itnot?"

"Rather to the bore, sir; not necessarily the same thing. But whethermen be decorated for making themselves useful, or troublesome, theresult in either case is to secure a comparative inertia, which has everbeen the desideratum; for you must surely be aware, sir, how a man'sdignity weighs him down. "

"Are women also rewarded in this way?"

"Yes, and very often; for although their dignity is already ample, theirtongues are long, and they have little shame and no nerves in the matterof public speaking. "

"And what price their virtue?" asked the Angel. 

"There is some change since the days of the Great Skirmish, " respondedhis dragoman. "They do not now so readily sell it, except for a weddingring; and many marry for love. Women, indeed, are often deplorablylacking in commercial spirit; and though they now mix in commerce, havenot yet been able to adapt themselves. Some men even go so far as tothink that their participation in active life is not good for trade andkeeps the country back. "

"They are a curious sex, " said the Angel; "I like them, but they maketoo much fuss about babies. "

"Ah! sir, there is the great flaw. The mother instinct--so heedless anduncommercial! They seem to love the things just for their own sakes. "

"Yes, " said the Angel, "there's no future in it. Give me a cigar. "

VIII

"What, then, is the present position of 'the good'?" asked the AngelÆthereal, taking wing from Watchester Cathedrome towards the CityTabernacle. 

"There are a number of discordant views, sir, " his dragoman whiffledthrough his nose in the rushing air; "which is no more novel in thisyear of Peace 1947 than it was when you were here in 1910. On the farright are certain extremists, who believe it to be what itwas--omnipotent, but suffering the presence of 'the bad' for no reasonwhich has yet been ascertained; omnipresent, though presumably absentwhere 'the bad' is present; mysterious, though perfectly revealed;terrible, though loving; eternal, though limited by a beginning and anend. They are not numerous, but all stall-holders, and chieflycharacterised by an almost perfect intolerance of those whose views donot coincide with their own; nor will they suffer for a moment anyexamination into the nature of 'the good, ' which they hold to beestablished for all time, in the form I have stated, by persons who havelong been dead. They are, as you may imagine, somewhat out of touch withscience, such as it is, and are regarded by the community at largerather with curiosity than anything else. "

"The type is well known in the sky, " said the Angel. "Tell me: Do theytorture those who do not agree with them?"

"Not materially, " responded his dragoman. "Such a custom was extincteven before the days of the Great Skirmish, though what would havehappened if the Patriotic or Prussian Party had been able to keep powerfor any length of time we cannot tell. As it is, the torture they applyis purely spiritual, and consists in looking down their noses at all whohave not their belief and calling them erratics. But it would be amistake to underrate their power, for human nature loves the Pontifical, and there are those who will follow to the death any one who looks downhis nose, and says: 'I know!' Moreover, sir, consider how unsettling aquestion 'the good' is, when you come to think about it and howunfatiguing the faith which precludes all such speculation. "

"That is so, " said the Angel thoughtfully. 

"The right centre, " continued his dragoman, "is occupied by the smallyet noisy Fifth Party. These are they who play the cornet andtambourine, big drum and concertina, descendants of the Old Prophet, andsurvivors of those who, following a younger prophet, joined them at thetime of the Great Skirmish. In a form ever modifying with scientificdiscovery they hold that 'the good' is a superman, bodiless yet bodily, with a beginning but without an end. It is an attractive faith, enablingthem to say to Nature: '_Je m'en fiche de tout cela. _ My big brotherwill look after me Pom!' One may call it anthropomorphia, for it seemsespecially soothing to strong personalities. Every man to his creed, asthey say; and I would never wish to throw cold water on such as seek tofind 'the good' by closing one eye instead of two, as is done by theextremists on the right. "

"You are tolerant, " said the Angel. 

"Sir, " said his dragoman, "as one gets older, one perceives more andmore how impossible it is for man not to regard himself as the cause ofthe universe, and for certain individual men not to believe themselvesthe centre of the cause. For such to start a new belief is a biologicalnecessity, and should by no means be discouraged. It is asafety-valve--the form of passion which the fires of youth take in menafter the age of fifty, as one may judge by the case of the prophetTolstoy and other great ones. But to resume: In the centre, of course, are situated the enormous majority of the community, whose view is thatthey have no view of what 'the good' is. "

"None?" repeated the Angel Æthereal, somewhat struck. 

