ESSAYS IN REBELLION

BY

HENRY W. NEVINSON

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

 NEIGHBOURS OF OURS: Scenes of East End Life. 

 IN THE VALLEY OF TOPHET: Scenes of Black Country Life. 

 THE THIRTY DAYS' WAR: Scenes in the Greek and Turkish War of 1897. 

 LADYSMITH: a Diary of the Siege. 

 CLASSIC GREEK LANDSCAPE AND ARCHITECTURE: Text to John Fulleylove's Pictures of Greece. 

 THE PLEA OF PAN. 

 BETWEEN THE ACTS: Scenes in the Author's Experience. 

 ON THE OLD ROAD THROUGH FRANCE TO FLORENCE: French Chapters to Hallam Murray's Pictures. 

 BOOKS AND PERSONALITIES: a volume of Criticism. 

 A MODERN SLAVERY: an Investigation of the Slave System in Angola and the Islands of San Thomé and Principe. 

 THE DAWN IN RUSSIA: Scenes in the Revolution of 1905-1906. 

 THE NEW SPIRIT IN INDIA: Scenes during the Unrest of 1907-1908. 

 ESSAYS IN FREEDOM. 

 THE GROWTH OF FREEDOM: a Summary of the History of Democracy. 

[Illustration: HENRY W. NEVINSON]

ESSAYS IN REBELLION

BY

HENRY W. NEVINSON

AUTHOR OF "ESSAYS IN FREEDOM"

LONDON

JAMES NISBET & CO. , LIMITED

22 BERNERS STREET, W. 

1913

_First published in_ 1913

PREFACE

When writers are so different, it is queer that every age should have adistinguishing spirit. Each writer is as different in "style" as inlook, and his words reveal him just as the body reveals the soul, blazoning its past or its future without possibility of concealment. Paint a face, no matter how delicately or how thick; the very paint--thevery choice of colours red or white--betrays the nature lurking beneathit, and no amount of artifice or imitation in a writer can obscure thesecret of self. Artifice and imitation reveal the finikin or uncertainsoul as surely as deliberate bareness reveals a conscious austerity. Except, perhaps, in mathematics, there seems no escape from thisrevelation. I am told that even in the "exact sciences" there is noescape; even in physics the exposition is a matter of imagination, ofpersonality, of "style. "

Next to mathematics and the exact sciences, I suppose, Bluebooks andleading articles are taken as representing truth in the most absoluteand impersonal manner. We appeal to Bluebooks as confidently as toastronomers, assuming that their statements will be impersonally true, just as the curve of a comet will be the same for the Opposition as forthe Government, for Anarchists as for Fabians. Yet what a difference maybe detected in Bluebooks on the selfsame subject, and what an excitinghide-and-seek for souls we may there enjoy! Behind one we catch sight ofthe cautiously official mind, obsequious to established power, observant of accepted fictions, contemptuous of zeal, apprehensive oftrouble, solicitous for the path of least resistance. Behind another wefeel the stirring spirit that no promotion will subdue, pitiless toabomination, untouched by smooth excuses, regardless of officialsensibilities, and untamed to comfortable routine, which, in his case, will probably be short. 

Or take the leading article: hardly any form of words would appear lesspersonal. It is the abstract product of what the editor wants, what theproprietor wants, what the Party wants, and what the readers want, justflavoured sometimes with the very smallest suspicion of what the writerwants. And yet, in leaders upon the same subject and in the same paper, what a difference, again! Peruse leaders for a week, and in the weekfollowing, with as much certainty as if you saw the animals emergingfrom the Ark, you will be able to say, "Here comes the laboured Ox, herethe Wild Ass prances, here trips the Antelope with fairy footfall, herethe Dromedary froths beneath his hump; there soars the Crested Screamer, there bolts the circuitous Hare, there old Behemoth wallows in the ooze, and there the swivel-eyed Chameleon clings along the fence. "

If even the writers of Bluebooks and leading articles are thus asdistinguishable as the animals which Noah had no difficulty in sortinginto couples, such writers as poets, essayists, and novelists, who haveno limit imposed upon their distinction, are likely to be still moredistinct. Indeed, we find it so, for their work needs no signature, since the "style"--their way of looking at things--reveals it. And yet, though it is only the sum of all these separate personalities sodiverse and distinct, each age or generation possesses a certain"style" of its own, unconsciously revealing a kind of generalpersonality. Everyone knows it is as unnecessary to date a book as achurch or a candlestick, since church and candlestick and book alwaysbear the date written on the face. The literature of the last three orfour generations, for instance, has been distinguished by Rebellion as a"style. " Rebellion has been the characteristic expression of its mostvital self. 

It has been an age of rebels in letters as in life. Of course, acquiescent writers have existed as well, just as in the Ark (to keep upthe illustration) vegetarians stood side by side with carnivors, andhoofs were intermixed with claws. The great majority have, as usual, supported traditional order, have eulogised the past or present, andbeen, not only at ease in their generation, but enraptured at the visionof its beneficent prosperity. Such were the writers and orators whomtheir contemporaries hailed as the distinctive spokesmen of a happy andglorious time, leaping and bounding with income and population. But, onlooking back, we see their contemporaries were entirely mistaken. Thepeople of vital power and prolonged, far-reaching influence--the"dynamic" people--have been the rebels. Wordsworth (it may seem strangeto include that venerable figure among rebels, but so long as he wasmore poetic than venerable he stood in perpetual rebellion against themotives, pursuits, and satisfactions of his time)--Wordsworth till hewas forty-five, Byron all his short life, Newman, Carlyle, Dickens, Matthew Arnold, Ruskin--among English writers those have provedthemselves the dynamic people. There are many others, and many later;but we need recall only these few great names, far enough distant to beclearly visible. It was they who moved the country, shaking its torporlike successive earthquakes. Risen against the conceit of riches, andthe hypocrisies of Society, against unimpassioned and unimaginativereligion, against ignoble success and the complacent economics thathewed mankind into statistics to fit their abstractions--one and all, inspite of their variety or mutual hostility, they were rebels, and theirpersonality expressed itself in rebellion. That was the commoncharacteristic of their "style. "

In other parts of Europe, from _Faust_, which opened the nineteenthcentury, onward through _Les Miserables_ to _The Doll's House_ and_Resurrection_, it was the same. As, in political action, Russia hardlyceased to rebel, France freed herself three times, Ireland gave us theline of rebels from Robert Emmet to Michael Davitt, and all rebellionculminated in Garibaldi, so the most vital spirits in every literatureof Europe were rebels. Perhaps it is so in all the greatest periods ofword and deed. For examples, one could point rapidly to Euripides, Dante, Rabelais, Milton, Swift, Rousseau--men who have few attributes incommon except greatness and rebellion. But, to limit ourselves to thefamiliar period of the last three or four generations, the words, thoughts, and actions most pregnant with dynamic energy have been markedwith one mark. Rebellion has been the expression of a century'spersonality. 

Of course, it is very lamentable. _Otium divos_--the rebel, like thestorm-swept sailor, cries to heaven for tranquillity. It is not thehardened warrior, but only the elegant writer who, having never seenbloodshed, clamours to shed blood. All rebels long for a peace in whichit would be possible to acquiesce, while they cultivated their minds andtheir gardens, employing the shining hour upon industry and intellectualpursuits. "I can say in the presence of God, " cried Cromwell, in thelast of his speeches, "I can say in the presence of God, in comparisonwith whom we are but poor creeping ants upon the earth, --I would havebeen glad to have lived under my woodside, to have kept a flock ofsheep, rather than undertaken such a Government as this. " Every rebel isa Quietist at heart, seeking peace and ensuing it, willing to let thestream of time glide past without his stir, dreading the onset ofindignation's claws, stopping his ears to the trumpet-call of action, and always tempted to leave vengeance to Him who has promised to repay. If reason alone were his guide, undisturbed by rage he would enjoy suchpleasure as he could clutch, or sit like a Fakir in blissful isolation, contemplating the aspect of eternity under which the difference betweena mouse and a man becomes imperceptible. But the age has grown a skintoo sensitive for such happiness. "For myself, " said Goethe, in apassage I quote again later in this book, "For myself, I am happyenough. Joy comes streaming in upon me from every side. Only, forothers, I am not happy. " So it is that the Hound of another's Hell givesus no rest, and we are pursued by Furies not our own. 

In spite of the longing for tranquillity, then, we cannot confidentlyhope that rebellion will be less the characteristic of the presentgeneration than of the past. It is true, we are told that, in thiscountry at all events, the necessity for active and political rebellionis past. However much a man may detest the Government, he is now, in asense, governed with his own consent, since he is free to persuade hisfellow-citizens that the Government is detestable, and, as far as hisvote goes, to dismiss his paid servants in the Ministry and to appointothers. Such securities for freedom are thought to have made active andpolitical rebellion obsolete. This appears to be proved even by theincreasingly rebellious movement among women, as unenfranchised people, excluded from citizenship and governed without consent. For women are inrebellion only because they possess none of those securities, and themoment that the securities are ensured them, their rebellion ceases. Ithas only arisen because they are compelled to pay for the upkeep of theState (including the upkeep of the statesmen) and to obey laws whichinterfere increasingly more and more with their daily life, while theyare allowed no voice in the expenditure or the legislation. Whence haveoriginated, not only tangible and obvious hardships, but those feelingsof degradation, as of beings excluded from privileges owing to someinferiority supposed inherent--those feelings of subjection, impotence, and degradation which, more even than actual hardships, kindle thespirit to the white-hot point of rebellion. 

This democratic rising against a masculine oligarchy ceases when thecause is removed, and the cause is simple. Similarly, the revolts ofnationalism against Imperial power, though the motives are morecomplicated, usually cease at the concession of self-government. Buteven if these political and fairly simple motives to rebellion arelikely soon to become obsolete in our country and Empire, other andvaguer rebellious forms, neither nationalist nor directly political, appear to stand close in front of us, and no one is yet sure what lineof action they will follow. Their line of action is still obscure, though both England and Europe have felt the touch of general orsympathetic strikes, and of "sabotage, " or wilful destruction ofproperty rather than life--the method advocated by Syndicalists andSuffragettes to rouse the sleepy world from indifference to theirwrongs. In this collection of essays, contributed during the last yearor two, as occasion arose, to the _Nation_ and other periodicals, I haveincluded some descriptions of the causes likely to incite people torebellion of this kind. Such causes, I mean, as the inequality thatcomes from poverty alone--the physical unfitness or lack of mentalopportunity that is due only to poverty. Those things make happinessimpossible, for they frustrate the active exercise of vital powers, andgive life no scope. During a generation or so, people have looked to theGovernment to mitigate the oppression of poverty, but some differentappeal now seems probable. For many despair of the goodwill or the powerof the State, finding little in it but hurried politicians, inhumanofficials, and the "experts" who docket and label the poor for"institutional treatment, " with results shown in my example of aworkhouse school. 

The troubling and persistent alarum of rebellion calls from many sides, and as instances of its call I have introduced mention of variousrebels, whether against authority or custom. I have once or twiceventured also into those twilit regions where the spirit itself standsrebellious against its limits, and questions even the ultimate insanetriumph of flesh and circumstance, closing its short-lived interlude. The rebellion may appear to be vain, but when we consider the primitiveelements of life from which our paragon of animals has ascended, themere attempt at rebellion is more astonishing than the greatest recordedmiracle, and since man has grown to think that he possesses a soul, there is no knowing what he may come to. 

I have added a few other scenes from old times and new, just forvariety, or just to remind ourselves that, in the midst of all chaos andperturbation and rage, it is possible for the world to go upon its way, preserving, in spite of all, its most excellent gift of sanity. 

H. W. N. 

LONDON, _Easter_, 1913. 

CONTENTS

 CHAP. I. THE CATFISH II. REBELLION III. "EITHER COWARDS OR UNHAPPY" IV. DEEDS NOT WORDS. V. THE BURNING BOOK. VI. "WHERE CRUEL RAGE" VII. THE CHIEF OF REBELS VIII. THE IRON CROWN IX. "THE IMPERIAL RACE" X. THE GREAT UNKNOWN XI. THE WORTH OF A PENNY XII. "FIX BAYONETS!" XIII. "OUR FATHERS HAVE TOLD US" XIV. THE GRAND JURY XV. A NEW CONSCRIPTION XVI. THE LAST OF THE RUNNYMEDES XVII. CHILDREN OF THE STATE. XVIII. THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS. XIX. ABDUL'S RETREAT XX. "NATIVES" XXI. UNDER THE YOKE. XXII. BLACK AND WHITE XXIII. PEACE AND WAR IN THE BALANCE XXIV. THE MAID XXV. THE HEROINE XXVI. THE PENALTY OF VIRTUE XXVII. "THE DAILY ROUND" XXVIII. THE CHARM OF COMMONPLACE XXIX. THE PRIEST OF NEMI. XXX. THE UNDERWORLD OF TIME. XXXI. MENTAL EUGENICS XXXII. THE MEDICINE OF THE MIND XXXIII. THE LAST FENCE XXXIV. THE ELEMENT OF CALM XXXV. "THE KING OF TERRORS" XXXVI. STRULDBRUGS XXXVII. "LIBERTÉ, LIBERTÉ, CHÉRIE!" XXXVIII. A FAREWELL TO FLEET STREET. INDEX

ESSAYS IN REBELLION

I

THE CATFISH

Before the hustling days of ice and of "cutters" rushing to and frobetween Billingsgate and our fleets of steam-trawlers on the DoggerBank, most sailing trawlers and long-line fishing-boats were built witha large tank in their holds, through which the sea flowed freely. Dutcheel-boats are built so still, and along the quays of Amsterdam andCopenhagen you may see such tanks in fishing-boats of almost every kind. Our East Coast fishermen kept them chiefly for cod. They hoped thus tobring the fish fresh and good to market, for, unless they wereovercrowded, the cod lived quite as contentedly in the tanks as in theopen sea. But in one respect the fishermen were disappointed. They foundthat the fish arrived slack, flabby, and limp, though well fed and inapparent health. 

Perplexity reigned (for the value of the catch was much diminished)until some fisherman of genius conjectured that the cod lived only toocontentedly in those tanks, and suffered from the atrophy of calm. Thecod is by nature a lethargic, torpid, and plethoric creature, prone toinactivity, content to lie in comfort, swallowing all that comes, withcavernous mouth wide open, big enough to gulp its own body down if thatcould be. In the tanks the cod rotted at ease, rapidly deteriorating intheir flesh. So, as a stimulating corrective, that genius amongfishermen inserted one catfish into each of his tanks, and found thathis cod came to market firm, brisk, and wholesome. Which result remaineda mystery until his death, when the secret was published and a strangedemand for catfish arose. For the catfish is the demon of the deep, andkeeps things lively. 

This irritating but salutary stimulant in the tank (to say nothing ofthe myriad catfishes in the depths of ocean!) has often reminded me ofwhat the Lord says to Mephistopheles in the Prologue to _Faust_. Afterobserving that, of all the spirits that deny, He finds a knave the leastof a bore, the Lord proceeds:

 "Des Menschen Thätigkeit kann allzuleicht erschlaffen, Er liebt sich bald die unbedingte Ruh; Drum geb' ich ihm gern den Gesellen zu, Der reizt und wirkt und muss als Teufel, schaffen. "

Is not the parallel remarkable? Man's activity, like the cod's, turnstoo readily to slumber; he is much too fond of unconditioned ease; andso the Lord gives him a comrade like a catfish, to stimulate, rouse, anddrive to creation, as a devil may. There sprawls man, by naturelethargic and torpid as a cod, prone to inactivity, content to lie incomfort swallowing all that comes, with wide-open mouth, big enough togulp himself down, if that could be. There he sprawls, rotting at ease, and rapidly deteriorating in body and soul, till one little demon of thespiritual deep is inserted into his surroundings, and makes him firm, brisk, and wholesome in a trice--"in half a jiffy, " as people used tosay. 

"Der reizt und wirkt"--the words necessarily recall a much older parablethan the catfish--the parable of the little leaven inserted in a pieceof dough until it leavens the whole lump by its "working, " as cooks andbakers know. Goethe may have been thinking of that. Leaven is a sour, almost poisonous kind of stuff, working as though by magic, moving in amysterious way, causing the solid and impracticable dough to upheave, torise, expand, bubble, swell, and spout like a volcano. To all racesthere has been something devilish, or at least demonic, in the action ofleaven. It is true that in the ancient parable the comparison laybetween leaven and the kingdom of heaven. The kingdom of heaven was likea little leaven that leavens the whole lump, and Goethe says thatMephisto, one of the Princes of Evil, also works like that. But whetherwe call the leaven a good or evil thing makes little difference. Theeffect of its mysterious powers of movement and upheaval is in the endsalutary. It works upon the lump just as the catfish, that demon of thedeep, preserves the lumpish cod from the apathy and degeneration ofcomfort, and as Mephisto, that demon of the world, acts upon thelethargy of mankind working within him, stimulating, driving toproduction as a devil may. 

"A society needs to have a ferment in it, " said Professor Sumner ofYale, in his published essays. Sometimes, he said, the ferment takes theform of an enthusiastic delusion or an adventurous folly; sometimesmerely of economic opportunity and hope of luxury; in other agesfrequently of war. And, indeed, it was of war that he was writing, though himself a pacific man, and in all respects a thinker ofobstinate caution. A society needs to have a ferment in it--a leaven, acatfish, a Mephisto, the queer, unpleasant, disturbing touch of thekingdom of heaven. Take any period of calm and rest in the life of theworld or the history of the arts. Take that period which greathistorians have agreed to praise as the happiest of human ages--the ageof the Antonines. How benign and unruffled it was! What bland andleisurely culture could be enjoyed in exquisite villas beside theMediterranean, or in flourishing municipalities along the Rhone! Many acultivated and comfortable man must have wished that reasonable peace tolast for ever. The civilised world was bathed in the element of calm, the element of gentle acquiescence. All looked so quiet, soimperturbable; and yet all the time the little catfish of Christianity(or the little leaven, if you will) was at its work, irritating, disturbing, stimulating with salutary energy to upheaval, to rebellion, to the soul's activity that saves from bland and reasonable despair. Like a fisherman over-anxious for the peace of the cod in his tank, thephilosophic Emperor tried to stamp the catfish down, and hoped topreserve a philosophic quietude by the martyrdom of Christians in thoseflourishing municipalities on the Rhone. Of course he failed, as eventhe most humane and philosophic persecutors usually fail, but had hesucceeded, would not the soul of Europe have degenerated into aflabbiness, lethargy, and desperate peace?

Take history where you will, when a new driving force enters the world, it is a nuisance, a disturbing upheaval, a troubling agitation, aplaguey fish. Think how the tiresome Reformation disturbed the artistsof Italy and Renaissance scholars; or how Cromwell disgusted thehalf-way moderates, how the Revolution jogged the sentimental theoristsof France, how Kant shattered the Supreme Being of the Deists, and Byronset the conventions of art and life tottering aghast. Take it where youwill, the approach of the soul's catfish is watched with apprehensionand violent dislike, all the more because it saves from torpor. It savesfrom what Hamlet calls--

 "That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat-- Of habits devil. "

In the Futurist exhibition held in Sackville Street in 1912, one of themost notable pictures was called "Rebellion. " The catalogue told us thatit represented "the collision of two forces, that of the revolutionaryelement made up of enthusiasm and red lyricism against the force ofinertia and the reactionary resistance of tradition. " The picture showeda crowd of scarlet figures rushing forward in a wedge. Before them wentsuccessive wedge-shaped lines, impinging upon dull blue. Theyrepresented, we were told, the vibratory waves of the revolutionaryelement in motion. The force of inertia and the reactionary resistanceof tradition were pictured as rows on rows of commonplace streets. Thewaves of the revolutionary element had knocked them all askew. Thoughthey still stood firmly side by side to all appearance (to keep upappearances, as we say) they were all knocked aslant, "just as a boxeris bent double by receiving a blow in the wind. "

We may be sure that inertia in all its monotonous streets does not likesuch treatment. It likes it no more than the plethoric cod likes thecatfish close behind its tail. And it is no consolation either toinertia or cod to say that this disturbing element serves an ultimategood, rendering it alert, firm, and wholesome of flesh. Howeversalutary, the catfish is far from popular among the placid residents ofthe tank, and it is fortunate that neither in tanks nor streets can theadvisability of catfish or change be submitted to the referendum of theinert. In neither case would the necessary steps for advance in healthand activity be adopted. To be sure, it is just possible to overdo thenumber of catfish in one tank. At present in this country, for instance, and, indeed, in the whole world, there seem to be more catfish than cod, and the resulting liveliness is perhaps a little excessive, a little"jumpy. " But in the midst of all the violence, turmoil, and upheaval, itis hopeful to remember that of the deepest and most salutary changewhich Europe has known it was divinely foretold that it would bring notpeace but a sword. 

II

REBELLION

For certain crimes mankind has ordained penalties of exceptionalseverity, in order to emphasise a general abhorrence. In Rome, forexample, a parricide, or the murderer of any near relation, was throwninto deep water, tied up in a sack together with a dog, a cock, a viper, and a monkey, which were probably symbols of his wickedness, and musthave given him a lively time before death supervened. Similarly, theEnglish law, always so careful of domestic sanctitude in women, providedthat a wife who killed her husband should be dragged by a horse to theplace of execution and burnt alive. We need not recall the penaltiesconsidered most suitable for the crime of religious difference--therack, the fire, the boiling oil, the tearing pincers, the embrace of thespiky virgin, the sharpened edge of stone on which the doubter sat, withincreasing weights tied to his feet, until his opinions upon heavenlymysteries should improve under the stress of pain. When we come torebellion, the ordinance of English law was more express. In the case ofa woman, the penalty was the same as for killing her husband--that crimebeing defined as "petty treason, " since the husband is to her the sacredemblem of God and King. So a woman rebel was burnt alive as she stood, head, quarters, and all. But male rebels were specially treated, as maybe seen from the sentence passed upon them until the reign of GeorgeIII. [1] These were the words that Judge Jeffreys and Scroggs, forinstance, used to roll out with enjoyable eloquence upon the dazedagricultural labourer before them:

 "The sentence of the Court now is that you be conveyed from hence to the place from where you came, and from there be drawn to the place of execution upon hurdles; that you be hanged by the neck; that you be cut down alive; that your bowels be taken out and burnt in your view; that your head be severed from your body; that your body be divided into four quarters, and your quarters be at the disposition of the King: and may the God of infinite mercy be merciful to your soul. Amen. "

"Why all this cookery?" once asked a Scottish rebel, quoted by Swift. But the sentence, with its confiding appeal to a higher Court thanEngland's, was literally carried out upon rebels in this country for atleast four and a half centuries. Every detail of it (and one still moredisgusting) is recorded in the execution of Sir William Wallace, thenational hero of Scotland, more generally known to the English of thetime as "the man of Belial, " who was executed at Tyburn in 1305. [2] Therebels of 1745 were, apparently, the last upon whom the full ritual wasperformed, and Elizabeth Gaunt, burnt alive at Tyburn in 1685 forsheltering a conspirator in the Rye House Plot, was the last woman up tonow intentionally put to death in this country for a purely politicaloffence. The long continuance of so savage a sentence is proof of theabhorrence in which the crime of rebellion has been held. And in manyminds the abhorrence still subsists. Sir James Fitzjames Stephen, forinstance, one of our greatest authorities on criminal law, wrote in1880:

 "My opinion is that we have gone too far in laying capital punishment aside, and that it ought to be inflicted in many cases not at present capital. I think, for instance, that political offences should in some cases be punished with death. People should be made to understand that to attack the existing state of society is equivalent to risking their own lives. "[3]

Among ourselves the opinion of this high authority has slowly declined. No one supposed that Doctor Lynch, for instance, would be executed as arebel for commanding the Irish Brigade that fought for the Boers duringthe South African War, though he was condemned to death by the highestCourt in the kingdom. No Irish rebel has been executed for about acentury, unless his offence involved some one's death. On the otherhand, during the Boer War, the devastation of the country and thedestruction of the farms were frequently defended on the ground that, after the Queen's proclamations annexing the two Republics, all theinhabitants were rebels; and some of the extreme newspapers even urgedthat for that reason no Boer with arms in his hand should be givenquarter. On the strength of a passage in Scripture, Mr. Kipling, at thetime, wrote a pamphlet identifying rebellion with witchcraft. A few CapeBoers who took up arms for the assistance of their race were shotwithout benefit of prisoners of war. And in India during 1907 and 1908men of unblemished private character were spirited away to jail withoutcharge or trial and kept there for months--a fate that could not havebefallen any but political prisoners. 

Outside our own Empire, I have myself witnessed the suppression ofrebellions in Crete and Macedonia by the destruction of villages, themassacre of men, women, and children, and the violation of women andgirls, many of whom disappeared into Turkish harems. And I havewitnessed similar suppressions of rebellion by Russia in Moscow, in theBaltic Provinces, and the Caucasus, by the burning of villages, theslaughter of prisoners, and the violation of women. All this hashappened within the last sixteen years, the worst part within nine and ahalf. Indeed, in Russia the punishments of exile, torture, and hanginghave not ceased since 1905, though the death penalty has been longabolished there except for political offences. In the summer of 1909 Iwas also present during the suppression of the outbreak in Barcelona, which culminated in the execution of Señor Ferrer under a militaryCourt. 

From these recent events it is evident that Sir James Stephen'sattitude towards rebellion is shared by many civilised governments. Belligerents--that is to say, subjects of one State engaged in war withanother State--have now nominally secured certain rights underInternational Law. The first Hague Conference (1899) framed a"Convention with respect to the Laws and Customs of Wars on Land" whichforbade the torture or cruel treatment of prisoners, the refusal ofquarter, the destruction of private property, unless such destructionwere imperatively demanded by the necessities of war, the pillage oftowns taken by assault, disrespect to religion and family honour(including, I suppose, the honour of women and girls), and theinfliction of penalties on the population owing to the acts ofindividuals for which it could not be regarded as collectivelyresponsible. 

In actual war this Convention is not invariably observed, as was seen atTripoli in 1911, but in the case of rebellion there is no suchConvention at all. I have known all those regulations broken withimpunity, and in most cases without protest from the other Powers. Justas, under the old law of England, the rebel was executed withcircumstances of special atrocity, so at the present time, under thename of crushing rebellion, men are tortured and flogged, no quarter isgiven, they are executed without trial, their private property ispillaged, their towns and villages are destroyed, their women violated, their children killed, penalties are imposed on districts owing to actsfor which the population is not collectively responsible--and nothingsaid. That each Power is allowed to deal with its own subjects in itsown way is becoming an accepted rule of international amenity. It wasnot the rule of Cromwell, nor of Canning, nor of Gladstone, but it hasnow been consecrated by the Liberal Government which came into power in1906. 

In the summer of 1909, it is true, the rule was broken. Mulai Hafid, Sultan of Morocco, was reported to be torturing his rebel prisonersaccording to ancestral custom, and rumours came that he had followed aFrench king's example in keeping the rebel leader, El Roghi, in a cagelike a tame eagle, or had thrown him to the lions to be torn in piecesbefore the eyes of the royal concubines. Then the European Powerscombined to protest in the name of humanity. It was something gained. But no great courage was required to rebuke the Sultan of Morocco, ifEngland, France, Germany, Russia, Italy, and Spain combined to do it;and his country was so desirable for its minerals, barley, and datesthat a little courage in dealing with him might even prove lucrative inthe end. When Russia treated her rebellious subjects with tortures andexecutions more horrible than anything reported from Morocco, the casewas very different. Then alliances and understandings were confirmed, substantial loans were arranged in France and England, Kings andEmperors visited the Tsar, and the cannon of our fleet welcomed him toour waters amid the applause of our newspapers and the congratulationsof a Liberal Government. 

It is evident, then, that, in Sir James Stephen's words, subjects are inmost countries still made to understand that to attack the existingstate of society is equivalent to risking their own lives. Under our ownrule, no matter what statesmen like Gladstone and John Morley have inpast years urged in favour of the mitigation of penalties for politicaloffences, such offences are, as a matter of fact, punished with specialseverity; unless, of course, the culprit is intimately connected withgreat riches, like Dr. Jameson, who was imprisoned as a first-classmisdemeanant for the incalculable crime of making private war uponanother State; or unless the culprit is intimately connected with votes, like Mr. Ginnell, the Irish cattle-driver, who was treated with similarpoliteness. Otherwise, until quite lately, even in this country weexecuted a political criminal with unusual pain. In India we recentlykept political suspects imprisoned without charge or trial. And inEngland we have lately sentenced women to terms of imprisonment thatcertainly would never have been imposed for their offences on any butpolitical offenders. 

This exceptional severity springs from a primitive and naturalconception of the State--a conception most logically expressed byHobbes of Malmesbury under the similitude of a "mortal God" orLeviathan, the almost omnipotent and unlimited source of authority. 

 "The Covenant of the State, " says Hobbes, "is made in such a manner as if every man should say to every man: 'I authorise and give up my right of governing myself to this man, or to this assembly of men, on this condition, that thou give up thy right to him and authorise all his actions in like manner. ' This done, the multitude so united is called a Commonwealth, in Latin Civitas. This is the generation of that great Leviathan, that mortal God, to whom we owe, under the immortal God, our peace and defence. "

Hobbes considered the object of this Covenant to be peace and commondefence. "Without a State, " he said, "the life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. " The preservation of the State was to him oftranscendent importance. 

 "Loss of liberty, " he wrote, "is really no inconvenience, for it is the only means by which we have any possibility of preserving ourselves. For if every man were allowed the liberty of following his own conscience, in such differences of consciences, they would not live together in peace an hour. "

Under such a system, it follows that rebellion is the worst of crimes. Hobbes calls it a war renewed--a renouncing of the Covenant. He was soterrified of it that he dwelt upon the danger of reading Greek and Romanhistory (probably having Plutarch and his praise of rebels most inmind)--"which venom, " he says, "I will not doubt to compare to thebiting of a mad dog. " In all leaders of rebellion he found only threeconditions--to be discontented with their own lot, to be eloquentspeakers, and to be men of mean judgment and capacity _(De CorporePolitico_, II. ). And as to punishment:

 "On rebels, " he said, "vengeance is lawfully extended, not only to the fathers, but also to the third and fourth generations not yet in being, and consequently innocent of the fact for which they are afflicted. "

We may take Hobbes as the philosopher of the extreme idea of the Stateand the consequent iniquity of rebellion. His is the ideal of the Hive, in which the virgin workers devote their whole lives without complaintto the service of the Queen and her State-supported grubs, while thedrones are mercilessly slaughtered as soon as one of them has fulfilledhis rapturous but suicidal functions for the future swarm. This idealfound its highest human example in the Spartan State, which trained itsmen to have no private existence at all, and even to visit their ownwives by stealth. But we find the ideal present in some degree amongCentral Africans when they bury valuable slaves and women alive withtheir chief; and among the Japanese when mothers kill themselves iftheir sons are prevented from dying for their country; and among theGermans when the drill-sergeant shouts his word of command. 

In fact, all races and countries are disciples of Hobbes when theyaddress the Head of the State as "Your Majesty" or "Your Excellence, "when they decorate him with fur and feathers, and put a gold hat on hishead and a gold walking-stick in his hand, and gird him with a swordthat he never uses, and play him the same tune wherever he goes, andspread his platform with crimson though it is clean, and bow before himthough he is dishonourable, and call him gracious though he isnasty-tempered, and august though he may be a fool. In the firstinstance, we go through all this make-believe because the Leviathan ofthe State is necessary for peace and self-defence, and without it ourlife would be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. But we furtherendow the State with a personality we can almost see and handle, and weregard it as something that is able not only to protect our peace but toshed a reflected splendour on ourselves, giving us an importance not ourown--just as schoolboys glory in their school, or Churchmen in theirChurch, or cricketers in their county, or fox-hunters in their pack ofhounds. 

It is this conception that makes rebellion so rare and so dangerous. Inhives it seems never to occur. In rookeries, the rebels are pecked todeath and their homes torn in pieces. In human communities we have seenhow they are treated. Rebellion is the one crime for which there is noforgiveness--the one crime for which hanging is too good. 

Why is it, then, that all the world loves a rebel? Provided he isdistant enough in time and space, all the world loves a rebel. Who arethe figures in history round whom the people's imagination has woven thefondest dreams? Are they not such rebels as Deborah and Judith[4] andJoan of Arc; as Harmodius and Aristogeiton, the Gracchi and Brutus, William Tell, William Wallace, Simon de Montfort, Rienzi, Wat Tyler, Jack Cade, Shan O'Neill, William the Silent, John Hampden and Pym, theHighlanders of the Forty-five, Robert Emmet and Wolf Tone and Parnell, Bolivar, John Brown of Harper's Ferry, Kossuth, Mazzini and Garibaldi, Danton, Victor Hugo, and the Russian revolutionists? These are haphazardfigures of various magnitude, but all have the quality of rebellion incommon, and all have been honoured with affectionate glory, romance, andeven a mythology of worship. 

So, too, the most attractive periods in history have been times ofrebellion--the Reformation in Germany, the Revolt of the Netherlandsfrom Spain, the Civil Wars in England, the War of Independence inAmerica, the prolonged revolution in Russia. Within the last hundredyears alone, how numerous the rebellions have been, as a rule howsuccessful, and in every case how much applauded, except by the dominantauthority attacked! We need only recall the French revolutions of 1832, 1848, and 1870 to 1871, including the Commune; the Greek War ofIndependence up to 1829; the Polish insurrections of 1830, 1863, and1905; the liberation of the Danubian Principalities, 1858; of Bulgariaand Thessaly, 1878; of Crete, 1898; the revolution in Hungary, 1848; therestoration of Italy, 1849 to 1860; the revolution in Spain, 1868; theindependence of the South American States, 1821 to 1825; the revolutionin Russia, Finland, the Caucasus and Baltic Provinces, 1905; therevolution in Persia, 1907 to 1909; and the revolution of the YoungTurks, 1908 to 1909. Among these we must also count the Nationalistmovements in Ireland, Egypt, and India, as well as the present movementof women against the Government in our own country. 

Under these various instances two distinct kinds of rebellion areobviously included--the rising of subject nationalities against adominant power, as in Greece, Italy, the Caucasus, India, and Ireland;and the rising of subjects against their own Government, as in France, Russia, Persia, and Turkey, or in England in the case of theSuffragettes. It is difficult to say which kind is the more detested andpunished with the greater severity by the central authority attacked. Was the Nationalist rising in the Caucasus or the Baltic Provincessuppressed with greater brutality than the almost simultaneous rising ofRussian subjects in Moscow? I witnessed all three, and I think it was;chiefly because soldiers have less scruple in the slaughter andviolation of people whose language they do not understand. Did ourGovernment feel greater animosity towards the recent Indian movement orthe Irish movement of thirty years ago than towards the rioters for theReform Bills of 1832 and 1867? I think they did. Vengeance uponexternal or Nationalist rebels is incited by racial antipathy. But, onthe other hand, the outside world is more ready to applaud a Nationalistrebellion, especially if it succeeds, and we feel a more romanticaffection for William Tell or Garibaldi than for Oliver Cromwell orDanton; I suppose because it is easier to imagine the splendour ofliberty when a subject race throws off a foreign yoke. 

So the history of rebellion involves us in a mesh of contradictions. Rebels have been generally regarded as deserving more terrible penaltiesthan other criminals, yet all the world loves a rebel, at a distance. Nationalist rebellions are crushed with even greater ferocity than theinternal rebellions of a State, and yet the leaders of Nationalistrebellions are regarded by the common world with a special affection ofhero-worship. Obviously, we are here confronted with two differentstandards of conduct. On one side is the standard of Government, theStates and Law, which denounces the rebel, and especially theNationalist rebel, as the worst of sinners; on the other side we havethe standard of the individual, the soul and liberty, which loves arebel, especially a Nationalist rebel, and denies that he is a sinner atall. 

Let us leave the Nationalist rebel, whose justification is now almostuniversally admitted (except by the dominant Power), even if he isunsuccessful, and consider only the rebel inside the State--the rebelagainst his own Leviathan--whose position is far more dubious. Job'sLeviathan appears to have been a more fearsome and powerful beast thanthe elephant, but in India the elephant is taken as the symbol ofwisdom, and when an Indian boy goes in for a municipal examination, heprays to the elephant-god for assistance. Now the ideal State of theelephant is the herd, and yet this herd of wisdom sometimes develops arebel or "rogue" who seems to be striving after some fresh manner ofexistence and works terrible havoc among the elephantine conventions. Usually the herd combines to kill him and there is an end of the matter. Yet I sometimes think that the occasional and inexplicable appearance ofthe "rogue" at intervals during many thousand years may really have beenthe origin of that wisdom to which the Indians pray. 

Similarly, mankind, which sometimes surpasses even the elephant inwisdom, has been continually torn between the idol of the Herd and theprofanity of the rebel or Rogue, and it is perhaps through therebel--the variation, as Darwin would call him--that man makes hisadvance. The rebel is what distinguishes our States and cities from thebeehives and ant-heaps to which they are commonly compared. The progressof ants and bees appears to have been arrested. They seem to havedeveloped a completely socialised polity thousands of years ago, perhapsbefore man existed, and then to have stopped--stopped _dead_, as we say. But mankind has never stopped. If a country's progress is arrested--if apeople becomes simply conservative in habits, they may die slowly, likeEgypt, or quickly, likes Sparta, but they die and disappear, unlessinspired by new life, like Japan, or by revolution, like France andpossibly Russia. For, as we are almost too frequently told, change isthe law of human life. 

And may not this be just the very reason we are seeking for--the veryreason why all the world loves a rebel, at a distance? Perhaps the worldunconsciously recognises in him a symbol of change, a symbol of the lawof life. We may not like him very near us--not uncomfortably near, as wesay. For most change is uncomfortable. When I was shut up for many weeksin a London hospital, I felt a shrinking horror of going out, as thoughmy skin had become too tender for this rough world. After I had beenshut up for four months in a siege, daily exposed to shells, bullets, fever, and starvation, I felt no relief when the relief came, but rathera dread of confronting the perils of ordinary life. So quickly does thecurse of stagnation fall upon us. And in support of stagnation arealways ranged the immense forces of Society, the prosperous, thewell-to-do, the people who are content if to-morrow is exactly liketo-day. In support of stagnation stands the power of every kind ofgovernment--the King who sticks to his inherited importance, the Lordswho stick to their lands and titles, the experts who stick to theirtheories, the officials who stick to their incomes, routine, andleisure, the Members of Parliament who stick to their seats. 

But even more powerful than all these forces in support of stagnation isthe enormous host of those whose first thought is necessarily theirdaily bread--men and women who dare not risk a change for fear ofto-morrow's hunger--people for whom the crust is too uncertain for itscertainty to be questioned. We often ask why it is that the poor--theworking-people--endure their poverty and perpetual toil withoutoverwhelming revolt. The reason is that they have their eyes fixed onthe evening meal, and for the life of them they dare not lose sight ofit. 

So the rebel need never be afraid of going too fast. The violence ofinertia--the suction of the stagnant bog--is almost invincible. Likethe horse, we are creatures of cast-iron habit. We abandon ourselveseasily to careless acquiescence. We make much of external laws, and, like a mother bemused with torpid beer when she overlays her child, westifle the law of the soul because its crying is such a nuisance. Like anew baby, a new thought is fractious, restless, and incalculable. Itsaps our strength; it gives us no peace; it exposes a wider surface topain. There is something indecent, uncontrolled, and unconscionableabout it. Our friends like it best when it is asleep, and they like usbetter when it is buried. 

There is very little danger of rebellion going too far. The barriersconfronting it are too solid, and the Idol of the Herd is too carefullyenshrined. A perpetual rebellion of every one against everything wouldgive us an insecure, though exciting, existence, and we are protected byman's disposition to obedience and his solid love of custom. Against thefirst vedettes of rebellion the army of routine will always muster, andit gathers to itself the indifferent, the startled cowards, the thinkerswhose thought is finished, the lawyers whose laws are fixed--aninnumerable host. They proceed to treat the rebels as we have seen. Inall ages, rebellion has been met by the standing armies of permanence. If captured, it is put to the ordeal of fire and water, so as to trywhat stuff it is made of. Faith is rebellion's only inspiration andsupport, and a deal of faith is needed to resist the battle and thetest. It was in thinking of the faith of rebels that an early Christianwriter told of those who, having walked by faith, have in all ages beentortured, not accepting deliverance; and others have had trial ofmockings and scourgings, and of bonds and imprisonment; they werestoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword;they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented (of whom the world was not worthy); they wanderedin deserts and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. [5] Thatis the test and the reward of faith. So strong is the grip of theLeviathan, so determined is mankind to allow no change in thought orlife to survive if he can possibly choke it. 

One of the most learned and inspiring of writers on political philosophyhas said in a book published in 1910:

 "It is advantageous to the organism [of the Slate] that the rights of suggestion, protest, veto, and revolt should be accorded to its members. "[6]

That sounds very simple. We should all like to agree with it. But underthat apparently innocent sentence one of the most perplexing of humanproblems lies hidden: what are the rights of liberty, what are thelimits of revolt? Only in a State of ideal anarchy can liberty becomplete and revolt universal, because there would be nothing to revoltagainst. And anarchy, though it is the goal of every man's desire, seemsstill far away, being, indeed, the Kingdom of Heaven, which that Godrules whose service is perfect freedom and which only angels arequalified to inhabit. For though the law of the indwelling spirit is theonly law that ought to count, not many of us are so little lower thanthe angels as to be a law unto ourselves. 