"Not the faintest, " answered his dragoman. "These are the only truemystics; for what is a mystic if not one with an impenetrable belief inthe mystery of his own existence? This group embraces the great bulk ofthe Laborious. It is true that many of them will repeat what is toldthem of 'the good' as if it were their own view, without compunction, but this is no more than the majority of persons have done from thebeginning of time. "

"Quite, " admitted the Angel; "I have observed that phenomenon in thecourse of my travels. We will not waste words on them. "

"Ah, sir!" retorted his dragoman, "there is more wisdom in these personsthan you imagine. For, consider what would be the fate of their brainsif they attempted to think for themselves. Moreover, as you know, alldefinite views about 'the good' are very wearing, and it is better, sothis great majority thinks, to let sleeping dogs lie than to have thembarking in its head. But I will tell you something, " the dragoman added:"These innumerable persons have a secret belief of their own, old as theGreeks, that good fellowship is all that matters. And, in my opinion, taking 'the good' in its limited sense, it is an admirable creed. "

"Oh! cut on!" said the Angel. 

"My mistake, sir!" said his dragoman. "On the left centre are groupedthat increasing section whose view is that since everything is very bad, 'the good' is ultimate extinction--'Peace, perfect peace, ' as the poetsays. You will recollect the old tag: 'To be or not to be. ' These arethey who have answered that question in the negative; pessimistsmasquerading to an unsuspecting public as optimists. They are no doubtdescendants of such as used to be called 'Theosophians, ' a sect whichpresupposed everything and then desired to be annihilated; or, again, of the Christian Scientites, who simply could not bear things as theywere, so set themselves to think they were not, with some limited amountof success, if I remember rightly. I recall to mind the case of a ladywho lost her virtue, and recovered it by dint of remembering that shehad no body. "

"Curious!" said the Angel. "I should like to question her; let me haveher address after the lecture. Does the theory of reincarnation stillobtain?"

"I do not wonder, sir, that you are interested in the point, forbelievers in that doctrine are compelled, by the old and awkward rulethat 'Two and two make four, ' to draw on other spheres for thereincarnation of their spirits. "

"I do not follow, " said the Angel. 

"It is simple, however, " answered his dragoman, "for at one time onearth, as is admitted, there was no life. The first incarnation, therefore--an amœba, we used to be told--enclosed a spirit, possiblyfrom above. It may, indeed, have been yours, sir. Again, at some time onthis earth, as is admitted, there will again be no life; the last spiritwill therefore flit to an incarnation, possibly below; and again, sir, who knows, it may be yours. "

"I cannot jest on such a subject, " said the Angel, with a sneeze. 

"No offence, " murmured his dragoman. "The last group, on the far left, to which indeed I myself am not altogether unaffiliated, is composed ofa small number of extremists, who hold that 'the good' is things as theyare--pardon the inevitable flaw in grammar. They consider that what isnow has always been, and will always be; that things do but swell andcontract and swell again, and so on for ever and ever; and that, sincethey could not swell if they did not contract, since without the blackthere could not be the white, nor pleasure without pain, nor virtuewithout vice, nor criminals without judges; even contraction, or theblack, or pain, or vice, or judges, are not 'the bad, ' but onlynegatives; and that all is for the best in the best of all possibleworlds. They are Voltairean optimists masquerading to an unsuspectingpopulation as pessimists. 'Eternal Variation' is their motto. "

"I gather, " said the Angel, "that these think there is no purpose inexistence?"

"Rather, sir, that existence _is_ the purpose. For, if you consider, anyother conception of purpose implies fulfilment, or an _end_, which theydo not admit, just as they do not admit a beginning. "

"How logical!" said the Angel. "It makes me dizzy! You have renouncedthe idea of climbing, then?"

"Not so, " responded his dragoman. "We climb to the top of the pole, slide imperceptibly down, and begin over again; but since we neverreally know whether we are climbing or sliding, this does not depressus. "

"To believe that this goes on for ever is futile, " said the Angel. 