In a really democratic State, where the whole people had equal voicesin the government and all could exercise free power of persuasion, active rebellion, I think, would be very rare and seldom justified. Butthere are, I believe, only four democratic States in the world. All fourare small, and of these Finland is overshadowed by despotism, andAustralia and New Zealand have their foreign relations controlled andprotected by the mother country. Hitherto the experiment of a reallydemocratic government has never been tried on this planet, except since1909 in Norway, and even there with some limitations; and thoughdemocracy might possibly avert the necessity of rebellion, I ratherdoubt whether it can be called advantageous to any State to accord toits members the right of revolt. The State that allows revolt--thattakes no notice of it--has abdicated; it has ceased to exist. Butwhether advantageous or not, no State has ever accorded that right inmatters of government; nor does mankind accord it, without a prolongedstruggle, even in religious doctrine and ordinary life. Every revolt istested as by fire, and we do not otherwise know the temper of the rebelsor the value of their purpose. Is it a trick? Is it a fad? Is it a plotfor contemptible ends? Is it a riot--a moment's effervescence--or arevolution glowing from volcanic depths? We only know by the tests ofridicule, suffering, and death. In his "Ode to France, " written in 1797, Coleridge exclaimed:

 "The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion. "

They rebel in vain because the Sensual and the Dark cannot hold out longagainst the pressure of the Herd--against the taunts of Society, againstpoverty, the loss of friends, the ruin of careers, the discomforts ofprison, the misery of hunger and ill-treatment, and the terror of death. It is only by the supreme triumph over such obstacles that revoltvindicates its righteousness. 

And so, if any one among us is driven to rebellion by an irresistiblenecessity of soul, I would not have him wonder at the treatment he willcertainly receive. Such treatment is the hideous but inevitable test ofhis rebellion's value, for so persecuted they the rebels that werebefore him. Whether he rebels against a despotism like the Naples offifty years ago or the Russia of to-day; or whether he rebels againstthe opinions or customs of his fellow-citizens, he will inevitablysuffer, and the success that justifies rebellion may not be of thisworld. But if his cause is high, the shame of his suffering willultimately be attributed to the government or to the majority, never tohimself. There is a sense in which rebellion never fails. It is almostalways a symptom of intolerable wrong, for the penalties are so terriblethat it would not be attempted without terrible provocation. "Rebellion, " as Burke said, "does not arise from a desire for change, but from the impossibility of suffering more. " It concentrates attentionupon the wrong. At the worst, though it be stamped into a grave, itsspirit goes marching on, and the inspiration of all history would belost were it not for rebellions, no matter whether they have succeededor failed. 

It may be said that if the State cannot accord the right of revolt, thedoor is left open to all the violences, cruelty, and injustice withwhich Rebellion is at present suppressed. But that does not follow. TheLiberal leaders of the last generation endeavoured to draw adistinction whereby political offenders should be treated better thanordinary criminals rather than worse, and, though their successors wentback from that position, we may perhaps discern a certain uneasinessbehind their appearance of cruelty, at all events in the case of titledand distinguished offenders. In war we have lately introduced definiterules for the exclusion of cruelty and injustice, and in some cases therules are observed. The same thing could be done in rebellion. I haveoften urged that the rights of war, now guaranteed to belligerents, should be extended to rebels. The chances are that a rebellion or civilwar has more justice on its side than international war, and there is nomore reason why men should be tortured and refused quarter, or why womenshould be violated and have their children killed before their eyes bythe agents of their own government than by strangers. Yet these thingsare habitually done, and my simple proposal appears ludicrouslyimpossible. Just in the same way, sixty years ago, it was thoughtludicrously impossible to deprive a man of his right to whip his slave. 

But in any case, whether or not the rebel is to remain for all time anobject of special vengeance to the State and Society, he hascompensations. If he wins, the more barbarous his suppression has been, so much the finer is his triumph, so much the sweeter the wild justiceof his revenge. It is a high reward when the slow world comes swinginground to your despised and persecuted cause, while the defeatedpersecutor whines at your feet that at heart he was with you all thetime. If the rebel fails--well, it is a terrible thing to fail inrebellion. Bodily or social execution is almost inevitably the result. But, if his cause has been high, whether he wins or loses, he will haveenjoyed a comradeship such as is nowhere else to be found--acomradeship in a common service that transfigures daily life and takessuffering and disgrace for honour. His spirit will have been illuminedby a hope and an indignation that make the usual aims and satisfactionsof the world appear trivial and fond. To him it has been granted to handon the torch of that impassioned movement and change by which the soulof man appears slowly to be working out its transfiguration. And if hedies in the race, he may still hope that some glimmer of freedom willshine where he is buried. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The following extract from _Drakard's Paper_ for Feb. 23, 1813, shows the attempt at reform just a century ago, and the oppositionto reform characteristic of officials: "House of Commons, Wed. , Feb. 17. Sir Samuel Romilly rose, in pursuance of his notice, to move for leaveto bring in a bill to repeal an Act of King William, making it capitalto steal property above the value of 5s. In a dwelling house, &c. .. .. 

"The next bill he proposed to introduce related to a part of thepunishment for the crime of high treason, which was not at presentcarried into execution. The sentence for this crime, however, was, thatthe criminal should be dragged upon a hurdle to the place of execution, that he should be hanged by the neck, but cut down before he was dead, that his bowels should then be taken out and burnt before his face. Asto that part of the sentence which relates to embowelling, it was neverexecuted now, but this omission was owing to accident, or to the mercyof the executioner, not to the discretion of the judge. 

"The Solicitor-General stated general objections to the plan of hislearned friend. 

"Leave was given to bring in the bills. "]

[Footnote 2: See _The History of Tyburn_, by Alfred Marks. ]

[Footnote 3: _History of the Criminal Law of England_, vol. I. P. 478. ]

[Footnote 4: Judith was not strictly a rebel, except that Nabuchodonosorclaimed sovereignty over all the world and was avenging himself on allthe earth. See Judith ii. 1. ]

[Footnote 5: Hebrews xi. 35-38. ]

[Footnote 6: _The Crisis of Liberalism_, by J. A. Hobson, p. 82. ]

III

"EITHER COWARDS OR UNHAPPY"

Present grandeur is always hard to realise. The past and the distant areeasily perceived. Like a far-off mountain, their glory is conspicuous, and the iridescent vapours of romance quickly gather round it. The mainoutline of a distant peak is clear, for rival heights are plainlysurpassed, and sordid details, being invisible, cannot detract from itor confuse. The comfortable spectator may contemplate it in peace. Itdoes not exact from him quick decisions or disquieting activity. Thestorms that sweep over it contribute to his admiration without wettinghis feet, and his high estimate of its beauty and greatness may beenjoyed without apprehension of an avalanche. So the historian is like apicturesque spectator cultivating his sense of the sublime upon adistant prospect of the Himalayas. It is easy for him to admire, and theappreciation of a far-off heroic movement gives him quite a pleasanttime. At his leisure he may descant with enthusiasm upon the forlorncourage of sacrificed patriots, and hymn, amidst general applause, thebattles of freedom long since lost or won. 

But in the thick of present life it is different. The air is obscured bymurky doubt, and unaccustomed shapes stand along the path, indistinguishable under the light malign. Uncertain hope scarcelyglimmers, nor can the termination of the struggle be divined. Tranquillity, giving time for thought, and the security that leaves thejudgment clear, have both gone, and may never return. The ears arehaunted with the laughter of vulgarity, and the judicious discouragementof prudence. Is there not as much to be said for taking one line asanother? If there is talk of conflict, were it not better to leave theissue in the discriminating hands of One whose judgment is indisputable?Yet in the very midst of hesitations, mockery, and good advice, the nextstep must be taken, the decision must be swift, the choice is brief buteternal. There is no clear evidence of heroism around. The lighters donot differ much from the grotesque, the foolish, and the braggart ruckof men. No wonder that culture smiles and passes aloof upon its pellucidand elevating course. Culture smiles; the valet de chambre lurking inmost hearts sniffs at the name of hero; hideous applause comes fromsecurely sheltered crowds who hound victims to the combat, bloodthirstyas spectators at a bull-fight. In the sweat and twilight and crudity ofthe actual event, when so much is merely ludicrous and discomforting, and all is enveloped in the element of fear, it is rare to perceive aglory shining, or to distinguish greatness amid the mud of contumely andcommonplace. 

Take the story of Italy's revival--the "Resurrection, " as Italians callit. In the summer of 1911, Italy was celebrating her jubilee of nationalrebellion, and English writers who spend their years, day by day or weekby week, sneering at freedom, betraying nationality, and demandingvengeance on rebels, burst into ecstatic rhapsodies about that gloriousbut distant uprising. They raised the old war-cry of liberty overbattle-fields long silent; they extolled to heaven the renown of therebellious dead; their very periods glowed with Garibaldian red, white, and green; and rising to Byronic exaltation they concluded theirnationalist effusions by adjuring freedom's weather-beaten flag:

 "Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind!"

So they cried, echoing the voice of noble ghosts. But where in thescenes of present life around them have they hailed that torn but flyingbanner? What have they said or done for freedom's emblem in Persia, orin Morocco, or in Turkey? What support have they given it in Finland, orin the Caucasus, or in the Baltic Provinces? To come within our ownsphere, what ecstatic rhapsodies have they composed to greet the risingnationalism of Ireland, or of India, or of Egypt? Or, in this countryherself, what movement of men or of women striving to be free have theywelcomed with their paeans of joy? Not once have they perceived a gloryin liberty's cause to-day. Wherever a rag of that torn banner fluttered, they have denounced and stamped it down, declaring it should fly nomore. Their admiration and enthusiasm are reserved for a buried past, and over triumphant rebellion they will sentimentalise for pages, provided it is securely bestowed in some historic age that can troublethem no more. 

Leaving them to their peace, let us approach a great name among ourEnglish singers of liberty. Swinburne stands in the foremost rank. In acollection of "English Songs of Italian Freedom, " edited by Mr. GeorgeTrevelyan, who himself has so finely narrated the epic of Italy'sredemption--in that collection Swinburne occupies a place among the veryhighest. No one has paid nobler tribute to the heroes of that amazingrevolution. No one has told the sorrow of their failures with moresympathetic rage, or has poured so burning a scorn and so deep anobloquy upon their oppressors, whether in treacherous Church or alienState. It is magnificent, but alas! it was not war. By the time hewrote, the war was over, the victory won. By that time, not only theBritish crowd, but even people of rank, office, and culture could hardlyfail to applaud. The thing had become definite and conspicuous. It wasfinished. It stood in quite visible splendour at a safe and comfortabledistance. Ridicule had fallen impotent. Hesitation could now put downits foot. Superiority could smile, not in doubt, but in welcome. Theelement of fear was dissipated. The coward could shout, "I was yourfriend all along!" If a man wrote odes at all, he could write them tofreedom then. 

 "By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, Remembering Thee, That for ages of agony hast endured and slept, And would'st not see. "

How superb! But when that was written the weeping and agony were over, the sleeper had awakened, the eyes saw. It was easy then to sing theheroism of rebellious sorrow. But afterwards, while an issue was stilldoubtful, while the cry of freedom was rising amid the obscurity, thedust, and uncertainty of actual combat, with how blind a scorn did thatgreat poet of freedom pour upon Irishman and Boer a poison as virulentas he had once poured upon the priests and kings of Italy!

Let us emerge from the depression of such common blindness, and recallthe memory of one whose vision never failed even in the midst of presentgloom to detect the spark of freedom. A few great names stand besidehis. Shelley, Landor, the Brownings, all gave the cause of Italy greatand, in one case, the most exquisite verse, while the conflict wasuncertain still. Even the distracted and hesitating soul of Clough, amidthe dilettante contemplation of the arts in Rome, was rightly stirred. The poem that declared, "'Tis better to have fought and lost than neverto have fought at all, " displayed in him a rare decision, while, evenamong his hideous hexameters, we find the great satiric line--fit mottofor spectators at the bull-fights of freedom--"So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs!" But the name of Byron risesabove them all, not merely that he alone showed himself capable of deed, but that the deed gave to his words a solidity and concrete power suchas deeds always give. First of Englishmen, as Mr. Trevelyan says, Byronperceived that a living Italy was struggling beneath the outwardsemblance of Metternich's "order"; and as early as 1821 he prepared tojoin the Carbonari of Naples in their revolt for Italian liberty:

 "I suppose that they consider me, " he wrote, "as a depot to be sacrificed, in case of accidents. It is no great matter, supposing that Italy would he liberated, who or what is sacrificed. It is a grand object--the very _poetry_ of politics. Only think--a free Italy!"

That was written in freedom's darkest age, between Waterloo and theappearance of Mazzini, and that grand object was not to be reached forforty years. In the meantime, true to his guiding principle:

 "Then battle for freedom whenever you can, And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted, "

Byron had sacrificed himself for Greece as nobly as he was prepared tosacrifice himself for Italy. It was a time of darkness hardly visible. In the very year when Byron witnessed the collapse of the Carbonarirebellion, Leopardi, as Mr. Trevelyan tells us, wrote to his sister onher marriage: "The children you will have must be either cowards orunhappy; choose the unhappy. " The hope of freedom appeared extinct. Tyrants, as Byron wrote, could be conquered but by tyrants, and freedomfound no champion. The Italians themselves were merged in the slime ofdespairing satisfaction, and he watched them creeping, "crouching, andcrab-like, " along their streets. But through that dark gate ofunhappiness which Leopardi named as the one choice for all but cowards, led the thin path that freedom must always take. Great as were Mazzini'sservices to all Europe, his greatest service to his countrymen lay inarousing them from the slough of contentment to a life of hardship, sacrifice, and unhappiness. When, after the loss of Rome in 1849, Garibaldi called for volunteers to accompany his hazardous retreat, hesaid to them: "I offer neither pay, nor quarters, nor provisions; Ioffer hunger, thirst, forced marches, battles, and death. " Swinburnehimself may have had those words in mind when, writing also ofGaribaldi, he said of freedom:

 "She, without shelter or station, She, beyond limit or bar, Urges to slumberless speed Armies that famish, that bleed, Sowing their lives for her seed, That their dust may rebuild her a nation, That their souls may relight her a star. "

"Happy are all they that follow her, " he continued, and in a sense wemay well deem their fate happiness. But it is in the sense of whatCarlyle in a memorable passage called the allurements to action. "It isa calumny on men, " he wrote, "to say they are roused to heroic action byease, hope of pleasure, reward in this world or the next. Difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, death are the allurements that act on the heartof man. " Under the spell and with the reward of those grim allurementsthe battles of freedom, so visible in the resurrection of Italy, sounrecognised in freedom's recurrent and contemporary conflicts, mustinvariably be fought. We may justly talk, if we please, of the joy insuch conflicts, but Thermopylae was a charnel, though, as Byron said, itwas a proud one; and it is always against the wind that the banner offreedom streams. 

IV

DEEDS NOT WORDS

As he wrote--as he wrote his best, while the shafts of the spiritlightened in his brain--Heine would sometimes feel a mysterious figurestanding behind him, muffled in a cloak, and holding, beneath the cloak, something that gleamed now and then like an executioner's axe. For along while he had not perceived that strange figure, when, on visitingGermany, after fourteen years' exile in Paris, as he crossed theCathedral Square in Cologne one moonlight night, he became aware that itwas following him again. Turning impatiently, he asked who he was, whyhe followed him, and what he was hiding under his cloak. In reply, thefigure, with ironic coolness, urged him not to get excited, nor to giveway to eloquent exorcism:

 "I am no antiquated ghost, " he continued. "I'm quite a practical person, always silent and calm. But I must tell you, the thoughts conceived in your soul--I carry them out, I bring them to pass. 

 "And though years may go by, I take no rest until I transform your thoughts into reality. You think; I act. 

 "You are the judge, I am the gaoler, and, like an obedient servant, I fulfil the sentence which you have ordained, even if it is unjust. 

 "In Rome of ancient days they carried an axe before the Consul. You also have your Lictor, but the axe is carried behind you. 

 "I am your Lictor, and I walk perpetually with bare executioner's axe behind you--I am the deed of your thought. "

No artist--no poet or writer, at all events--could enjoy a moreconsolatory vision. The powerlessness of the word is the burden ofwriters, and "Who hath believed our report?" cry all the prophets insuccessive lamentation. They so naturally suppose that, when truth andreason have spoken, truth and reason will prevail, but, as the years goby, they mournfully discover that nothing of the kind occurs. Man, theydiscover, does not live by truth and reason: he rather resents theintrusion of such quietly argumentative forms. When they have spoken, nothing whatever is yet accomplished, and the conflict has still tobegin. The dog returns to his own vomit; the soul convicted of sincontinues sinning, and he that was filthy is filthy still. Thence comesthe despair of all the great masters of the word. The immovable worldadmires them, it praises their style, it forms aesthetic circles fortheir perusal, and dines in their honour when they are dead. But it goeson its way immovable, grinding the poor, enslaving the slave, admiringhideousness, adulating vulgarity for its wealth and insignificance forits pedigree. Grasping, pleasure-seeking, indifferent to reason, andenamoured of the lie, so it goes on, and the masters of the word mightjust as well have hushed their sweet or thunderous voices. For, thoughthey speak with the tongue of men and angels, and have not action, whatare they but sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal?

To such a mood, how consolatory must be the vision of that muffledfigure, with the two-handed engine, always following close! And toHeine himself the consolation came with especial grace. He had beenvirulently assailed by the leaders of the party to which he regardedhimself as naturally belonging--the party for whose sake he endured thecharming exile of Paris, then at the very height of her intellectualsupremacy. The exile was charming, but unbearable dreams and memorieswould come. "When I am happy in your arms, " he wrote, "you must neverspeak to me of Germany, I cannot bear it; I have my reasons. I imploreyou, leave Germany alone. You must not plague me with these eternalquestions about home, and friends, and the way of life. I have myreasons; I cannot bear it. " All this was suffered--for a quarter of acentury it was suffered--just for an imaginary and unrealised Germanrevolution. And, if Heine was not to be counted as a Germanrevolutionist, what was the good of it all? What did the sorrows ofexile profit him, if he had no part in the cause? He might just as wellhave gone on eating, drinking, and being merry on German beer. YetLudwig Börne, acknowledged leader of German revolutionists, hadscornfully written of him (I translate from Heine's own quotation, inhis pamphlet on Börne):

 "I can make allowance for child's-play, and for the passions of youth. But when, on the day of bloody conflict, a boy who is chasing butterflies on the battle-field runs between my legs; or when, on the day of our deepest need, while we are praying earnestly to God, a young dandy at our side can see nothing in the church but the pretty girls, and keeps whispering to them and making eyes--then, I say, in spite of all philosophy and humanity, one cannot restrain one's indignation. "

Much more followed, but in those words lay the sting of the scorn. Itis a scorn that many poets and writers suffer when confronted by the manof action, or even by the man of affairs. When it comes to action, allthe finest words ever spoken, and all the most beautiful poems and booksever written, seem so irrelevant, as Hilda Wangel said of reading. "Howbeggarly all arguments appear before a defiant deed!" cried WaltWhitman. "Every man, " said Ruskin, "feels instinctively that all thebeautiful sentiments in the world count less than a single lovelyaction. " The powerlessness of the word--that, as I said, has been theburden of speakers and writers. That is what drove Dante to politics, and Byron to Greece, and Goethe to the study of bones. 

But Heine laid himself open more than most to such scorn as Börne's. There was little of the active revolutionist in his nature. About therevolutionist hangs something Hebraic (if we may still use Heine's owndistinction, never very definite, and now worn so thin), but Heineprided himself upon a sunlit cheerfulness that he called Greek. He lovedthe garish world; he was in love with every woman; but the truerevolutionist must be the modern monk. It is no good asking therevolutionist out to dinner; he will neither say anything amusing, norknow the difference between chalk and cheese. But Heine's good sayingswent the round of Parisian society, and he loved the subtleties of wineand the table. "That dish, " he said once, "should be eaten on one'sknees. " Only on paper, and then rarely, was his heart lacerated bysavage indignation. Except for brief periods of poverty, in the Zion ofexile he lived very much at ease, nor did the zeal of the Lord everconsume him. Did it not seem that a true revolutionist was justified incomparing him to a boy chasing butterflies on the battle-field? Here, ifanywhere, one might have thought, was one of those charming poets whomthe Philosopher would have honoured, and feasted, and loaded withbeautiful gifts, and then conducted, laurel-crowned, far outside thewalls of the perfect city, to the sound of flutes and soft recorders. 