"So we are told, " replied his dragoman, without emotion. "_We_ think, however, that the truth is with us, in spite of jesting Pilate. "

"It is not for me, " said the Angel, with dignity, "to argue with mydragoman. "

"No, sir, for it is always necessary to beware of the open mind. Imyself find it very difficult to believe the same thing every day. Andthe fact is that whatever you believe will probably not alter the truth, which may be said to have a certain mysterious immutability, consideringthe number of efforts men have made to change it from time to time. Weare now, however, just above the City Tabernacle, and if you will closeyour wings we shall penetrate it through the clap-trap-door whichenables its preachers now and then to ascend to higher spheres. "

"Stay!" said the Angel; "let me float a minute while I suck apeppermint, for the audiences in these places often have colds. " Andwith that delicious aroma clinging to them they made their entry througha strait gate in the roof and took their seats in the front row, below atall prophet in eyeglasses, who was discoursing on the stars. The Angelslept heavily. 

"You have lost a good thing, sir, " said his dragoman reproachfully, whenthey left the Tabernacle. 

"In my opinion, " the Angel playfully responded, "I won a better, for Iwent nap. What can a mortal know about the stars?"

"Believe me, " answered his dragoman, "the subject is not more abstrusethan is generally chosen. "

"If he had taken religion I should have listened with pleasure, " saidthe Angel. 

"Oh! sir, but in these days such a subject is unknown in a place ofworship. Religion is now exclusively a State affair. The change beganwith discipline and the Education Bill in 1918, and has graduallycrystallised ever since. It is true that individual extremists on theright make continual endeavours to encroach on the functions of theState, but they preach to empty houses. "

"And the Deity?" said the Angel: "You have not once mentioned Him. Ithas struck me as curious. "

"Belief in the Deity, " responded his dragoman, "perished shortly afterthe Great Skirmish, during which there was too active and varied aneffort to revive it. Action, as you know, sir, always brings reaction, and it must be said that the spiritual propaganda of those days was sogrossly tinged with the commercial spirit that it came under the head ofprofiteering and earned for itself a certain abhorrence. For no soonerhad the fears and griefs brought by the Great Skirmish faded from men'sspirits than they perceived that their new impetus towards the Deity hadbeen directed purely by the longing for protection, solace, comfort, andreward, and not by any real desire for 'the good' in itself. It was thistruth, together with the appropriation of the word by Emperors, and theexpansion of our towns, a process ever destructive of traditions, whichbrought about extinction of belief in His existence. "

"It was a large order, " said the Angel. 

"It was more a change of nomenclature, " replied his dragoman. "Theruling motive for belief in 'the good' is still the hope of gettingsomething out of it--the commercial spirit is innate. "

"Ah!" said the Angel, absently. "Can we have another lunch now? I coulddo with a slice of beef. "

"An admirable idea, sir, " replied his dragoman; "we will have it in theWhite City. "

IX

"What in your opinion is the nature of happiness?" asked the AngelÆthereal, as he finished his second bottle of Bass, in the grounds ofthe White City. The dragoman regarded his angel with one eye. 

"The question is not simple, sir, though often made the subject ofsymposiums in the more intellectual journals. Even now, in the middle ofthe twentieth century, some still hold that it is a by-product of freshair and good liquor. The Old and Merrie England indubitably procured itfrom those elements. Some, again, imagine it to follow from highthinking and low living, while no mean number believe that it depends onwomen. "

"Their absence or their presence?" asked the Angel, with interest. 

"Some this and others that. But for my part, it is not altogether theoutcome of these causes. "

"Is this now a happy land?"

"Sir, " returned his dragoman, "all things earthly are comparative. "

"Get on with it, " said the Angel. 

"I will comply, " responded his dragoman reproachfully, "if you willpermit me first to draw your third cork. And let me say in passing thateven your present happiness is comparative, or possibly superlative, asyou will know when you have finished this last bottle. It may or may notbe greater; we shall see. "

"We shall, " said the Angel, resolutely. 

"You ask me whether this land is happy; but must we not first decidewhat happiness is? And how difficult this will be you shall soondiscover. For example, in the early days of the Great Skirmish, happiness was reputed non-existent; every family was plunged intoanxiety or mourning; and, though this to my own knowledge was not thecase, such as were not pretended to be. Yet, strange as it may appear, the shrewd observer of those days was unable to remark any indication ofadded gloom. Certain creature comforts, no doubt, were scarce, but therewas no lack of spiritual comfort, which high minds have ever associatedwith happiness; nor do I here allude to liquor. What, then, was thenature of this spiritual comfort, you will certainly be asking. I willtell you, and in seven words: People forgot themselves and rememberedother people. Until those days it had never been realised what a lot ofmedical men could be spared from the civil population; what a number ofclergymen, lawyers, stockbrokers, artists, writers, politicians, andother persons, whose work in life is to cause people to think aboutthemselves, never would be missed. Invalids knitted socks and forgot tobe unwell; old gentlemen read the papers and forgot to talk about theirfood; people travelled in trains and forgot not to fall intoconversation with each other; merchants became special constables andforgot to differ about property; the House of Lords remembered itsdignity and forgot its impudence; the House of Commons almost forgot tochatter. The case of the working man was the most striking of all--heforgot he was the working man. The very dogs forgot themselves, thoughthat, to be sure, was no novelty, as the Irish writer demonstrated inhis terrific outburst: 'On my doorstep. ' But time went on, and hens intheir turn forgot to lay, ships to return to port, cows to give enoughmilk, and Governments to look ahead, till the first flush ofself-forgetfulness which had dyed peoples' cheeks----"

"Died on them, " put in the Angel, with a quiet smile. 

"You take my meaning, sir, " said his dragoman, "though I should not haveworded it so happily. But certainly the return to self began, andpeople used to think: 'This war is not so bloody as I thought, for I amgetting better money than I ever did, and the longer it lasts the more Ishall get, and for the sake of this I am prepared to endure much. ' Thesaying "Beef and beer, for soon you must put up the shutters, " becamethe motto of all classes. 'If I am to be shot, drowned, bombed, ruined, or starved to-morrow, ' they said, 'I had better eat, drink, marry, andbuy jewelry to-day. ' And so they did, in spite of the dreadful effortsof one bishop and two gentlemen who presided over the important questionof food. They did not, it is true, relax their manual efforts toaccomplish the defeat of their enemies, or 'win the war, ' as it wassomewhat loosely called; but they no longer worked with their spirits, which, with a few exceptions, went to sleep. For, sir, the spirit, likethe body, demands regular repose, and in my opinion is usually the firstof the two to snore. Before the Great Skirmish came at last to itsappointed end the snoring from spirits in this country might have beenheard in the moon. People thought of little but money, revenge, and whatthey could get to eat, though the word 'sacrifice' was so accustomed totheir lips that they could no more get it off them than the other formsof lip-salve, increasingly in vogue. They became very merry. And thequestion I would raise is this: By which of these two standards shall weassess the word 'happiness'? Were these people happy when they mournedand thought not of self; or when they merried and thought of self allthe time?"

"By the first standard, " replied the Angel, with kindling eyes. "Happiness is undoubtedly nobility. "

"Not so fast, sir, " replied his dragoman; "for I have frequently metwith nobility in distress; and, indeed, the more exalted and refined themind, the unhappier is frequently the owner thereof, for to him arevisible a thousand cruelties and mean injustices which lower natures donot perceive. "

"Hold!" exclaimed the Angel: "This is blasphemy against Olympus, 'TheSpectator, ' and other High-Brows. "

"Sir, " replied his dragoman gravely, "I am not one of those who acceptgilded doctrines without examination; I read in the Book of Life ratherthan in the million tomes written by men to get away from their ownunhappiness. "

"I perceive, " said the Angel, with a shrewd glance, "that you havesomething up your sleeve. Shake it out!"