To such scorn Heine attempted the artist's common answer. He replied toBörne's revolutionary scorn of the mere poet, with a poet's fastidiousscorn of the smudgy revolutionist. He tells us of his visit to Börne'srooms, where he found such a menagerie as could hardly be seen in theJardin des Plantes--German polar bears, a Polish wolf, a French ape. Orwe read of the one revolutionary assembly he attended, and how up tillthen he had always longed to be a popular orator, and had even practisedon oxen and sheep in the fields; but that one meeting, with its dirt, and smells, and stifling tobacco smoke, sickened him of oratory. "Isaw, " he writes, "I saw that the path of a German tribune is not strewn with roses--not with clean roses. For example, you have to shake hands vigorously with all your auditors, your 'dear brothers and cousins. ' Perhaps Börne means it metaphorically when he says that, if a king shook him by the band, he would at once hold it in the fire, so as to clean it; but I mean it literally, and not metaphorically, when I say that, if the people shook me by the hand, I should at once wash it. "

We all know those meetings now--the fraternal handshake, the menageriesmell, the reek of tobacco, the indistinguishable hubbub of tongues, thefrothy violence, the bottomless inanity of abstract dissensions, thathave less concern with human realities than the curve of the hyperbolathrough space. We all know that, and sometimes, perhaps, at the sight ofsome artist or poet like Heine--or, shall we say? like WilliamMorris--in the sulphurous crater of that volcanic tumult, we may havebeen tempted to exclaim, "Not here, O Apollo, are haunts meet for thee!"But we had best restrain such exclamation, for we have had quite enoughof the artistic or philanthropic temperaments that talk a deal aboutfighting the battle of the poor and the oppressed, but take very goodcare to keep at a clean and comfortable distance from those whose battlethey are fighting, and appear more than content to live among thetyrants and oppressors they denounce. And we remind ourselves, further, that what keeps the memory of William Morris sweet is not hiswall-papers, his beaten work of bronze or silver, his dreamy tapestriesof interwoven silks or verse, but just that strange attempt of his, however vain, however often deceived, to convert the phrases of libertyinto realities, and to learn something more about democracy than thespelling of its name. 

Heine's first line of defence was quite worthless. It was the cheap andcommon defence of the commonplace, fastidious nature that has hardlycourage to exist outside its nest of culture. His second line wasstronger, and it is most fully set out in the preface to his _Lutetia_, written only a year before his death. He there expresses the artist'sfear of beauty's desecration by the crowd. He dreads the horny hand laidupon the statues he had loved. He sees the laurel groves, the lilies, the roses--"those idle brides of nightingales"--destroyed to make roomfor useful potato-patches. He sees his _Book of Songs_ taken by thegrocer to wrap up coffee and snuff for old women, in a world where thevictorious proletariat triumphs. But that line of defence he voluntarilyabandons, knowing in his heart, as he said, that the present socialorder could not endure, and that all beauty it preserved was not to becounted against its horror. 

It is at the end of the same preface that the well-known passage occurs, thus translated by Matthew Arnold:

 "I know not if I deserve that a laurel-wreath should one day be laid on my coffin. Poetry, dearly as I have loved it, has always been to me but a divine plaything. I have never attached any great value to poetical fame; and I trouble myself very little whether people praise my verses or blame them. But lay on my coffin a _sword_; for I was a brave soldier in the war of liberation of humanity. "

The words appear strangely paradoxical. No one questions Heine's placeamong the poets of the world. As a matter of fact, he was quite assensitive to criticism as other poets, and his courage was not moreconspicuous than most people's. But, nevertheless, those words containhis last and true defence against the scorn of revolutionists, or men ofaffairs, like Börne. There is no need to make light of Börne'sachievement; that also has its high place in the war of liberation. But, powerless as the word may seem, there was in Heine's word a liberatingforce that is felt in our battle to this day. He did not wield the axehimself, but behind him has moved a mysterious figure, muffled in acloak--a Lictor following his footsteps with an axe--the deed of Heine'sthought. 

V

THE BURNING BOOK

"How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!" cried WaltWhitman, as I quoted in the last essay. He was thinking, perhaps, ofHarper's Ferry and of John Brown hanging on the crab-apple tree, whilehis soul went marching on. It is the lament of all writers and speakerswho are driven by inward compulsion to be something more than artists inwords, and who seek to jog the slow-pacing world more hurriedly forward. How long had preachers, essayists, orators, and journalists arguedslavery round and round before the defiant deed crashed and settled it!"Who hath believed our report?" the prophets have always cried, untilthe arm of the Lord was revealed; and the melancholy of all propheticwriters is mainly due to the conscious helplessness of their words. Ifmen would only listen to reason--if they would listen even to theappeals of justice and compassion, we suppose our prophets would growquite cheerful at last. But to justice and compassion men listen only ata distance, and the prophet is near. 

Nevertheless, in his address as Chancellor of Manchester University inJune 1912, Lord Morley, who has himself often sounded the propheticnote, asserted that "a score of books in political literature rank asacts, not books. " He happened to be speaking on the anniversary ofRousseau's birth, two hundred years ago, and in no list of such bookscould Rousseau's name be forgotten. "Whether a score or a hundred, " LordMorley went on, "the _Social Contract_ was one, " and, as though to rousehis audience with a spark, he quoted once more the celebrated openingsentence, "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. " Thatsentence is not true either in history or in present life. It would betruer to say that man has everywhere been born in chains and, veryslowly, in some few parts of the world, he is becoming free. Thesentence is neither scientific as historic theory nor true to presentlife, and yet Lord Morley rightly called it electrifying. And the sameis true of the book which it so gloriously opens. As history and asphilosophy, it is neither original nor exact. It derived directly fromLocke, and many aspects of the world and thought since Darwin's timeconfute it. But, however much anticipated, and however much exposed toscientific ridicule, it remains one of the burning books of theworld--one of those books which, as Lord Morley said, rank as acts, notbooks. 

"Let us realise, " he continued, "with what effulgence such a book burstupon communities oppressed by wrong, sunk in care, inflamed by passionsof religion or of liberty, the two eternal fields of mortal struggle. "So potent an influence depends much upon the opportunity of time--thefulfilment of the hour's need. A book so abstract, so assertive oftheory, and standing so far apart from the world's actual course, wouldhardly find an audience now. But in the eighteenth century, so gailyconfident in the power of reason, so trustful of good intentions, soready to acclaim noble phrase and generality, and so ignorant of thepast and of the poor--in the midst of such a century the _SocialContract_ was born at the due time. Add the vivid imagination and thegenuine love for his fellow-men, to which Lord Morley told us Maineattributed Rousseau's ineffaceable influence on history, and we areshown some of the qualities and reasons that now and again make wordsburn with that effulgence, and give even to a book the power of a deed. 

Lord Morley thought there might be a score, or perhaps even a hundred, of such books in political literature. He himself gave two otherinstances beside the _Social Contract_. He mentioned _The Institutions ofthe Christian Religion_, of Calvin, "whose own unconquerable will andpower to meet occasion made him one of the commanding forces in theworld's history. " And he mentioned Tom Paine's _Common Sense_ as "themost influential political piece ever composed. " I could not, offhand, give a list of seventeen other books of similar power to make up thescore. I do not believe so many exist, and as to ninety-seven, the ideaneed not be considered. There have been books of wide and lastingpolitical influence--Plato's _Republic_, Aristotle's _Politics_, Machiavelli's _Prince_, Hobbes's _Leviathan_, Locke's _CivilGovernment_, Adam Smith's _Wealth of Nations_, Paine's _Right of Man_, Mill's _Liberty_ and _The Subjection of Women_, Green's _PoliticalObligation_, and many more. But these are not burning books in the sensein which the _Social Contract_ was a burning book. With the possibleexception of _The Subjection of Women_, they were cool and philosophic. With the possible exception of Machiavelli, their writers might havebeen professors. The effect of the books was fine and lasting, but theywere not aflame. They did not rank as acts. The burning books that rankas acts and devour like purifying fire must be endowed with otherqualities. 

Such books appear to have been very few, though, in a rapid survey, oneis likely to overlook some. In all minds there will arise at once thegreat memory of Swift's _Drapier's Letters_, passionately uttering thesimple but continually neglected law that "all government without theconsent of the governed is the very definition of slavery. " Carlyle's_French Revolution_ and _Past and Present_ burnt with similar flame; sodid Ruskin's _Unto this Last_ and the series of _Fors Clavigera;_ so didMazzini's _God and the People_, Karl Marx's _Kapital_, Henry George's_Progress and Poverty_, Tolstoy's _What shall we do?_ and so didProudhon's _Qu'est ce que la Propriété?_ at the time of its birth. Norfrom such a list could one exclude _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, by which Mrs. Beecher Stowe anticipated the deed of Harper's Ferry nine years beforeit came. 

These are but few books and few authors. With Lord Morley's three thrownin, they still fall far short of a score. Readers will add other names, other books that ranked as acts and burnt like fire. To their brief butnoble roll, I would also add one name, and one brief set of speeches oressays that hardly made a book, but to which Lord Morley himself, at allevents, would not be likely to take exception. He mentioned Burke'sfamous denunciation of Rousseau, and, indeed, the natures and aspects ofno two distinguished and finely-tempered men could well be more opposed. But none the less, I believe that in Burke, before growing age andgrowing fears and habits chilled his blood, there kindled a fireconsuming in its indignation, and driving him to words that, equallywith Rousseau's, may rank among the acts of history. In support of whatmay appear so violent a paradox when speaking of one so often claimed asa model of Conservative moderation and constitutional caution, let merecall a few actual sentences from the speech on "Conciliation withAmerica, " published three years before Rousseau's death. The grounds ofBurke's imagination were not theoretic. He says nothing about abstractman born free; but, as though quietly addressing the House of Commonsto-day, he remarks:

 "The Colonies complain that they have not the characteristic mark and seal of British freedom. They complain that they are taxed in a Parliament in which they are not represented. "

That simple complaint had roused in the Colonies, thus deprived of themark and seal of British freedom, a spirit of turbulence and disorder. Already, under a policy of negation and suppression, the people weredriving towards the most terrible kind of war--a war between the membersof the same community. Already the cry of "no concession so long asdisorders continue" went up from the central Government, and, withpassionate wisdom, Burke replied:

 "The question is not whether their spirit deserves blame or praise, but what, in the name of God, shall we do with it?"

Then come two brief passages which ought to be bound as watchwords andphylacteries about the foreheads of every legislator who presumes todirect our country's destiny, and which stand as a perpetual indictmentagainst all who endeavour to exclude the men or women of this countryfrom constitutional liberties:

 "In order to prove that the Americans have no right to their liberties, we are every day endeavouring to subvert the maxims which preserve the whole spirit of our own. To prove that the Americans ought not to be free, we are obliged to depreciate the value of freedom itself; and we never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them in debate without attacking some of those principles or deriding some of those feelings for which our ancestors have shed their blood. "

The second passage is finer still, and particularly apt to the presentcivil contest over Englishwomen's enfranchisement:

 "The temper and character which prevail in our Colonies are, I am afraid, unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, falsify the pedigree of this fierce people, and persuade them that they are not sprung from a nation in whose veins the blood of freedom circulates. The language in which they would hear you tell them this tale would detect the imposition. Your speech would betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest person on earth to argue another Englishman into slavery. "

It may be said that these words, unlike the words with which Rousseaukindled revolution, failed of their purpose. The Government remaineddeaf and blind to the demand of British freedom; a terrible war was notaverted; one of the greatest disasters in our history ensued. None theless, they glow with the true fire, and the book that contains themranks with acts, and, indeed, with battles. That we should thus becoupling Rousseau and Burke--two men of naturally violent antipathy--isbut one of the common ironies of history, which in the course of yearsobliterates differences and soothes so many hatreds. To be accepted andhonoured by the same mind, and even for similar service, the twoapparent opposites must have had something in common. What they had incommon was the great qualities that Maine discovered in Rousseau--thevivid imagination and the genuine love for their fellow-men; and byimagination I mean the power of realising the thoughts, feelings, andsufferings of others. Thus from these two qualities combined in thepresence of oppression, cruelty, or the ordinary stupid and callousdenial of freedom, there sprang that flame of indignation from whichalone the burning book derives its fire. Examine those other books whosetitles I have mentioned, and their origin will in every case be foundthe same. They are the flaming children of rage, and rage is begotten byimaginative power out of love for the common human kind. 

VI

"WHERE CRUEL RAGE"

"Fret not thyself, " sang the cheerful Psalmist--"fret not thyselfbecause of evildoers. " For they shall soon be cut down like the grass;they shall be rooted out; their sword shall go through their own heart;their arms shall be broken; they shall consume as the fat of lambs, andas the smoke they shall consume away; though they flourish like a greenbay-tree, they shall be gone, and though we seek them, their place shallnowhere be found. 

A soothing consolation lies in the thought. Why should we flusterourselves, why wax so hot, when time thus brings its inevitablerevenges? Composed in mind, let us pursue our own unruffled course, withcalm assurance that justice will at length prevail. Let us comply withthe dictates of sweetness and light, in reasonable expectation thatiniquity will melt away of itself, like a snail before the fire. If wehave confidence that vengeance is the Lord's and He will repay, wherebut in that faith shall we find an outlet for our indignation at once sosecure, so consolatory, and so cheap?

It was the pious answer made by Dr. Delany to Swift at the time when, torn by cruel rage, Swift was entering upon the struggle againstIreland's misery. Swift appealed to him one day "whether thecorruptions and villainies of men in power did not eat his flesh andexhaust his spirits?" But Delany answered, "That in truth they did not. ""Why--why, how can you help it? How can you avoid it?" asked theindignant heart. And the judicious answer came: "Because I am commandedto the contrary; 'Fret not thyself because of the ungodly. '" Under thequalities revealed in Swift and Delany by that characteristic scene, isalso revealed a deeply-marked distinction between two orders of mankind, and the two speakers stand as their types. Dr. Delany we all know. Hemay be met in any agreeable society--himself agreeable and tolerant, unwilling to judge lest he be judged, solicitous to please, careful notto lose esteem, always welcome among his numerous acquaintances, sweetlyreasonable, and devoutly confident that the tale of hideous wrong willright itself without his stir. No figure is more essential for socialintercourse, or moves round the cultivated or political circle of hislife with more serene success. 

To the great comfort of cultivated and political circles, the type ofSwift is not so frequent or so comprehensible. What place have those whofret not themselves because of evildoers--what place in their tolerantsociety have they for uncouth personalities, terrible with indignation?It is true that Swift was himself accounted a valued friend among thebest wits and writers of his time. Bolingbroke wrote to him: "I lovedyou almost twenty years ago; I thought of you as well as I do now, better was beyond the power of conception. " Pope, also after twentyyears of intimate friendship, could write of him: "My sincere love ofthat valuable, indeed incomparable, man will accompany him through life, and pursue his memory were I to live a hundred lives. " Arbuthnot couldwrite to him:

 "DEAR FRIEND, --The last sentence of your letter plunged a dagger in my heart. Never repeat those sad, but tender, words, that you will try to forget me. For my part, I can never forget you--at least till I discover, which is impossible, another friend whose conversation could procure me the pleasure I have found in yours. "

The friends of Swift--the men who could write like this--men likeBolingbroke, Pope, Arbuthnot, Addison, Steele, and Gay--were nosentimentalists; they rank among the shrewdest and most clear-eyedwriters of our literature. And, indeed, to me at all events, thedifficulty of Swift's riddle lies, not in his savagery, but in hischarm. When we think of that tiger burning in the forests of the night, how shall we reconcile his fearful symmetry with eyes "azure as theheavens, " which Pope describes as having a surprising archness in them?Or when a man is reputed the most embittered misanthrope in history, howwas it that his intimate friend, Sheridan, could speak of that "spiritof generosity and benevolence whose greatness, and vigour, when pent upin his own breast by poverty and dependence, served only as an evilspirit to torment him"? Of his private generosity, and his considerationfor the poor, for servants, and animals, there are many instancesrecorded. For divergent types of womanhood, whether passionate, witty, or intellectual, he possessed the attraction of sympathetic intimacy. Awoman of peculiar charm and noble character was his livelong friend fromgirlhood, risking reputation, marriage, position, and all that manywomen most value, just for that friendship and nothing more. Anotherwoman loved him with more tragic destiny. To Stella, in the midst of hispolitical warfare, he could write with the playfulness that nursemaidsuse for children, and most men keep for their kittens or puppies. In the"Verses on his own Death, " how far removed from the envy, hatred, andmalice of the literary nature is the affectionate irony of those versesbeginning:

 "In Pope I cannot read a line, But with a sigh I wish it mine; When he can in one couplet fix More sense than I can do in six, It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, 'Plague take him and his wit. ' I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own humorous biting way; Arbuthnot is no more my friend Who dares to irony pretend, Which I was born to introduce; Refined it first, and showed its use. "

And so on down to the lines:

 "If with such talents Heaven has blest 'em, Have I not reason to detest 'em?"

To damn with faint praise is the readiest defence of envious failure;but to praise with jealous damnation reveals a delicate generosity thatfew would look for in the hater of his kind. Nor let us forget thatSwift was himself the inventor of the phrase "Sweetness and light. "

These elements of charm and generosity have been too much overlooked, and they could not redeem the writer's savagery in popular opinion, being overshadowed by that cruel indignation which ate his flesh andexhausted his spirit. Yet it was, perhaps, just from such elements ofintuitive sympathy and affectionate goodwill that the indignationsprang. Like most over-sensitive natures, he found that every newrelation in life, even every new friendship that he formed, only openeda gate to new unhappiness. The sorrows of others were more to him thanto themselves, and, like a man or woman that loves a child, hediscovered that his affection only exposed a wider surface to pain. Onthe death of a lady with whom he was not very intimately acquainted, "Ihate life, " he cried, "when I think it exposed to such accidents: and tosee so many thousand wretches burdening the earth while such as her die, makes me think God did never intend life for a blessing. " It was not anyspirit of hatred or cruelty, but an intensely personal sympathy withsuffering, that tore his heart and kindled that furnace of indignationagainst the stupid, the hateful, and the cruel to whom most suffering isdue; and it was a furnace in which he himself was consumed. Writingwhilst he was still a youth, in _The Tale of a Tub_, he composed aterrible sentence, in which all his rage and pity and ironical barenessof style seem foretold: "Last week, " he says, "I saw a woman flayed, andyou will hardly believe how much it altered her person for the worse. ""Only a woman's hair, " was found written on the packet in which thememorial of Stella was preserved, and I do not know in what elegy therebreathes a prouder or more poignant sorrow. 

When he wrote the _Drapier Letters_, Ireland lay before him like a womanflayed. Of the misery of Ireland it was said (I think by Sheridan):

 "It fevered his blood, it broke his rest, it drove him at times half frantic with furious indignation, it sunk him at times in abysses of sullen despondency, it awoke in him emotions which in ordinary men are seldom excited save by personal injuries. "

This cruel rage over the wrongs of a people whom he did not love, andwhom he repeatedly disowned, drove him to the savage denunciations inwhich he said of England's nominee: "It is no dishonour to submit to thelion, but who, with the figure of a man, can think with patience ofbeing devoured alive by a rat?" It drove him also to the greatprinciple, still too slowly struggling into recognition in this country, that "all government without the consent of the governed is the verydefinition of slavery. " It inspired his _Proposal for the Universal Useof Irish Manufactures_, in which the advice to "burn everything thatcame from England except the coals and the people, " might serve as themotto of the Sinn Fein movement. And it inspired also that other "ModestProposal for Preventing the Children of Ireland from being a burden totheir Parents and Country, and making them beneficial to the Public. Fatten them up for the Dublin market; they will be delicious roast, baked, or boiled. "

As wave after wave of indignation passed over him, his wrath atoppression extended to all mankind. In _Gulliver's Travels_ it is thehuman race that lies before him, how much altered for the worse by beingflayed! But it is not pity he feels for the victim now. In man he onlysees the littleness, the grossness, the stupidity, or the brutaldegradation of Yahoos. Unlike other satirists--unlike Juvenal or Pope orthe author of _Penguin Island_, who comes nearest to his manner--hepours his contempt, not upon certain types of folly or examples of vice, but upon the race of man as a whole. "I heartily hate, " he wrote toPope soon after _Gulliver_ was published, "I heartily hate and detestthat animal called man, although I heartily love John, Peter, Thomas, and so forth. " The philanthropist will often idealise man in theabstract and hate his neighbour at the back door, but that was notSwift's way. He has been called an inverted hypocrite, as one who makeshimself out worse than he is. I should rather call him an invertedidealist, for, with high hopes and generous expectations, he enteredinto the world, and lacerated by rage at the cruelty, foulness, andlunacy he there discovered, he poured out his denunciations upon thecrawling forms of life whose filthy minds were well housed in theirapelike and corrupting flesh--a bag of loathsome carrion, animated byvarious lusts. 

"Noli aemulari, " sang the cheerful Psalmist; "Fret not thyself becauseof evildoers. " How easy for most of us it is to follow that comfortablecounsel! How little strain it puts upon our popularity or our courage!And how amusing it is to watch the course of human affairs with tolerantacquiescence! Yes, but, says Swift, "amusement is the happiness of thosewho cannot think, " and may we not say that acquiescence is the cowardiceof those who dare not feel? There will always be some, at least, in theworld whom savage indignation, like Swift's, will continually torment. It will eat their flesh and exhaust their spirits. They would gladly berid of it, for, indeed, it stifles their existence, depriving them alikeof pleasure, friends, and the objects of ambition--isolating them in theend as Swift was isolated. If only the causes of their indignation mightcease, how gladly they would welcome the interludes of quiet! But hardlyis one surmounted than another overtops them like a wave, nor have thestern victims of indignation the smallest hope of deliverance from theirsuffering, until they lie, as Swift has now lain for so many years, where cruel rage can tear the heart no more--"Ubi saeva indignatioulterius cor lacerare nequit. "

VII

THE CHIEF OF REBELS

"It is time that I ceased to fill the world, " said the dying VictorHugo, and we recognise the truth of the saying, though with a smile. Foreach generation must find its own way, nor would it be a consolation tohave even the greatest of ancient prophets living still. But yet therebreathes from the living a more intimate influence, for which animmortality of fame cannot compensate. When men like Tolstoy die, theworld is colder as well as more empty. They have passed outside thecommon dangers and affections of man's warm-blooded circle, lighted bythe sun and moon. Their spirit may go marching on; it may becomeimmortal and shine with an increasing radiance, perpetual as the sweetinfluences of the Pleiades. But their place in the heavens is fixed. Wecan no longer watch how they will meet the glorious or ingloriousuncertainties of the daily conflict. We can no longer make appeal fortheir succour against the new positions and new encroachments of theeternal adversary. The sudden splendour of action is no longer theirs, and if we would know the loss implied in that difference, let us imaginethat Tolstoy had died before the summer of 1908, when he uttered hisoverwhelming protest against the political massacres ordained by Russia. In place of that protest, in place of the poignant indignation whichappealed to Stolypin's hangmen to fix their well-soaped noose around hisown old neck, since, if any were guilty, it was he--in place of theshame and wrath that cried, "I cannot be silent!" we should have hadnothing but our own memory and regret, murmuring to ourselves, "If onlyTolstoy had been living now! But perhaps, for his sake, it is better heis not. "

And now that he is dead, and the world is chilled by the loss of itsgreatest and most fiery personality, the adversary may breathe morefreely. As Tolstoy was crossing a city square--I suppose the "RedSquare" in Moscow--on the day when the Holy Synod of Russiaexcommunicated him from the Church, he heard someone say, "Look! Theregoes the devil in human form!" And for the next few weeks he continuedto receive letters clotted with anathemas, damnations, threats, andfilthy abuse. It was no wonder. To all thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers, to all priests of established religions, tothe officials of every kind of government, to the Ministers, whether ofparliaments or despots, to all naval and military officers, to alllawyers, judges, jurymen, policemen, gaolers, and executioners, to alltax-collectors, speculators, and financiers, Tolstoy was, indeed, thedevil in human form. To them he was the gainsayer, the destroyer, themost shattering of existent forces. And, in themselves, how large andpowerful a section of every modern State they are! They may almost becalled the Church and State incarnate, and they seldom hesitate to callthemselves so. But, against all their authorities, formulae, andtraditions, Tolstoy stood in perpetual rebellion. To him theirparchments and wigs, their cells and rods and hang-ropes, their mitres, chasubles, vestments, incense, chantings, services, bells, and bookscounted as so much trumpery. For him external law had no authority. Ifit conflicted with the law of the soul, it was the soul's right and dutyto disregard or break it. Speaking of the law which ordained theflogging of peasants for taxes, he wrote: "There is but one thing tosay--that no such law can exist; that no ukase, or insignia, or seals, or Imperial commands can make a law out of a crime. " Similarly, thedoctrines of the Church, her traditions, sacraments, rituals, andmiracles--all that appeared to him to conflict with human intelligenceand the law of his soul--he disregarded or denied. "I deny them all, " hewrote in his answer to the Holy Synod's excommunication (1901); "Iconsider all the sacraments to be coarse, degrading sorcery, incompatible with the idea of God or with the Christian teaching. " And, as the briefest statement of the law of his soul, he added:

 "I believe in this: I believe in God, whom I understand as Spirit, as Love, as the Source of all. I believe that he is in me, and I in him. I believe that the will of God is most clearly and intelligibly expressed in the teaching of the man Jesus, whom to consider as God, and pray to I esteem the greatest blasphemy. I believe that man's true welfare lies in fulfilling God's will, and his will is that men should love one another, and should consequently do to others as they wish others to do to them--of which it is said in the Gospels that this is the law and the prophets. "

The world has listened to rebels against Church and State before, andstill it goes shuffling along as best it can under external laws andgovernments, seeking from symbols, rituals, and miraculous manifestationsuch spiritual consolation as it may imbibe. To such rebels the world, after burning, hanging, and quartering them for several centuries, hasnow become fairly well accustomed, though it still shoots or hangs themnow and then as a matter of habit. But Tolstoy's rebellion did not stopat Church and State. He rebelled against all the ordinary proposals andideals of rebels themselves, and to him there was not very much tochoose between the Socialism of Marxists and the despotism of Tsars. Liberals, Radicals, Social Democrats, Social Revolutionists, and all therest of the reforming or rebellious parties--what were they doing butstruggling to re-establish external laws, external governments, officials, and authorities under different forms and different names? Inthe Liberal movements of the day he took no part, and he had littleinfluence upon the course of revolution. He formed no party; no band ofrebels followed the orders of the rebel-in-chief; among all the groupsof the first Duma there was no Tolstoyan group, nor could there havebeen any. When we touch government, he would say, we touch the devil, and it is only by admitting compromise or corruption that men seek tomaintain or readjust the power of officials over body and soul. "Itseems to me, " he wrote to the Russian Liberals in 1896, "It seems to me now specially important to do what is right quietly and persistently, not only without asking permission from Government, but consciously avoiding participation in it. .. . What can a Government do with a man who will not publicly lie with uplifted hand, or will not send his children to a school he thinks bad, or will not learn to kill people, or will not take part in idolatry, or in coronations, deputations, and addresses, or who says and writes what he thinks and feels?. .. It is only necessary for all these good, enlightened, and honest people whose strength is now wasted in Revolutionary, Socialistic, or Liberal activity (harmful to themselves and to their cause) to begin to act thus, and a nucleus of honest, enlightened, and moral people would form around them, united in the same thoughts and the same feelings. Public opinion--the only power which subdues Governments--would become evident, demanding freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, justice, and humanity. "

From a distance, the bustling politicians and reformers of happier landsmight regard this quietism or wise passiveness as a mere counsel ofdespair, suitable enough as a shelter in the storm of Russia's tyranny, but having little significance for Western men of affairs. Yet even sothey had not silenced the voice of this persistent rebel; for he rose inequal rebellion against the ideals, methods, and standards of Europeancities. Wealth, commerce, industrial development, inventions, luxuries, and all the complexity of civilisation were of no more account to himthan the toys of kings and the tag-rag of the churches. Other rebels hadpreached the gospel of pleasure to the poor, and had themselves acted ontheir precepts. Other reformers, even religious reformers, had extolledthe delights of women, wine, and song. But here was a man despisingthese as the things after which the Gentiles seek. Love intrigues, banquets, wealthy establishments, operas, theatres, poetry, andfashionable novels--what had they to do with the kingdom of God that iswithin? He touched nothing from which he did not strip the adornment. Heleft life bare and stern as the starry firmament, and he felt awe atnothing, not even at the starry firmament, but only at the sense ofright and wrong in man. He did not summon the poor to rise against "theidle rich, " but he summoned the idle rich, the well-to-do, the gentry ofindependent means, the comfortable annuitants, the sportsmen, thewriters and dramatists of pleasure, the artists of triviality, thepretty rhymers, and the people who are too busy for thought, to riseagainst themselves. It was a much harder summons to obey, and generallythey answered with a shrug and a mutter of "madness, " "mere asceticism, "or "a fanatic's intolerance. "

Yet they could not choose but hear. Mr. Kipling, in agreement with anearlier prophet, once identified rebellion with the sin of witchcraft, and about Tolstoy there was certainly a witching power, a magic ordemonic attraction, that gave the hearer no peace. Perhaps more eventhan from his imaginative strength, it arose from his whole-heartedsincerity, always looking reality straight in the face, always refusingcompromise, never hesitating to follow where reason led. Compromise andtemporise and choose the line of least resistance, as we habitually do, there still remains in most people a fibre that vibrates to that ironsincerity. And so it was that, from the first, Tolstoy brought with hima disturbing and incalculable magic--an upheaving force, like leavenstirring in the dough, or like a sword in unconditioned and uncharteredpeace. 

Critics have divided his life into artistic and prophetic hemispheres;they have accused him of giving up for man what was meant for artisticcircles. But the seas of both hemispheres are the same, and there was nodivision in Tolstoy's main purpose or outlook upon life from first tolast. In his greatest imaginative works (and to me they appear thehighest achievement that the human imagination has yet accomplished inprose)--in the struggles and perplexities and final solutions ofPetroff, Nekhludoff, and Levin; in the miserable isolation of IvanIlyitch; in the resurrection of the prostitute Maslova; and in thehardly endurable tragedy of Anna Karénin herself, there runs exactly thesame deep undercurrent of thought and exactly the same solution oflife's question as in the briefer and more definite statements of theessays and letters. The greatest men are generally all of a piece, andof no one is this more true than of Tolstoy. Take him where you please, it is strange if after a few lines you are not able to say, "That is thefinger of Tolstoy; there is the widely sympathetic and compassionateheart, so loving mankind that in all his works he has drawn hardly onehuman soul altogether detested or contemptible. But at the same timethere is the man whose breath is sincerity, and to whom no compromise ispossible, and no mediocrity golden. "

To the philosophers of the world his own solution may appear a simpleissue, indeed, out of all his questioning, struggles, and rebellions. Itwas but a return to well-worn commandments. "Do not be angry, do notlust, do not swear obedience to external authority, do not resist evil, but love your enemies"--these commands have a familiar, an almostparochial, sound. Yet in obedience to such simple orders the chief ofrebels found man's only happiness, and whether we call it obedience tothe voice of the soul or the voice of God, he would not have mindedmuch. "He lives for his soul; he does not forget God, " said one peasantof another in Levin's hearing; and Tolstoy takes those quiet words asLevin's revelation in the way of peace. For him the soul, though findingits highest joy of art and pleasure only in noble communion with othersouls, stood always lonely and isolated, bare to the presence of God. The only submission possible, and the only possible hope of peace, layin obedience to the self thus isolated and bare. "O that thou hadsthearkened unto my commandments!" cried the ancient poet, uttering thevoice that speaks to the soul in loneliness; "O that thou hadsthearkened unto my commandments! Then had thy peace been as a river. "

VIII

THE IRON CROWN

When we read of a man who, for many years, wore on his left arm an ironbracelet, with spikes on the inside which were pressed into the flesh, we feel as though we had taken a long journey from our happy land. Whenwe read that the bracelet was made of steel wire, with the pointsspecially sharpened, and the whole so clamped on to the arm that itcould never come off, but had to be cut away after death, we mightsuppose that we had reached the world where Yogi and Sanyasi wander inthe saffron robe, or sit besmeared with ashes, contemplating the eternalverities, unmoved by outward things. Like skeletons of death they sit;thorns tear their skin, their nails pierce into their hands, day andnight one arm is held uplifted, iron grows embedded in their flesh, likea railing in a tree trunk, they hang in ecstasy from hooks, they counttheir thousand miles of pilgrimage by the double yard-measure of head toheel, moving like a geometer caterpillar across the burning dust. Toovercome the body so that the soul may win her freedom, to mortify--tomurder the flesh so that the spirit may reach its perfect life, totorture sense so that the mind may dwell in peace, to obliterate thelimits of space, to silence the ticking of time, so that eternity mayspeak, and vistas of infinity be revealed--that is the purport of theirexistence, and in hope of attaining to that consummation they submitthemselves with deliberate resolve to the utmost anguish and abasementthat the body can endure. 

Contemplating from a philosophic distance the Buddhist monasteries thatclimb the roof of the world, or the indistinguishable multitudesswarming around the shrines on India's coral strand, we think all thissort of thing is natural enough for unhappy natives to whom life isalways poor and hard, and whose bodies, at the best, are soinsignificant and so innumerable that they may well regard them withcontempt, and suffer their torments with indifference. But the man ofwhose spiky bracelet we read was not in search of Nirvana'sannihilation, nor had he ever prayed in nakedness beside the Ganges. Cardinal Vaughan, Archbishop of Westminster, was as little like astarveling Sanyasi as any biped descendant of the anthropoids couldpossibly be. A noticeable man, singularly handsome, of conspicuous, indeed of almost precarious, personal attraction, a Prince of theChurch, clothed, quite literally, in purple and fine linen, faring assumptuously as he pleased every day, welcome at the tables of thesociety that is above religion, irreproachable in address, a courtier inmanner, a diplomatist in mind, moving in an entourage of state andworldly circumstance, occupied in the arts, constructing the grandestbuilding of his time, learned without pedantry, agreeably cultivated inknowledge, urbane in his judgment of mankind, a power in the councils ofhis country, a voice in the destinies of the world--so we see him movingin a large and splendid orbit, complete in fine activities, dominant inhis assured position, almost superhuman in success. And as he moves, hepresses into the flesh of his left arm those sharpened points of steel. 

"Remember!" We hear again the solemn tone, warning of mortality. We seeagain the mummy, drawn between tables struck silent in their revelry. Welisten to the slave whispering in the ear while the triumph blares. "Remember!" he whispers. "Remember thou art man. Thou shalt go! Thoushalt go! Thy triumph shall vanish as a cloud. Time's chariot hurriesbehind thee. It comes quicker than thine own!" So from the iron braceleta voice tells of the transitory vision. All shall go; the jewelledaltars and the dim roofs fragrant with incense; the palaces, the towers, and domed cathedrals; the refined clothing, the select surroundings, thecourteous receptions of the great; the comfortable health, the noblepresence, the satisfactory estimation of the world--all shall go. Theyshall fade away; they shall be removed as a vesture, and like a garmentthey shall be rolled up. Press the spikes into thy mouldering flesh. Remember! Even while it lives, it is corrupting, and the end keepshurrying behind. Remember! Remember thou art man. 

But below that familiar voice which warns the transient generations oftheir mortality, we may find in those sharpened spikes a more profoundand nobler intention. "Remember thou art man, " they say; but it is notagainst overweening pride that they warn, nor do they remind only ofdeath's wings. "Remember thou art man, " they say, "and as man thou artbut a little lower than the angels, being crowned with glory and honour. This putrefying flesh into which we eat our way--this carrion cart ofyour paltry pains and foolish pleasures--is but the rotten relic of ananimal relationship. Remember thou art man. Thou art the paragon ofanimals, the slowly elaborated link between beast and god, united bythis flesh with tom-cats, swine, and hares, but united by the spiritwith those eternal things that move fresh and strong as the ancientheavens in their courses, and know not fear. What pain of spikes andsharpened points, what torment that this body can endure from cold orhunger, from human torture and burning flame, what pleasure that it canenjoy from food and wine and raiment and all the satisfactions of senseis to be compared with the glory that may be revealed at any moment inthy soul? Subdue that bestial and voracious body, ever seeking toextinguish in thee the gleam of heavenly fire. Press the spikes into thelumpish and uncouth monster of thy flesh. Remember! Remember thou artGod. "

"Oh, wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of thisdeath?" We have grown so accustomed to the cry that we hardly notice it, and yet that the cry should ever have been raised--that it should havearisen in all ages and in widely separated parts of the world--is themost remarkable thing in history. Pleasure is so agreeable, and none toocommon; or, if one wanted pain for salt, are there not pains enough inlife's common round? Does it not take us all our time to mitigate thecold, the heat, and hunger; to escape the beasts and rocks andthunderbolts that bite and break and blast us; to cure the diseases thatrack and burn and twist our poor bodies into hoops? Why should we seekto add pain to pain, and raise a wretched life to the temperature of atorture-room? It is the most extraordinary thing, at variance alike withthe laws of reason and moderation. Certainly, there is a kind ofself-denial--a carefulness in the selection of pleasure--which all thewise would practise. To exercise restraint, to play the aristocrat infastidious choice, to guard against satiety, and allow no form ofgrossness to enter the walled garden or to drink at the fountainsealed--those are to the wise the necessary conditions of calm andradiant pleasure, and in outward behaviour the Epicurean and the Stoicare hardly to be distinguished. For the Epicurean knows well thatasceticism stands before the porch of happiness, and the smallest touchof excess brings pleasure tumbling down. 

But mankind seems not to trouble itself about this delicate adjustment, this cautious selection of the more precious joy. In matters of thesoul, man shows himself unreasonable and immoderate. He forgets the lawsof health and chastened happiness. The salvation of his spirit possesseshim with a kind of frenzy, making him indifferent to loss of pleasure, or to actual pain and bodily distress. He will seek out pain as a lover, and use her as a secret accomplice in his conspiracy against the body'sdomination. Under the stress of spiritual passion he becomes anincalculable force, carried we know not where by his determination topreserve his soul, to keep alight just that little spark of fire, tosave that little breath of life from stifling under the mass ofsuperincumbent fat. We may call him crazy, inhuman, a fanatic, adevil-worshipper; he does not mind what we call him. His eyes are fullof a vision before which the multitude of human possessions fade. He isengaged in a contest wherein his soul must either overcome or perisheverlastingly; and we may suppose that, even if the soul were notimmortal, it would still be worth the saving. 

It is true that in this happy country examples of ascetic frenzy arecomparatively rare. There is little fear of overdoing the mortificationof the flesh. We practise a self-denial that takes the form of trainingfor sport, but, like the spectators at a football match, we do ourasceticism chiefly by proxy, and are fairly satisfied if the clergy donot drink or give other cause for scandal. It is very seldom thatEnglishmen have been affected by spiritual passion of any kind, and thatis why our country, of all the eastern hemisphere, has been leastproductive of saints. But still, in the midst of our discreet comfortand sanity of moderation, that spiky bracelet of steel, eating into theflesh of the courtly and sumptuous Archbishop, may help to remind usthat, whether in war, or art, or life, it is only by the passionaterefusal of comfort and moderation that the high places of the spirit areto be reached. "Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on theground!" is the song of all pioneers, and if man is to be but a littlelower than the angels, and crowned with glory and honour, the crown willbe made of iron or, perhaps, of thorns. 

IX

"THE IMPERIAL RACE"

"The public are particularly requested not to tease the Cannibals. " Soran one of the many flaming notices outside the show. Other noticesproclaimed the unequalled opportunity of beholding "The Dahomey Warriorsof Savage South Africa; a Rare and Peculiar Race of People; all there isLeft of them"--as, indeed, it might well be. Another called on thepublic "not to fail to see the Coloured Beauties of the VoluptuousHarem, " no doubt also the product of Savage South Africa. But of all thegilded placards the most alluring, to my mind, was the request not totease the Cannibals. It suggested so appalling a result. 

I do not know who the Cannibals were. Those I saw appeared to behalf-caste Jamaicans, but there may have been something more savageinside, and certainly a Dahomey warrior from South Africa would have tobe ferocious indeed if his fierceness was to equal his rarity. But theparticular race did not matter. The really interesting thing was thatthe English crowd was assumed to be as far superior to the Africansavage as to a wild beast in a menagerie. The proportion was the same. The English crowd was expected to extend to the barbarians the sameinquisitive patronage as to jackals and hyenas in a cage, when in frontof the cages it is written, "Do not irritate these animals. They bite. "

The facile assumption of superiority recalled a paradoxical remark thatHuxley made about thirty years ago, when that apostle of evolutionsuddenly scandalised progressive Liberalism by asserting that a Zulu, ifnot a more advanced type than a British working man, was at all eventshappier. "I should rather be a Zulu than a British workman, " said Huxleyin his trenchant way, and the believers in industrialism were notpleased. By the continual practice of war, and by generations ofinfanticide, under which only the strongest babies survived, the Zulushad certainly at that time raised themselves to high physicalexcellence, traces of which still remain in spite of the degeneracy thatfollows foreign subjection. I have known many African tribes betweenDahomey and Zululand too well to idealise them into "the noble savage. "I know how rapidly they are losing both their bodily health and theirnative virtues under the deadly contact of European drink, clothing, disease, and exploitation. Yet, on looking round upon the London crowdsthat were particularly requested not to tease the cannibals, my firstthought was that Huxley's paradox remained true. 

The crowds that swarmed the Heath were not lovely things to look at. Newspapers estimated that nearly half a million human beings werecollected on the patch of sand that Macaulay's imagination transfiguredinto "Hampstead's swarthy moor. " But even if we followed the safe ruleand divided the estimated number by half, a quarter of a million wasquite enough. "Like bugs--the more, the worse, " Emerson said of citycrowds, and certainly the most enthusiastic social legislator couldhardly wish to make two such men or women stand where one stood before. Scarlet and yellow booths, gilded roundabouts, sword-swallowers inpurple fleshings, Amazons in green plush and spangles were gay enough. Booths, roundabouts, Amazon queens, and the rest are the only chance ofcolour the English people have, and no wonder they love them. But inthemselves and in mass the crowds were drab, dingy, and black. Even"ostridges" and "pearlies, " that used to break the monotony like theexchange of men's and women's hats, are thought to be declining. Americamay rival that dulness, but in no other country of Europe, to saynothing of the East and Africa, could so colourless a crowd be seen--amass of people so devoid of character in costume, or of tradition andpride in ornament. 