"My conclusion is this, sir, " returned his dragoman, well pleased: "Manis only happy when he is living at a certain pressure of life to thesquare inch; in other words, when he is so absorbed in what he is doing, making, saying, thinking, or dreaming, that he has lostself-consciousness. If there be upon him any ill--such as toothache ormoody meditation--so poignant as to prevent him losing himself in theinterest of the moment, then he is not happy. Nor must he merely thinkhimself absorbed, but actually be so, as are two lovers sitting underone umbrella, or he who is just making a couplet rhyme. "

"Would you say, then, " insinuated the Angel, "that a man is happy whenhe meets a mad bull in a narrow lane? For there will surely be muchpressure of life to the square inch. "

"It does not follow, " responded his dragoman; "for at such moments oneis prone to stand apart, pitying himself and reflecting on theunevenness of fortune. But if he collects himself and meets the occasionwith spirit he will enjoy it until, while sailing over the hedge, he hasleisure to reflect once more. It is clear to me, " he proceeded, "thatthe fruit of the tree of knowledge in the old fable was not, as hashitherto been supposed by a puritanical people, the mere knowledge ofsex, but symbolised rather general self-consciousness; for I have littledoubt that Adam and Eve sat together under one umbrella long beforethey discovered they had no clothes on. Not until they becameself-conscious about things at large did they become unhappy. "

"Love is commonly reputed by some, and power by others, to be the keysof happiness, " said the Angel, regardless of his grammar. 

"Duds, " broke in his dragoman. "For love and power are only two of thevarious paths to absorption, or unconsciousness of self; mere methods bywhich men of differing natures succeed in losing their self-consciousness, for he who, like Saint Francis, loves all creation, hasno time to be conscious of loving himself, and he who rattles thesword and rules like Bill Kaser, has no time to be conscious that he isnot ruling himself. I do not deny that such men may be happy, but notbecause of the love or the power. No, it is because they are loving orruling with such intensity that they forget themselves in doing it. "

"There is much in what you say, " said the Angel thoughtfully. "How doyou apply it to the times and land in which you live?"

"Sir, " his dragoman responded, "the Englishman never has been, and isnot now, by any means so unhappy as he looks, for, where you see afurrow in the brow, or a mouth a little open, it portends absorptionrather than thoughtfulness--unless, indeed, it means adenoids--and isthe mark of a naturally self-forgetful nature; nor should you supposethat poverty and dirt which abound, as you see, even under the sway ofthe Laborious, is necessarily deterrent to the power of living in themoment; it may even be a symptom of that habit. The unhappy are morefrequently the clean and leisured, especially in times of peace, whenthey have little to do save sit under mulberry trees, invest money, paytheir taxes, wash, fly, and think about themselves. Nevertheless, manyof the Laborious also live at half-cock, and cannot be said to have lostconsciousness of self. "

"Then democracy is not synonymous with happiness?" asked the Angel. 

"Dear sir, " replied his dragoman, "I know they said so at the time ofthe Great Skirmish. But they said so much that one little one like thathardly counted. I will let you into a secret. We have not yet achieveddemocracy, either here or anywhere else. The old American saying aboutit is all very well, but since not one man in ten has any real opinionof his own on any subject on which he votes, he cannot, with the bestwill in the world, put it on record. Not until he learns to have andrecord his own real opinion will he truly govern himself for himself, which is, as you know, the test of true democracy. "

"I am getting fuddled, " said the Angel. "What is it you want to make youhappy?"

His dragoman sat up: "If I am right, " he purred, "in my view thathappiness is absorption, our problem is to direct men's minds toabsorption in right and pleasant things. An American making a corner inwheat is absorbed and no doubt happy, yet he is an enemy of mankind, forhis activity is destructive. We should seek to give our minds tocreation, to activities good for others as well as for ourselves, tosimplicity, pride in work, and forgetfulness of self in every walk oflife. We should do things for the sheer pleasure of doing them, and notfor what they may or may not be going to bring us in, and be taughtalways to give our whole minds to it; in this way only will the edge ofour appetite for existence remain as keen as a razor which is stroppedevery morning by one who knows how. On the negative side we should bebrought up to be kind, to be clean, to be moderate, and to love goodmusic, exercise, and fresh air. "

"That sounds a bit of all right, " said the Angel. "What measures arebeing taken in these directions?"

"It has been my habit, sir, to study the Education Acts of my countryever since that which was passed at the time of the Great Skirmish; but, with the exception of exercise, I have not as yet been able to find anydirect allusion to these matters. Nor is this surprising when youconsider that education is popularly supposed to be, not for theacquisition of happiness, but for the good of trade or the promotion ofacute self-consciousness through what we know as culture. If by anychance there should arise a President of Education so enlightened as toshare my views, it would be impossible for him to mention the fact forfear of being sent to Colney Hatch. "

"In that case, " asked the Angel, "you do not believe in the progress ofyour country?"

"Sir, " his dragoman replied earnestly, "you have seen this land foryourself and have heard from me some account of its growth from the dayswhen you were last on earth, shortly before the Great Skirmish; it willnot have escaped your eagle eye that this considerable event has hadsome influence in accelerating the course of its progression; and youwill have noticed how, notwithstanding the most strenuous intentions atthe close of that tragedy, we have yielded to circumstance and in everydirection followed the line of least resistance. "

"I have a certain sympathy with that, " said the Angel, with a yawn; "itis so much easier. "

"So we have found; and our country has got along, perhaps, as well asone could have expected, considering what it has had to contend with:pressure of debt; primrose paths; pelf; party; patrio-Prussianism; thepeople; pundits; Puritans; proctors; property; philosophers; thePontifical; and progress. I will not disguise from you, however, that weare far from perfection; and it may be that on your next visit, thirty-seven years hence, we shall be further. For, however it may bewith angels, sir, with men things do not stand still; and, as I havetried to make clear to you, in order to advance in body and spirit, itis necessary to be masters of your environment and discoveries insteadof letting them be masters of you. Wealthy again we may be; healthy andhappy we are not, as yet. "

"I have finished my beer, " said the Angel Æthereal, with finality, "andam ready to rise. You have nothing to drink! Let me give you atestimonial instead!" Pulling a quill from his wing, he dipped it in themustard and wrote: "A Dry Dog--No Good For Trade" on his dragoman'swhite hat. "I shall now leave the earth, " he added. 

"I am pleased to hear it, " said his dragoman, "for I fancy that thelonger you stay the more vulgar you will become. I have noticed itgrowing on you, sir, just as it does on us. "

The Angel smiled. "Meet me by sunlight alone, " he said, "under theleft-hand lion in Trafalgar Square at this hour of this day, in 1984. Remember me to the waiter, will you? So long!" And, without pausing fora reply, he spread his wings, and soared away. 

"_L'homme moyen sensuel! Sic itur ad astra!_" murmured his dragomanenigmatically, and, lifting his eyes, he followed the Angel's flightinto the empyrean. 

1917-18. 

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

 VILLA RUBEIN, and Other Stories THE ISLAND PHARISEES THE MAN OF PROPERTY THE COUNTRY HOUSE FRATERNITY THE PATRICIAN THE DARK FLOWER THE FREELANDS BEYOND FIVE TALES

 A COMMENTARY A MOTLEY THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY THE LITTLE MAN, and Other Satires A SHEAF ANOTHER SHEAF

 PLAYS: FIRST SERIES _and Separately_

 THE SILVER BOX JOY STRIFE

 PLAYS: SECOND SERIES _and Separately_

 THE ELDEST SON THE LITTLE DREAM JUSTICE

 PLAYS: THIRD SERIES _and Separately_

 THE FUGITIVE THE PIGEON THE MOB

 A BIT O' LOVE

 MOODS, SONGS, AND DOGGERELS MEMORIES. Illustrated

[Transcriber's Note:

* Inconsistent hyphenation retained as printed in the original. 

* The footnotes have been moved to the end of the relevant chapter. 

* p. 56: Corrected spelling of word "lacheront" to "lâcheront" locatedin the phrase "Les Anglais ne lacheront pas". 

* p. 149: Corrected spelling of word "gound" to "ground"located in line "up yearly more and more gound to less and less". 

* p. 174: Removed extraneous "the" located in the phrase"for the the speaker was once Minister for Agriculture". 

* p. 205: "hand" in the phrase "riding at a hand gallop" (a speedbetween a canter and a full out gallop) retained as printed. 

* p. 207: Corrected spelling of word "knowlledge" to "knowledge" locatedin line "district a model farm radiates scientific knowlledge". 

* p. 273: Replaced the period after "no. " with a comma located in line"Oh dear, no. Sir!". 

* p. 322: Added missing comma after the word "dignity" locatedin the phrase "said the Angel, with dignity". ]