But it was not merely the absence of colour and beauty in dress, or thewant of national character and distinction--a plainness that wouldafflict even a Russian peasant from the Ukraine or a Tartar from thefurther Caspian. It was the uncleanliness of the garments themselvesthat would most horrify the peoples not reckoned in the foremost ranksof time. A Hindu thinks it disgusting enough for a Sahib to put on thesame coat and trousers that he wore yesterday without washing them eachmorning in the tank, as the Hindu washes his own garment. But that theenormous majority of the Imperial race should habitually wear second, third, and fourth-hand clothes that have been sweated through by otherpeople first, would appear to him incredible. If ever he comes toEngland, he finds that he must believe it. It is one of the first shocksthat strike him with horror when he emerges from Charing Cross. "Canthese smudgy, dirty, evil-smelling creatures compose the dominant race?"is the thought of even the most "loyal" Indian as he moves among thecrowd of English workpeople. And it is only the numbing power of habitthat silences the question in ourselves. Cheap as English clothing is, second-hand it is cheaper still, and I suppose that out of thatquarter-million people on the Heath every fine Bank Holiday hardly oneper cent. Wears clothes that no one has worn before him. Hence thesickening smell that not only pervades an English crowd but hangs fortwo or three days over an open space where the crowd has been. "I canimagine a man keeping a dirty shirt on, " said Nietzsche, "but I cannotimagine him taking it off and putting it on again. " He was speaking inparables, as a philosopher should; but if he had stood among an Englishworking crowd, his philosophic imagination would have been terriblystrained by literal fact. 

Scrubby coat and trousers, dirty shirt, scarf, and cap, socks more likeanklets for holes, and a pair of split boots; bedraggled hat, frowsyjacket, blouse and skirt, squashy boots, and perhaps a patchy "pelerine"or mangy "boa"--such is accepted as the natural costume for the heirs ofall the ages. Prehistoric man, roaming through desert and forest in hisown shaggy pelt, was infinitely better clad. So is the aboriginalAfrican with a scrap of leopard skin, or a single bead upon a cord. Tojudge by clothing, we may wonder to what purpose evolution ever startedupon its long course of groaning and travailing up to now. And more thanhalf-concealed by that shabby clothing, what shabby forms and heads wemust divine! How stunted, puny, and ill-developed the bodies are! Hownarrow-shouldered the men, how flat-breasted the women! And the faces, how shapeless and anaemic! How deficient in forehead, nose, and jaw!Compare them with an Afghan's face; it is like comparing a chicken withan eagle. Writing in the _Standard_ of April 8, 1912, a well-knownclergyman assured us that "when a woman enters the political arena, thebloom is brushed from the peach, never to be restored. " That may seem ahard saying to Primrose Dames and Liberal Women, but the thousands ofpeaches that entered the arena (as peaches will) on Hampstead Heath, hadno bloom left to brush, and no political arena could brush it more. 

Deficient in blood and bone, the products of stuffy air, mean food, andcasual or half-hearted parentage, often tainted with hereditary oracquired disease, the faces are; but, worse than all, how insignificantand indistinguishable! It is well known that a Chinaman can hardlydistinguish one Englishman from another, just as we can hardlydistinguish the Chinese. But in an English working crowd, even anEnglishman finds it difficult to distinguish face from face. Yet as anation we have always been reckoned conspicuous for strong and eveneccentric individuality. Our well-fed upper and middle classes--thepublic school, united services, and university classes--reach a highphysical average. Perhaps, on the whole, they are still the bestspecimens of civilised physique. Within thirty years the Germans havemade an astonishing advance. They are purging off their beer, andworking down their fat. But, as a rule, the well-fed and carefullytrained class in England still excels in versatility, decision, andadventure. Unhappily, it is with few--only with a few millions ofwell-to-do people, a fraction of the whole English population--and witha few country-bred people and open-air workers, that we succeed. Thegreat masses of the English nation are tending to become theinsignificant, indistinguishable, unwholesome, and shabby crowd thatbecomes visible at football matches and on Bank Holidays upon the Heath. 

It is true that familiarity breeds respect. It is almost impossible forthe average educated man to know anything whatever about the workingclasses. The educated and the workpeople move, as it were, in worlds ofdifferent dimensions, incomprehensible to each other. Very few men andwomen from our secondary schools and universities, for instance, canlong enjoy solemnly tickling the faces of passing strangers with a bunchof feathers, or revolving on a wooden horse to a steam organ, or gazingat a woman advertised as "a Marvel of Flesh, Fat, and Beauty. " Theeducated seldom appreciate such joys in themselves. If they like tryingthem, it is only "in the second intention. " They enjoy out of patronage, or for literary sensation, rather than in grave reality. They areexcluded from the mind to which such things genuinely appeal. But letnot education mock, nor culture smile disdainfully at the short andsimple pleasures of the poor. If by some miracle of revelation culturecould once become familiar from the inside with one of those scrubby andrather abhorrent families, the insignificance would be transfigured, thefaces would grow distinguishable, and all manner of admired and evenlovable characteristics would be found. How sober people are most daysof the week; how widely charitable; how self-sacrificing in hopes ofsaving the pence for margarine or melted fat upon the children's bread!They are shabby, but they have paid for every scrap of old clothing withtheir toil; they are dirty, but they try to wash, and would be clean ifthey could afford the horrible expense of cleanliness; they areignorant, but within twenty years how enormously their manners to eachother have improved! And then consider their Christian thoughtlessnessfor the morrow, how superb and spiritual it is! How different from thethings after which the Gentiles of the commercial classes seek! On aBank Holiday I have known a mother and a daughter, hanging over the veryabyss of penury, to spend two shillings in having their fortunes told. Could the lilies of the field or Solomon in all his glory have shown afiner indifference to worldly cares?

Mankind, as we know, in the lump is bad, but that it is not worseremains the everlasting wonder. It is not the squalor of such a crowdthat should astonish; it is the marvel that they are not more squalid. For, after all, what is the root cause of all this dirt and ignoranceand shabbiness and disease? It is not drink, nor thriftlessness, norimmorality, as the philanthropists do vainly talk; still less is itcrime. It is the "inequality" of which Canon Barnett has oftenwritten--the inequality that Matthew Arnold said made a highcivilisation impossible. But such inequality is only another name forpoverty, and from poverty we have yet to discover the saviour who willredeem us. 

X

THE GREAT UNKNOWN

There are strange regions where the monotony of ignoble streets isbroken only by an occasional church, a Board School, or a public-house. From the city's cathedral to every point of the compass, except thewest, they stretch almost without limit till they reach the bedraggledfields maturing for development. They form by far the larger part of anEmpire's capital. Each of them is, in fact, a vast town, great enough, as far as numbers go, to make the Metropolis of a powerful State. Out ofhalf a dozen of them, such as Islington, Bethnal Green, or Bermondsey, the County Council could build half a score of Italian republics likethe Florence or Pisa of old days, if only it had the mind. Eachpossesses a character, a peculiar flavour, or, at the worst, a separatesmell. Many of them are traversed every day by thousands of rich andwell-educated people, passing underground or overhead. Yet to nearly allof us they remain strange and almost untrodden. We do not think of themwhen we think of London. Them no pleasure-seeker counts among hisopportunities, no foreigner visits as essential for his study of theEnglish soul. Not even our literary men and Civil Servants, who talk somuch about architecture, discuss their architecture in the clubs. Notone in a thousand of us has ever known a human soul among theirinhabitants. To the comfortable classes the Libyan desert is morefamiliar. 

At elections, even politicians remember their existence. From time totime a philanthropist goes down there to share God's good gifts with hispoorer brethren, or to elevate the masses with tinkling sounds orpainted boards. From time to time an adventurous novelist is led roundthe opium-shops, dancing-saloons, and docks, returning with copy fortales of lust and murder that might just as well be laid in Siberia orTimbuctoo. When we scent an East End story on its way, do we notpatiently await the battered head, the floating corpse, the dynamiter'sden, or a woman crying over her ill-begotten babe? Do we not always getone or other of the lot? To read our story-tellers from Mr. Kiplingdownward, one might suppose the East End to be inhabited by bastardsengaged in mutual murder, and the marvel is that anyone is left alive tobe the subject of a tale. You may not bring an indictment against awhole nation, but no sensational writer hesitates to libel three millionof our fellow-citizens. Put it in Whitechapel, and you may tell whatfilthy lie you please. 

About once in a generation some "Bitter Cry" pierces through custom, andthe lives of "the poor" become a subject for polite conversation andamateur solicitude. For three months, or even for six, that subjectappears as the intellectual "_rôti_" at dinner-tables; then it is founda little heavy, and cultured interest returns to its natural courses ofplays, pictures, politics, a dancing woman, and the memorials of Kings. It is almost time now that the poor came up again, for a quarter of acentury has gone since they were last in fashion, and men's collars andwomen's skirts have run their full orbit since. Excellent books haveappeared, written with intimate knowledge of working life--books such asCharles Booth's _London_ or Mr. Richard Free's _Seven Years Hard_, tomention only two; but either the public mind was preoccupied with otheramusements, or it had not recovered from the lassitude of the lastphilanthropic debauch. Nothing has roused that fury of charitablecuriosity which accompanies a true social revival, and leaves itsvictims gasping for the next excitement. The time was, perhaps, ripe, but no startling success awaited Mr. Alexander Paterson's book, _Acrossthe Bridges_. Excellent though it was, its excellence excluded it fromfashion. For it was written with the restraint of knowledge, andcontained no touch of melodrama from beginning to end. Not by knowledgeor restraint are the insensate sensations of fashion reached. 

Mr. Paterson's experience lay on the south side of the river, and thedistrict possesses peculiarities of its own. On the whole, I think, theriverside streets there are rather more unhealthy than those in the EastEnd. Many houses stand below water-level, and in digging foundations Ihave sometimes seen the black sludge of old marshes squirting up throughthe holes, and even bringing with it embedded reeds that perhaps weregrowing when Shakespeare acted there. The population is more distinctlyEnglish than on the north side. Where the poverty is extreme it is morehelpless. Work as a whole is rather steadier, but not so good. The smellis different and very characteristic, partly owing to the hop-markets. Life seems to me rather sadder and more depressing there, with less ofgaiety and independence; but that may be because I am more intimate withthe East End, and intimacy with working people nearly always improvestheir aspect. It is, indeed, fortunate for our sensational noveliststhat they remain so ignorant of their theme, for otherwise murders, monsters, and mysteries would disappear from their pages, and goodnessknows how they would make a living then!

It is not crime and savagery that characterise the unknown lands wherethe working classes of London chiefly live. Matthew Arnold said ourlower classes were brutalised, and he was right, but not if by brutalityhe meant cruelty, violence, or active sin. What characterises them andtheir streets is poverty. Poverty and her twins, unhappiness and waste. Under unhappiness, we may include the outward conditions ofdiscomfort--the crowded rooms, the foul air, the pervading dirt, theperpetual stench of the poor. In winter the five or six children in abed grow practised in turning over all at the same time while stillasleep, so as not to disturb each other. In a hot summer the bugs drivethe families out of the rooms to sleep on the doorstep. Cleanliness isan expensive luxury almost as far beyond poverty's reach as diamonds. The foul skin, the unwashed clothes, the layer of greasy smuts, theboots that once fitted someone, and are now held on by string, thescraps of food bought by the pennyworth, the tea, condensed milk, friedfish, bread and "strawberry flavour, " the coal bought by the"half-hundred, " the unceasing noise, the absence of peace or rest, themisery of sickness in a crowd--all such things may be counted among theoutward conditions of unhappiness, and only people who have never knownthem would call them trivial. But by the unhappiness that springs frompoverty I mean far worse than these. 

The definition of happiness as "an energy of the soul along the linesof excellence, in a fully developed life" is ancient now, but I havenever found a better. From happiness so defined, poverty excludes ourworking-classes in the lump, almost without exception. For them anenergy of the soul along the lines of excellence is almost unknown, anda fully developed life impossible. In both these respects theircondition has probably become worse within the last century. If there isa word of truth in what historians tell us, a working-man must certainlyhave had a better chance of exercising an energy of his soul before thedevelopment of factories and machinery. What energy of the personal soulis exercised in a mill-hand, a tea-packer, a slop-tailor, or the watcherof a thread in a machine? How can a man or woman engaged in such labourfor ten hours a day at subsistence wage enjoy a fully developed life? Itseems likely that the old-fashioned workman who made things chiefly withhis own hands and had some opportunity of personal interest in the work, stood a better chance of the happiness arising from an energy of thesoul. His life was also more fully developed by the variety and interestof his working material and surroundings. This is the point to which ourprophets who pour their lamentations over advancing civilisation shoulddirect their main attack, as, indeed, the best of them have done. Forcertainly it is an unendurable result if the enormous majority ofcivilised mankind are for ever to be debarred from the highest possiblehappiness. 

The second offspring of poverty in these working regions of our city iswaste. And I have called waste the twin brother of unhappiness becausethe two are very much alike. By waste I do not here mean the death-rateof infants, though that stands at one in four. No one, except anexploiter of labour, would desire a mere increase in the workpeople'snumber without considering the quality of the increase. But by waste Imean the multitudes of boys and girls who never get a chance offulfilling their inborn capacities. The country's greatest shame anddisaster arise from the custom which makes the line between the educatedand the uneducated follow the line between the rich and the poor, almostwithout deviation. That a nature capable of high development should beprecluded by poverty from all development is the deepest of personal andnational disasters, though it happen, as it does happen, severalthousand times a year. Physical waste is bad enough--the waste ofstrength and health that could easily be retained by fresh air, openspaces, and decent food, and is so retained among well-to-do children. This physical waste has already created such a broad distinction thatforeigners coming among us detect two species of the English people. Butthe mental waste is worse. It is a subject that Mr. Paterson dwellsupon, and he speaks with authority, as one who has taught in the BoardSchools and knows the life of the people across the bridges from thebanana-box to the grave. 

 "Boys who might become classical scholars, " he writes, "stick labels on to parcels for ten years, others who have literary gifts clear out a brewer's vat. Real thinkers work as porters in metal warehouses, and after shouldering iron fittings for eleven hours a day, find it difficult to set their minds in order. .. . With even the average boy there is a marked waste of mental capital between the ages of ten and thirty, and the aggregate loss to the country is heavy indeed. "

At fourteen, just when the "education" of well-to-do boys is beginning, the working boy's education stops. For ten or eleven years he has beenhappy at school. He has looked upon school as a place of enjoyment--ofinterest, kindliness, warmth, cleanliness, and even quiet of a kind. Theschool methods of education may not be the best. Mr. Paterson points outall that is implied in the distinction between the "teachers" of theBoard Schools and the "masters" of the public schools. Too much is putin, not enough drawn out from the child's own mind. The teacher cannotthink much of individual natures, when faced with a class of sixty. Yetit would be difficult to overrate the service of the Board Schools astraining grounds for manners, and anyone who has known the change in ourarmy within twenty-five years will understand what I mean. At fourteenthe boy has often reached his highest mental and spiritual development. When he leaves school, shades of the prison-house begin to close uponhim. He jumps at any odd job that will bring in a few shillings to thefamily fund. He becomes beer-boy, barber's boy, van-boy, paper-boy, andin a year or two he is cut out by the younger generation knocking at thedoor. He has learnt nothing; he falls out of work; he wanders from placeto place. By the time he is twenty-two, just when the well-to-do are"finishing their education, " his mind is dulled, his hope and interestgone, his only ambition is to get a bit of work and keep it. At the besthe develops into the average working-man of the regions I have calledunknown. Mr. Paterson thus describes the class:

 "These are the steady bulk of the community, insuring the peace of the district by their habits and opinions far more effectively than any vigilance of police or government. Yet, if they are indeed satisfactory, how low are the civic standards of England, how fallen the ideals and beauties of Christianity! No man that has dreams can rest content because the English worker has reached his high level of regular work and rare intoxication. "

One does not rest content; far from it. But the perpetual wonder is, notthat "the lower classes are brutalised, " but that this brutality is sotempered with generosity and sweetness. It is not their crime thatsurprises, but their virtue; not their turbulence or discontent, buttheir inexplicable acquiescence. And yet there are still people whosneer at "the mob, " "the vulgar herd, " "the great unwashed, " as thoughprinciples, gentility, and soap were privileges in reward of merit, andnot the accidental luck of money's chaotic distribution. 

XI

THE WORTH OF A PENNY

A year or two ago, some wondered why strike had arisen out of strike;why the whole world of British labour had suddenly and all at once begunto heave restlessly as though with earthquake; why the streams ofworkpeople had in quick succession left the grooves along which theyusually ran from childhood to the grave. "It is entirely ridiculous, "said the _Times_, with the sneer of educated scorn, "it is entirelyridiculous to suppose that the whole industrial community has beenpatiently enduring real grievances which are simultaneously discoveredto be intolerable. " But to all outside the circle of the _Times_, theonly ridiculous part of the situation was that the industrial communityshould patiently have endured their grievances so long. 

That working people should simultaneously discover them to beintolerable, is nothing strange. It is all very well to lie in gaol, from which there seems no chance of escape. Treadmill, oakum, skilly, and the rest--one may as well go through with them quietly, for fear ofsomething worse. But if word goes round that one or two prisoners havecrept out of gaol, who would not burn to follow? Would not grievancesthen be simultaneously discovered to be intolerable? The seamen were buta feeble lot; their union was poor, their combination loose. They werecooped up within the walls of a great Employers' Federation, whichlaughed at their efforts to scramble out. Yet they escaped; the wallswere found to be not so very high and strong; in one place or anotherthey crumbled away, and the prisoners escaped. They gained what theywanted; their grievances were no longer intolerable. What working man orwoman on hearing of it did not burn to follow, and did not feel thegrievances of life harder to be tolerated than before? If that feeblelot could win their pennyworth of freedom, who might not expectdeliverance? People talk of "strike fever" as though it were aninfection; and so it is. It is the infection of a sudden hope. 

After the sneer, the _Times_ proceeded to attribute the strikes to anatural desire for idleness during the hot weather. Seldom has so basean accusation been brought against our country, even by her worstenemies. The country consists almost entirely of working people, theother classes being a nearly negligible fraction in point of numbers. The restlessness and discontent were felt far and wide among nearly allthe working people, and to suggest that hundreds of thousandscontemplated all the risks and miseries of stopping work because theywanted to be idle in the shade displayed the ignorance our educatedclasses often display in speaking of the poor. For I suppose the thingwas too cruel for a joke. 

Hardly less pitiable than such ignorance was the nonchalant excuse ofthose who pleaded: "We have our grievances too. We all want somethingthat we haven't got. We should all like our incomes raised. But we don'tgo about striking and rioting. " It reminds one of Lord Rosebery'scontention, some fifteen years ago, that in point of pleasure all menare fairly equal, and the rich no happier than the poor. It sounds verypretty and philosophic, but those who know what poverty is know it to beabsolutely untrue. If Lord Rosebery had ever tried poverty, he wouldhave known it was untrue. All the working people know it, and they knowthat the grievances in which one can talk about income are never to becompared with the grievances which hang on the turn of a penny, or thechance of a shilling more or a shilling less per week. 

To a man receiving £20 a week the difference of £2 one way or other isimportant, but it is not vital. If his income drops to £18 a week he andhis family have just as much to eat and drink and wear; probably theylive in the same house as before; the only change is a different placefor the summer holiday, and, perhaps, the dress-circle instead of thestalls at a theatre. To a man with £200 a week the loss of £20 a weekhardly makes any difference at all. He may grumble; he may drop a motor, or a yacht, but in his ordinary daily life he feels no change. To adocker making twenty shillings a week the difference of two shillings isnot merely important, it is vital. The addition of it may mean threerooms for the family instead of two; it may mean nine shillings a weekinstead of seven to feed five mouths; it may mean meat twice a week, orhalf as much more bread and margarine than before, or a saving forsecond-hand clothes, and perhaps threepenn'orth of pleasure. In fullwork a docker at the old 7d. An hour would make more than twentyshillings a week; but the full weeks are rare, and about eighteenshillings would be all he could get on an average. The extra penny anhour for three days' work might bring him in about half a crown. To himand to his wife and children the difference was not merely important, itwas vital. 

Or take the case of the 15, 000 women who struck for a rise in SouthLondon, and got it. We may put their average wage at nine shillings aweek. In the accounts of a woman who is keeping a family of three, including herself, on that wage, a third of the money goes to the rentof one room. Two shillings of the rest go for light, fuel, and soda. That leaves four shillings a week to feed and clothe three people. EvenLord Rosebery could hardly maintain that the opportunities for pleasureon that amount were equal to his own. But the women jam-makers won anadvance of two shillings by their strike; the box-makers from 1_s_. 3_d_. To three shillings; even the glue and size workers got a shillingrise. It was hardly up to Lord Rosebery's standard yet. It did notrepresent the _Times_ paradise of sitting idle in the shade. But thinkwhat it means when week by week you have jealously watched nine solidpennies going in bread, nine more in meat, and another six in tea! Orthink what such an addition means to those working-women from the North, who at the same time protested in Trafalgar Square against thecompulsory insurance because the payment of threepence a week would losethem two of their dinners--twice the penn'orth of bread and ha'porth ofcheese that they always enjoyed for dinner!

When I was assisting in an inquiry into wages and expenditure some yearsago, one head of a family added as a note at the foot of his budget: "Isee that we always spend more than we earn, but as we are never in debtI attribute this result to the thriftiness of my wife. " Behind thatsentence a history of grievances patiently endured is written, but onlythe _Times_ would wonder that such grievances are discovered to beintolerable the moment a gleam of hope appears. When the _Times_, in thesame article, went on to protest that if the railwaymen struck, theywould be kicking not only against the Companies but "against the natureof things, " I have no clear idea of the meaning. The nature of things isno doubt very terrible and strong, but for working people the mostterrible and strongest part of it is poverty. All else is sophisticated;here is the thing itself. One remembers two sentences in Mr. Shaw'spreface to _Major Barbara_:

 "The crying need of the nation is not for better morals, cheaper bread, temperance, liberty, culture, redemption of fallen sisters and erring brothers, nor the grace, love, and fellowship of the Trinity, but simply for enough money. And the evil to be attacked is not sin, suffering, greed, priestcraft, kingcraft, demagogy, monopoly, ignorance, drink, war, pestilence, nor any other of the scapegoats which reformers sacrifice, but simply poverty. "

Strikes are the children of Poverty by Hope. For a long time past thewealth of the country has rapidly increased. Gold has poured into itfrom South Africa, dividends from all the world; trade has boomed, greatfortunes have been made; luxury has redoubled; the standard of livingamong the rich has risen high. The working people know all this; theycan see it with their eyes, and they refuse to be satisfied with therich man's blessing on the poor. What concerns them more than theincrease in the quantity of gold is the natural result in the shrinkageof the penny. It is no good getting sevenpence an hour for your work ifit does not buy so much as the "full, round orb of the docker'stanner, " which Mr. John Burns saw rising over the dock gates more thantwenty years ago, when he stood side by side with Ben Tillett and TomMann, and when Sir H. Llewellyn Smith and Mr. Vaughan Nash wrote thestory of the contest. If prosperity has increased, so have prices, andwhat cost a tanner then costs eightpence now, or more than that. To keeppace with such a change is well worth a strike, since nothing butstrikes can avail. So vital is the worth of a penny; so natural is it tokick against the nature of things, when their nature takes the form ofsteady poverty amid expanding wealth. That is the simultaneous discoverywhich raised the ridicule of the _Times_--that, and the furtherdiscovery that, in Carlyle's phrase, "the Empire of old Mammon iseverywhere breaking up. " The intangible walls that resisted soobstinately are fading away. The power of wealth is suspected. Strikeafter strike secures its triumphant penny, and no return of Peterloo, orbaton charges on the Liverpool St. George's Hall, driving the silentcrowd over the edge of its steep basis "as rapidly and continually aswater down a steep rock, " as was seen during the strikes of August 1911, can now check the infection of such a hope. It was an old saying of themen who won our political liberties that the redress of grievances mustprecede supply. The working people are standing now for a differentphase of liberty, but their work is their supply, and havingsimultaneously discovered their grievances to be intolerable, they aremaking the same old use of the ancient precept. 

XII

"FIX BAYONETS!"

"Oh, que j'aime le militaire!" sighed the old French song, no doubt witha touch of frivolity; but the sentiment moves us all. Sages have thoughtthe army worth preserving for a dash of scarlet and a roll of thekettledrum; in every State procession it is the implements of death andthe men of blood that we parade; and not to nursemaids only is thesoldier irresistible. The glamour of romance hangs round him. Terriblewith knife and spike and pellet he stalks through this puddle of aworld, disdainful of drab mankind. Multitudes may toil at keeping alive, drudging through their scanty years for no hope but living and givinglife; he shares with very few the function of inflicting death, andmoves gaily clad and light of heart. "No doubt, some civilianoccupations are very useful, " said the author of an old drill-book; Ithink it was Lord Wolseley, and it was a large admission for any officerto have made. It was certainly Lord Wolseley who wrote in his _Soldier'sPocket-Book_ that the soldier "must believe his duties are the noblestthat fall to man's lot":

 "He must be taught to despise all those of civil life. Soldiers, like missionaries, must be fanatics. An army thoroughly imbued with fanaticism can be killed, but never suffer disgrace; Napoleon, in speaking of it, said, 'Il en faut pour se faire tuer. '"

And not only to get himself killed, but to kill must the soldier beimbued with this fanaticism and self-glory. In the same spirit Mr. Kipling and Mr. Fletcher have told us in their _History of England_ thatthere is only one better trade than being a soldier, and that is being asailor:

 "To serve King and country in the army is the second best profession for Englishmen of all classes; to serve in the navy, I suppose we all admit, is the best. "

As we all admit it, certainly it does seem very hard on all classes thatthere should be anything else to do in the world besides soldiering andsailoring. It is most deplorable that, in Lord Wolseley's words, somecivilian occupations are very useful; for, if they were not, we mightall have a fine time playing at soldiers--real soldiers, withguns!--from a tumultuous cradle to a bloody grave. If only we couldabolish the civilian and his ignoble toil, what a rollicking life weshould all enjoy upon this earthly field of glory!

Such was the fond dream of many an innocent heart, when in August of1911 we saw the soldiers distributed among the city stations or postedat peaceful junctions where suburb had met suburb for years in themorning, and parted at evening without a blow. There the sentry stood, let us say, at a gate of Euston station. There he stood, embodyingglory, enjoying the second best profession for Englishmen of allclasses. He was dressed in clean khaki and shiny boots. On his head hebore a huge dome of fluffy bearskin, just the thing for a fashionablemuff; oppressive in the heat, no doubt, but imparting additionalgrandeur to his mien. There he stood, emblematic of splendour, and oneach side of him were encamped distressful little families, graspingspades and buckets and seated on their corded luggage, unable to movebecause of the railway strike, while behind him flared a hugeadvertisement that said, "The Sea is Calling you. " Along the kerbstone afew yards in front were ranged the children of the district, row uponrow, uncombed, in rags, filthy from head to foot, but silent with joyand admiration as they gazed upon the face of war. For many a gentlegirl and boy that Friday and Saturday were the days of all theirlives--the days on which the pretty soldiers came. 

Nor was it only the charm of nice clothes and personal appearance thatattracted them. Horror added its tremulous delight. There the sentrystood, ready to kill people at a word. His right knee was slightly bent, and against his right foot he propped the long wooden instrument that hekilled with. In little pouches round his belt he carried the pointedbits of metal that the instrument shoots out quicker than arrows. It waswhispered that some of them were placed already inside the gun itself, and could be fired as fast as a teacher could count, and each would killa man. And at the end of the gun gleamed a knife, about as long as abutcher's carving-knife. It would go through a fattish person's body asthrough butter, and the point would stick a little way through theclothes at his back. Down each side of the knife ran a groove to let theblood out, so that the man might die quicker. It was a pleasure to lookat such a thing. It was better than watching the sheep and oxen driveninto the Aldgate slaughter-houses. It was almost as good as the glimpseof the executioner driving up to Pentonville in his dog-cart the eveningbefore an execution. 

Few have given the Home Office credit for the amount of interesting andcheap amusement it then afforded by parcelling out the country among themilitary authorities. In a period of general lassitude and holiday, itsupplied the populace with a spectacle more widely distributed than theCoronation, and equally encouraging to loyalty. For it is not onlypleasure that the sight of the soldiers in their midst provides: itgives every man and woman and child an opportunity of realising thesignificance of uniforms. Here are soldiers, men sprung from the workingclasses, speaking the same language, and having the same thoughts; menwho have been brought up in poor homes, have known hunger, and havenearly all joined the army because they were out of work. And now thatthey are dressed in a particular way, they stand there with guns andthose beautiful gleaming knives, ready, at a word, to kill people--tokill their own class, their own friends and relations, if it so happens. The word of command from an officer is alone required, and they would doit. People talk about the reading of the Riot Act and the sounding ofthe bugles in warning before the shooting begins; but no such warning isnecessary. Lord Mansfield laid it down in 1780 that the Riot Act was but"a step in terrorism and of gentleness. " There is no need for suchgentleness. At an officer's bare word, a man in uniform must shoot. Andall for a shilling a day, with food and lodging! To the inexperiencedintelligence of men and women, the thing seems incredible, and thecountry owes a debt of gratitude to the Home Office for showing thewhole working population that it is true. Certainly, the soldiersthemselves strongly object to being put to this use. Their Red Book ofinstructions insists that the primary duty of keeping order rests withthe civil power. It lays it down that soldiers should never be requiredto act except in cases where the riot cannot reasonably be expected tobe quelled without resorting to the risk of inflicting death. But theHome Office, in requiring soldiers to act throughout the whole countryat points where no riot at all was reasonably expected, gave us allduring that railway strike an object-lesson in the meaning of uniformmore impressive than the pictures on a Board School wall. Mr. Brailsfordhas well said, "the discovery of tyrants is that, for a soldier'smotive, a uniform will serve as well as an idea. "

Not a century has passed since the days when, as the noblest mind ofthose times wrote, a million of hungry operative men rose all up, cameall out into the streets, and--stood there. "Who shall compute, " heasked:

 "Who shall compute the waste and loss, the destruction of every sort, that was produced in the Manchester region by Peterloo alone! Some thirteen unarmed men and women cut down--the number of the slain and maimed is very countable; but the treasury of rage, burning, hidden or visible, in all hearts ever since, more or less perverting the effort and aim of all hearts ever since, is of unknown extent. 'How came ye among us, in your cruel armed blindness, ye unspeakable County Yeomanry, sabres flourishing, hoofs prancing, and slashed us down at your brute pleasure; deaf, blind to all _our_ claims and woes and wrongs; of quick sight and sense to your own claims only! There lie poor, sallow, work-worn weavers, and complain no more now; women themselves are slashed and sabred; howling terror fills the air; and ye ride prosperous, very victorious--ye unspeakable: give _us_ sabres too, and then come on a little!' Such are Peterloos. "

The parallel, if not exact, is close enough. During popular movementsin Germany and Russia, the party of freedom has sometimes hoped that thetroops would come over to their side--would "fraternise, " as theexpression goes. The soldiers in those countries are even more closelyconnected with the people than our own, for about one in three of theyoung men pass into the army, whether they like it or not, and in two orthree years return to ordinary life. Yet the hope of "fraternisation"has nearly always been in vain. Half a dozen here and there may standout to defend their brothers and their homes. But the risk is too great, the bonds of uniform and habit too strong. Hitherto in England, we havejealously preserved our civil liberties from the dragooning of militarydistricts, and the few Peterloos of our history, compared with thesuppressions in other countries, prove how justified our jealousy hasbeen. It may be true--we wish it were always true, that, as Carlylesays, "if your Woolwich grapeshot be but eclipsing Divine Justice, andthe God's radiance itself gleam recognisable athwart such grapeshot, then, yes, then, is the time coming for fighting and attacking. " We allwish that were always true, and that the people of every country wouldalways act upon it. But for the moment, we are grateful for the reminderthat, whether it eclipses Divine Justice or not, the grapeshot is stillthere, and that a man in uniform, at a word of command, will shoot hismother. 

XIII

"OUR FATHERS HAVE TOLD US"

We have forgotten, else it would be impossible they should try to befoolus. We have forgotten the terrible years when England lay cold andstarving under the clutch of the landlords and their taxes on food. Terror is soon forgotten, for otherwise life could not endure. Notseventy years have gone since that clutch was loosened, but the ironwhich entered into the souls of our fathers is no more remembered. Howmany old labourers, old operatives, or miners are now left to recall thewretchedness of that toiling and starving childhood before the corn-taxwas removed? Few are remaining now, and they speak little and will soonbe gone. The horror of it is scattered like the night, and we think nomore of it, nor imagine its reality. It seems very long ago, likeWaterloo or the coach to York--so long ago that we can almost hope itwas not true. 

And yet our fathers have told us of it. They and their fathers livedthrough it at its worst. Only six years have passed since Mrs. CobdenUnwin collected the evidence of aged labourers up and down the country, and issued their piteous memories in the book called _The Hungry'Forties_. Ill-spelt, full of mistakes, the letters are strongerdocuments than the historian's eloquence. In every detail of misery, oneletter agrees with the other. In one after another we read of thequartern loaf ranging from 7_d_. To 11-1/2_d_. , and heavy, sticky, stringy bread at that; or we read of the bean porridge or grated potatothat was their chief food; or, if they were rather better off, they toldof oatmeal and a dash of red herring--one red herring among three peoplewas thought a luxury. And then there was the tea--sixpence an ounce, andone ounce to last a family for a week, eked out with the scrapings ofburnt crusts to give the water a colour. One man told how his parentswent to eat raw snails in the fields. Another said the look of abutcher's shop was all the meat they ever got. "A ungry belly makes aman desprit, " wrote one, but for poaching a pheasant the hungry man wasimprisoned fourteen years. Seven shillings to nine shillings a week wasthe farm labourer's wage, and it took twenty-six shillings then to buythe food that seven would buy now. What a vivid and heartrending pictureof cottage life under the landlord's tax is given in one old man'smemory of his childish hunger and his mother's pitiful self-denial! "Wewas not allowed free speech, " he writes, "so I would just pull mother'sface when at meals, and then she would say, 'Boy, I can't eat thiscrust, ' and O! the joy it would bring my little heart. "

We have forgotten it. Wretched as is the daily life of a large part ofour working people--the only people who really count in a country'sprosperity--we can no longer realise what it was when wages were so lowand food so dear that the struggle with starvation never ceased. But inthose days there were men who saw and realised it. The poor die andleave no record. Their labour is consumed, their bodies rot unnamed, andtheir habitations are swept away. They do not tell their public secret, and at the most their existence is recorded in the registers of theparish, the workhouse, or the gaol. But from time to time men havearisen with the heart to see and the gift of speech, and in the yearswhen the oppression of the landlords was at its worst a few such menarose. We do not listen to them now, for no one cares to hear of misery. And we do not listen, because most of them wrote in verse, and verse isnot liked unless it tells of love or beauty or the sticky pathos ofdrawing-room songs. But it so happens that two of the first who saw andspoke also sang of love and beauty with a power and sweetness thatcompel us to listen still. And so, in turning their well-known pages, wesuddenly come upon things called "The Masque of Anarchy" or "The Age ofBronze, " and, with a moment's wonder what they are all about, we pass onto "The Sensitive Plant, " or "When We Two Parted. " As we pass, we mayjust glance at the verses and read:

 "What is Freedom?--ye can tell That which slavery is, too well-- For its very name has grown To an echo of your own. 'Tis to work and have such pay As just keeps life from day to day In your limbs. .. . 

 'Tis to see your children weak With their mothers pine and peak, When the winter winds are bleak-- They are dying whilst I speak. "

Or, turning on, perhaps, in search of the "Ode to the West Wind, " wecasually notice the song beginning:

 "Men of England, wherefore plough For the lords who lay you low? Wherefore weave with toil and care The rich robes your tyrants wear?

 Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, From the cradle to the grave, Those ungrateful drones who would Drain your sweat--nay, drink your blood?"

And so to the conclusion:

 "With plough and spade, and hoe and loom, Trace your grave, and build your tomb, And weave your winding-sheet, till fair England be your sepulchre. "

Or else, in looking once more for that exquisite scene between Haidéeand Don Juan on the beach, we fall unawares upon these lines:

 "Year after year they voted cent. Per cent. , Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions--why? for rent! They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant To die for England--why then live?--for rent!

 * * * * *

 And will they not repay the treasures lent? No; down with everything, and up with rent! Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, Being, end, aim, religion--rent, rent, rent!"

The men who uttered such lines were driven from their class, theirhomes, and their country. They were despised and hated, like all whoprotest against oppression and remind the smug world of uncomfortablethings. But they were great poets. One of them was our sweetest singer, the other was, when he wrote, the most conspicuous figure in Europe, andthe most shattering force. Even England, which cares so little for hergreatest inheritance of passionate intellect, cannot yet forget them. But others who sang the same terrible theme she has long forgotten, orshe keeps them only on the shelves of curious and dusty investigators. Such men, I mean, as Ebenezer Elliot, Ebenezer Jones, Ernest Jones, Thomas Cooper, William James Linton, and Gerald Massey, who so latelydied. 

They were not high-born, nor were they shining poets like the twin starsof freedom whom I have quoted. Little scholarship was theirs, littleperfection of song. Some had taught themselves their letters at theforge, some in the depths of the mine, some sang their most daring linesin prison cells where they were not allowed even to write down thewords. Nearly all knew poverty and hunger at first hand; nearly all werepersecuted for righteousness' sake. For maintaining the cause of thepoor and the helpless they were mocked and reviled; scorn was theirreward. The governing classes whose comfort they disturbed wished themdead; so did the self-righteous classes whose conscience they ruffled. That is the common fate of any man or woman who probes a loathsome evil, too long skimmed over. The peculiarity of these men was that, when theywere driven to speak, they spoke in lines that flew on wings through thecountry. Indignation made their verse, and the burning memory of thewrongs they had seen gave it a power beyond its own expression. Whichshall we recall of those ghostly poems, once so quick with flame? Still, at moments of deep distress or public wrong-doing, we may hear the echoof the Corn-law Rhymer's anthem:

 "When wilt thou save the people? O God of mercy! when? Not kings and lords, but nations! Not thrones and crowns, but men!"

Or if we read his first little book of rhymes, that may be had fortwopence now, we shall find the pictures of the life that was livedunder Protection--the sort of life the landlords and their theoristsinvite us to enact again. From his "Black Hole of Calcutta" we take thelines:

 "Bread-tax'd weaver, all can see What that tax hath done for thee, And thy children, vilely led, Singing hymns for shameful bread, Till the stones of every street Know their little naked feet. "

Or let us take one verse from the lines, "O Lord, how long?"

 "Child, what hast thou with sleep to do? Awake, and dry thine eyes! Thy tiny hands must labour too; Our bread is tax'd--arise! Arise, and toil long hours twice seven, For pennies two or three; Thy woes make angels weep in Heaven-- But England still is free. "

Or we might recall "The Coming Cry, " by Ebenezer Jones, with its greatrefrain:

 "Perhaps it's better than starvation, --once we'll pray, and then We'll all go building workhouses, million, million men!"

Or we might recall Ernest Jones and his "Song of the 'Lower Classes, '"where the first verse runs:

 "We plow and sow, we're so very, very low, That we delve in the dirty clay; Till we bless the plain with the golden grain And the vale with the fragrant hay. Our place we know, we're so very, very low, 'Tis down at the landlord's feet; We're not too low the grain to grow, But too low the bread to eat. "

Or shall we take one verse from the terrible "Easter Hymn, " written bythe same true-hearted prisoner for freedom:

 "Like royal robes on the King of Jews, We're mocked with rights that we may not use; 'Tis the people so long have been crucified, But the thieves are still wanting on either side. 

 _Chorus_--Mary and Magdalen, Peter and John, Swell the sad burden, and bear it on. "

The iteration of the idea throughout the poem is tremendous in effect, and the idea comes close to Swinburne's ode, "Before a Crucifix":

 "O sacred head, O desecrate, O labour-wounded feet and hands, O blood poured forth in pledge to fate Of nameless lives in divers lands, O slain and spent and sacrificed People, the grey-grown speechless Christ. "

Time would fail to tell of Linton's "Torch-Dance of Liberty, " or ofMassey's "Men of Forty-eight, " and there are many more--the utterance ofmen who spoke from the heart, knowing in their own lives what sufferingwas. But let us rather turn for a moment to the prose of a man who, alsoreared in hardship's school, had learnt to succour misery. Speaking atthe time when Protection was biting and clawing the ground in the lastdeath-struggle, as all men but the landlords hoped, Carlyle asked thisquestion of the people:

 "From much loud controversy, and Corn-law debating, there rises, loud though inarticulate, once more in these years, this very question among others, Who made the Land of England? Who made it, this respectable English Land, wheat-growing, metalliferous, carboniferous, which will let readily, hand over hand, for seventy millions or upwards, as it here lies: who did make it? 'We, ' answer the much-consuming Aristocracy; 'We!' as they ride in, moist with the sweat of Melton Mowbray: 'It is we that made it, or are the heirs, assigns and representatives of those who did!'--My brothers, You? Everlasting honour to you, then; and Corn-laws many as you will, till your own deep stomachs cry Enough, or some voice of Human pity for our famine bids you Hold!"

So our fathers have told us, and we have forgotten. It is all very longago, and the Protectionist says that times have changed. Certainly timeshave changed, and it was deliverance from Protection that changed themmost. But if landowners have changed, if they are now more alien fromthe people, and richer from other sources than land, we have no reasonto suppose them less greedy or more pitiful; nor can a nation live onthe off-chance of pity. Seventy years ago the net encompassed the land. We have seen how the people suffered under its entanglement. In thesight of all, landowners and speculators are now trying to spread thatnet again. Are we to suppose the English people have not the hereditaryinstinct of sparrows to keep them outside its meshes?

XIV

THE GRAND JURY

When Mr. Clarkson, of the Education Office, received a summons to attendthe Grand Jury, or to answer the contrary at his peril, he was glad. "For now, " he thought, "I shall share in the duties of democracy and bebrought face to face with the realities of life. "

"Mrs. Wilson, " he said to the landlady, as she brought in his breakfast, "what does this summons mean by describing the Court as being in thesuburbs of the City of London? Is there a Brixton Branch?"

"O Lordy me!" cried the landlady, "I do hope, sir, as you've not gotyourself mixed up with no such things; but the Court's nigh against St. Paul's, as I know from going there just before my poor nephew passedinto retirement, as done him no good. "

"The summons, " Mr. Clarkson went on, "the summons says I'm to inquire, present, do, and execute all and singular things with which I may bethen and there enjoined. Why should only the law talk like that?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, " replied the landlady, "I sometimes do thinkit comes of their dressing so old-fashioned. But I'd ask it of you notto read me no more of such like, if you'd be so obliging. For it do makeme come over all of a tremble. "

"I wonder if her terror arises from the hideousness of the legal styleor from association of ideas?" thought Mr. Clarkson as he opened aMilton, of which he always read a few lines every morning to dignify theday. 

On the appointed date, he set out eastward with an exhilarating sense ofchange, and thoroughly enjoyed the drive down Holborn among the crowd ofCity men. "It's rather strangely like going to the seaside, " he remarkedto the man next him on the motor-'bus. The man asked him if he had comefrom New Zealand to see the decorations, and arrived late. "Oh no, " saidMr. Clarkson, "I seldom think the Colonies interesting, and I distrustdecoration in every form. "

It was unfortunate, but the moment he mounted the Court stairs, thedecoration struck him. There were the expected scenes, historic andemblematic of Roman law, blindfold Justice, the Balance, the Sword, andother encouraging symbols. But in one semicircle he especially noticed agroup of men, women, and children, dancing to the tabor's sound in nakedfreedom. "Please, could you tell me, " he asked of a stationarypoliceman, "whether that scene symbolises the Age of Innocence, beforeLaw was needed, or the Age of Anarchy, when Law will be needed nolonger?"

"Couldn't rightly say, " answered the policeman, looking up sideways;"but I do wish they'd cover them people over more decent. They're ahoutrage on respectable witnesses. "

"All art--" Mr. Clarkson was beginning, when the policeman said "GrandJury?" and pushed him through a door into a large court. A vision ofmiddle-age was there gathering, and a murmur of complaint filled theroom--the hurried breakfast, the heat, the interrupted business, thereported large number of prisoners, likely to occupy two days, or eventhree. 

Silence was called, and four or five elderly gentlemen inblack-and-scarlet robes--"wise in their wigs, and flamboyant asflamingoes, " as a daily paper said of the judges at the Coronation--somealso decorated with gilded chains and deep fur collars, in spite of theheat, entered from a side door and took their seats upon a raisedplatform. Each carried in his hand a nosegay of flowers, screwed uptight in a paper frill with lace-work round the edges, like the bouquetsthat enthusiasts or the management throw to actresses. 

"Are those flowers to cheer the prisoners?" Mr. Clarkson whispered, "orare they the rudimentary survivals of the incense that used tocounteract the smell and infection of gaol-fever?"

"Covent Garden, " was the reply, and the list of jurors was called. Thefirst twenty-three were sent into another room to select their foreman, and, though Mr. Clarkson had not the slightest desire to be chosen, heobserved that the other jurors did not even look in his direction. Finally, a foreman was elected, no one knew for what reasons, and allwent back to the Court to be "charged. " A gentleman in black-and-scarletmade an hour's speech, reviewing the principal cases with as muchsolemnity as if the Grand Jury's decisions would affect the LastJudgment, and Mr. Clarkson began to realise his responsibility soseriously that when the jurors were dismissed to their duties, he tookhis seat before a folio of paper, a pink blotting-pad, and two cleanquill pens, with a resolve to maintain the cause of justice, whatevermight befall. 

"Page eight, number twenty-one, " shouted the black-robed usher, whoguided the jurors as a dog guides sheep, and wore the cheerful air ofcongenial labour successfully performed. Turning up the reference in thebook of cases presented to each juror, Mr. Clarkson found: "CharlesJones, 35, clerk; forging and uttering, knowing the same to be forged, areceipt for money, to wit, a receipt for fees on a plaint note of theFulham County Court, with intent to defraud. "

"This threatens to be a very abstruse case, " he remarked to a red-facedjuror on his right. 

"A half of bitter would elucidate it wonderful to my mind, " was theanswer. 

But already a policeman had been sworn, and given his evidence with thedecisiveness of a gramophone. 

"Any questions?" said the foreman, looking round the table. No onespoke. 

"Signify, gentlemen, signify!" cried the genial usher, and all but Mr. Clarkson held up a hand. 

"Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, " counted the usher, totting up thehands till he reached a majority. "True Bill, True Bill! Next case. Pageeleven, number fifty-two. "

"Do you mean to tell me that is all?" asked Mr. Clarkson, turning to hisneighbour. 

"Say no more, and I'll make it a quart, " replied the red-faced man, ticking off the last case and turning up the new one, in which a doctorwas already giving his evidence against a woman charged with the wilfulmurder of her newly-born male child. 

"Signify, gentlemen, signify!" cried the usher. "Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve. True Bill, True Bill! Next case. Page fourteen, numberseventy-two. "

"Stop a moment, " stammered Mr. Clarkson, half rising; "if you please, stop one moment. I wish to ask if we are justified in rushing throughquestions of life and death in this manner. What do we know of thiswoman, for instance--her history, her distress, her state of mind?"

"Sit down!" cried some. "Oh, shut it!" cried others. All looked at himwith the amused curiosity of people in a tramcar looking at a talkativechild. The usher bustled across the room, and said in a loud andreassuring whisper: "All them things has got nothing to do with you, sir. Those is questions for the Judge and Petty Jury upstairs. Themagistrates have sat on all these cases already and committed them fortrial; so all you've got to do is to find a True Bill, and you can't gowrong. "

"If we can't go wrong, there's no merit in going right, " protested Mr. Clarkson. 

"Next case. Page fourteen, number seventy-two, " shouted the usher again, and as the witness was a Jew, his hat was sent for. "There's a lot ofhistory behind that hat, " said Mr. Clarkson, wishing to propitiatepublic opinion. 

"Wish that was all there was behind it, " said the juror on his left. TheJew finished his evidence and went away. The foreman glanced round, andthe usher had already got as far as "Signify, " when a venerable juror, prompted by Mr. Clarkson's example, interposed. 

"I should like to ask that witness one further question, " he said in afine Scottish accent, and after considerable shouting, the Jew wasrecalled. 

"I should like to ask you, my man, " said the venerable juror, "how youspell your name?" The name was spelt, the juror carefully inscribed iton a blank space opposite the charge, sighed with relief, and lookedround. "Signify, gentlemen, signify!" cried the usher. "Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve. True Bill, True Bill! Next case. Page six, numbereleven. "

Number eleven was a genuine murder case, and sensation pervaded the roomwhen the murdered man's wife was brought in, weeping. She sobbed out theoath, and the foreman, wishing to be kind, said, encouragingly, "Statebriefly what you know of this case. "

She sobbed out her story, and was led away. The foreman glanced roundthe tables. 

"I think we ought to hear the doctor, " said the red-faced man. Thedoctor was called and described a deep incised wound, severing certainanatomical details. 

"I think we ought to hear the constable, " said the red-faced man, andthere was a murmur of agreement. A policeman came in, carrying a brownpaper parcel. Having described the arrest, he unwrapped a long knife, which was handed round the tables for inspection. When it reached thered-faced juror, he regarded the blade closely up and down, withgloating satisfaction. "Are those stains blood?" he asked the policeman. 

"Yes, sir; them there is the poor feller's blood. "

The red-faced man looked again, and suddenly turning upon Mr. Clarkson, went through a pantomime of plunging the knife into his throat. At Mr. Clarkson's horrified recoil he laughed himself purple. 

"Well said the Preacher you may know a man by his laughter, " Mr. Clarkson murmured, while the red-faced man patted him amicably on theback. 

"No offence, I hope; no offence!" he said. "Come and have some lunch. Ialways must, and I always do eat a substantial lunch. Nice, juicy cutfrom the joint, and a little dry sherry? What do you say?"

"Thank you very much indeed, " said Mr. Clarkson, instantly benign. "Youare most kind, but I always have coffee and a roll and butter. "

"O my God!" exclaimed the red-faced man, and speaking across Mr. Clarkson to another substantial juror, he entered into discussion on thecomparative merits of dry sherry and champagne-and-bitters. 

Soon after two they both returned in the comfortable state of mindproduced by the solution of doubt. But Mr. Clarkson's doubts had notbeen solved, and his state of mind was far from comfortable. All throughthe lunch hour he had been tortured by uncertainty. A plain dutyconfronted him, but how could he face it? He hated a scene. He abhorredpublicity as he abhorred the glaring advertisements in the streets. Hehad never suffered so much since the hour before he had spoken at theOxford Union on the question whether the sense for beauty can beimparted by instruction. He closed his eyes. He felt the sweat standingon his forehead. And still the cases went on. "Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve. True Bill. True Bill. Two, four, six, eight. .. . "

"Now then, sleepy!" cried the red-faced man in his ear, giving him agenial dig with his elbow. Mr. Clarkson quivered at the touch, but herose. 

"Gentlemen, " he began, "I wish to protest against the continuation ofthis farce. "

The jury became suddenly alert, and his voice was drowned in chaos. "Order, order! Chair, chair!" they shouted. "Everybody's doing it!" sangone. 

"I call that gentleman to order, " said the foreman, rising withdignity. "He has previously interrupted and delayed our proceedings, without bringing fresh light to bear upon our investigations. After theluncheon interval, I was pleased to observe that for one cause oranother--I repeat, for one cause or another--he was distinctly--shall Isay somnolent, gentlemen? Yes, I will say somnolent. And I wish toinform him that the more somnolent he remains, the better we shall allbe pleased. "

"Hear, hear! Quite true!" shouted the jury. 

"Does it appear to you, sir, fitting to sit here wasting time?" Mr. Clarkson continued, with diminishing timidity. "Does it seem to you aproper task for twenty-three apparently rational beings--"

"Twenty-two! Twenty-two!" cried the red-faced man, adding up the jurorswith the end of a pen, and ostentatiously omitting Mr. Clarkson. 

The jurors shook with laughter. They wiped tears from their eyes. Theyrolled their heads on the pink blotting-paper in their joy. When quietwas restored, the foreman proceeded:

"I have already ruled that gentleman out of order, and I warn him thatif he perseveres in his contumacious disregard of common decency and thechair, I shall proceed to extremities as the law directs. We are here, gentlemen, to fulfil a public duty as honourable British citizens, andhere we will remain until that duty is fulfilled, or we will know thereason why. "

He glanced defiantly round, assuming an aspect worthy of the last standat Maiwand. Looking at Mr. Clarkson as turkeys might look at a straycanary, the jurors expressed their applause. 

But the genial usher took pity, and whispered across the table to him, "It'll all come right, sir; it'll all come right. You wait a bit. TheGrand Jury always rejects one case before it's done; sometimes two. "

And sure enough, next morning, while Mr. Clarkson was reading Burke'sspeeches which he had brought with him, one of the jurors objected tothe evidence in the eighty-seventh case. "We cannot be too cautious, gentlemen, " he said, "in arriving at a decision in these delicatematters. The apprehension of blackmail in relation to females hangs overevery living man in this country. "

"Delicate matters; blackmail; relation to females; great apprehension ofblackmail in these delicate matters, " murmured the jury, shaking theirheads, and they threw out the Bill with the consciousness of anindependent and righteous deed. 

Soon after midday, the last of the cases was finished, and havingsignified a True Bill for nearly the hundredth time, the jurors wereconducted into the Court where a prisoner was standing in the dock forhis real trial. As though they had saved a tottering State, the Judgethanked them graciously for their services, and they were discharged. 

"Just a drop of something to show there's no ill-feeling?" said thered-faced man as they passed into the street. 

"Thank you very much, " replied Mr. Clarkson warmly. "I assure you I havenot the slightest ill-feeling of any kind. But I seldom drink. "

"Bless my soul!" said the red-faced man. "Then, what _do_ you do?"

XV

A NEW CONSCRIPTION

When the Territorial exclaims that, for his part, he would refuse toinhabit a planet on which there was no hope of war, the peacefullistener shudderingly charges the inventor of Territorials withpromoting a bloodthirsty mind. After all the prayers for peace in ourtime--prayers in which even Territorials are expected to join on churchparade--it appears an impious folly to appraise war as a necessity forhuman happiness. Or if indeed it be a blessing, however much indisguise, why not boldly pray to have the full benefit of it in ourtime, instead of passing it on, like unearned increment, for theadvantage of posterity? Such a thing is unimaginable. A prayer for warwould make people jump; it would empty a church quicker than thecollection. Nevertheless, it is probable that the great majority ofevery congregation does in its heart share the Territorial's opinion, and, if there were no possibility of war ever again anywhere in theworld, they would find life upon this planet a trifle flat. 

The impulse to hostilities arises not merely from the delight in scenesof blood enjoyed at a distance, though that is the commonest form ofmilitary ardour, and in many a bloody battle the finest fruits ofvictory are reaped over newspapers and cigars at the bar or in the backgarden. There is no such courage as glows in the citizen's bosom when heperuses the telegrams of slaughter, just as there is no such ferocity ashe imbibes from the details of a dripping murder. "War! War! Bloody war!North, South, East, or West!" cries the soldier in one of Mr. Kipling'spretty tales; but in real life that cry arises rather from themusic-halls than from the soldier, and many a high-souled patriot athome would think himself wronged if perpetual peace deprived him of hisone opportunity of displaying valour to his friends, his readers, or hisfamily. All these imaginative people, whose bravery may be none the lessgenuine for being vicarious, must be reckoned as the natural supportersof war, and, indeed, one can hardly conceive any form of distantconflict for which they would not stand prepared. 

But still, the widespread dislike of peace is not entirely derived fromtheir prowess; nor does it spring entirely from the nursemaid's love ofthe red coat and martial gait, though this is on a far nobler plane, andcomes much nearer to the heart of things. The gleam of uniforms in adrab world, the upright bearing, the rattle of a kettledrum, the boom ofa salute, the murmur of the "Dead March, " the goodnight of the "LastPost" sounding over the home-faring traffic and the quiet cradles--onedoes not know by what substitutes eternal peace could exactly replacethem. For they are symbols of a spiritual protest against thedegradation of security. They perpetually re-assert the claim of abeauty and a passion that have no concern with material advantages. Theysound defiance in the dull ears of comfort, and proclaim woe unto themthat are at ease in the city of life. Dimly the nursemaid is aware ofthe protest; most people are dimly aware of it; and the few whoseriously labour for an unending reign of peace must take it intoaccount. 

It is useless to allure mankind by promises of a pig's paradise. Muchhas been rightly written about the horrors of war. Everyone knows themto be sudden, hideous, and overwhelming; those who have seen them canspeak also of the squalor, the filthiness, the murderous swindling, andthe inconceivable absurdity of the whole monstrous performance. But thehorrors of peace, if not so obvious, come nearer to our daily life, andwe are naturally terrified at its softness, its monotony, and itsenfeebling relaxation. Of all people in the world the wealthy classes ofEngland and America are probably the furthest removed from danger, andno one admires them in the least; no one in the least envies theirtreadmill of successive pleasures. The most unwarlike of men are hauntedby the fear that perpetual peace would induce a general degeneration ofsoul and body such as they now behold amid the rich man's shelteredcomforts. They dread the growth of a population slack of nerve, soft ofbody, cruel through fear of pain, and incapable of endurance or highendeavour. They dread the entire disappearance of that cleardecisiveness, that disregard of pleasure, that quiet devotion of self inthe face of instant death, which are to be found, now and again, in thecourse of every war. Even peace, they say, may be bought too dear, andwhat shall it profit a people if it gain a swill-tub of comforts andlose its own soul?

The same argument is chosen by those who would persuade the wholepopulation to submit to military training, whether it is needful for thecountry's defence or not. Under such training, they suppose, thevirtues that peace imperils would be maintained; a sense of equality andcomradeship would pervade all classes, and for two or three years oflife the wealthy would enjoy the realities of labour and discomfort. Itis a tempting vision, and if this were the only means of escape fromsuch a danger as is represented, the wealthy would surely be the firstto embrace it for their own salvation. But is there no other means?asked Professor William James, and his answer to the question was thatdistinguished psychologist's last service. What we are looking for, herightly said, is a moral equivalent for war, and he suddenly found it ina conscription, not for fighting, but for work. After showing that thelife of many is nothing else but toil and pain, while others "get notaste of this campaigning life at all, " he continued:

 "If now--and this is my idea--there were, instead of military conscription, a conscription of the whole youthful population to form for a certain number of years a part of the army enlisted against _nature_, the injustice would tend to be evened out, and numerous other benefits to the commonwealth would follow. The military ideals of hardihood and discipline would be wrought into the growing fibre of the people; no one would remain blind, as the luxurious classes now are blind, to man's real relations to the globe he lives on, and to the permanently solid and hard foundations of his higher life. To coal and iron mines, to freight trains, to fishing fleets in December, to dish-washing, clothes-washing, and window-washing, to road-building and tunnel-making, to foundries and stoke-holes, and to the frames of skyscrapers, would our gilded youths be drafted off, according to their choice, to get the childishness knocked out of them, and to come back into society with healthier sympathies and soberer ideas. "

Here, indeed, is a vision more tempting than ever conscription was. Tobe sure, it is not new, for Ruskin had a glimpse of it, and that was whyhe induced the Oxford undergraduates to vary their comfortable Greekstudies and games at ball with a little honest work upon the Hinkseyroad. But the vision is irresistible. There cannot be the smallest doubtit will be realised, and when the young dukes, landed proprietors, financiers, motorists, officers in the Guards, barristers, and curatesare marched off in gangs to their apportioned labour in the stoke-holes, coal-mines, and December fishing fleets, how the workmen will laugh, howexult!

Nor let it be supposed that the conscription would subject even the mostluxurious conscripts to any unendurable hardship. So hateful is idlenessto man that the toil of the poor is continually being adopted by therich as sport. To climb a mountain was once the irksome duty of theshepherd and wandering hawker; now it is the privilege of wealth to hangby the finger-nails over an abyss. Once it was the penalty of slaves topull the galleys; now it is only the well-to-do who labour day by day atthe purposeless oar, and rack their bodies with a toil that brings homeneither fish nor merchandise. Once it fell to the thin bowman anddespised butcher to provide the table with flesh and fowl; now, atenormous expense, the rich man plays the poulterer for himself, andstatesmen seek the strenuous life in the slaughter of a scarcely ediblerhinoceros. Let the conscripts of comfort take heart. They will run morerisks in the galleries of the mines than on the mountain precipice, andone night's trawl upon the Dogger Bank would provide more weight of fishthan if they whipped the Tay from spring to winter. 

Under this great conscription, a New Model would, indeed, be initiated, as far superior to the conscript armies as Cromwell's Ironsides were tothe mercenaries of their time. The whole nation from prince to beggarwould by this means be transformed, labour would cease to be despised orriches to be worshipped, the reproach of effeminacy would be removed, the horrors of peace mitigated, and the moral equivalent of wardiscovered. For the first time a true comradeship between class andclass would arise, for, as Goethe said, work makes the comrade, anddemocracy might have a chance of becoming a reality instead of a partyphrase. After three years' service down the sewers or at the smeltingworks, our men of leisure would no longer raise their wail over nationaldegeneracy or the need of maintaining the standard of hardihood bybarrack-square drill. As things are now, it is themselves who chieflyneed the drill. "Those who live at ease, " said Professor James, "are anisland on a stormy ocean. " In the summing up of the nation they, intheir security, would hardly count, were they not so vocal; but themolten iron, the flaming mine, the whirling machine, the engulfing sea, and hunger always at the door take care that, for all but a very fewamong the people, the discipline of danger and perpetual effort shallnot be wanting. You do not find the pitman, the dustman, or the bargeepuling for bayonet exercise to make them hard, and if our nervousgentlemen were all serving the State in those capacities, they mighteven approach their addition sums in "Dreadnoughts" without a tremor. Besides, as Professor James added for a final inducement, the womenwould value them more highly. 

XVI

THE LAST OF THE RUNNYMEDES

The high debate was over, and Lord Runnymede issued from the House, proud in his melancholy, like a garrison withdrawing from a fortresswith colours flying and all the honours of war. He had sent a messenger(he called him an "orderly") for his carriage. He might have telephoned, but he disliked the Board-School voice that said "Number, please!" andhe still more disliked the idea of a coachman speaking down a tube (ashe imagined it) into his ear. Not that he was opposed to inventions, orthe advance of science as such. He recognised the necessity of progress, and had not openly reproached his own sister when she instituted a motorin place of her carriage. But for himself the two dark bays werewaiting--heads erect, feet firmly planted on the solid earth. For heloved horses, and the Runnymede stables maintained the blood of KingCharles's importations from Arabian chivalry. Besides, what manners, what sense, could be expected of a chauffeur, occupied with oily wheelsand engines, instead of living things and corn?

Some of the small crowd standing about the gate recognised him as hecame out, and one called his name and said "What ho!" For his appearancewas fairly well known through political caricatures, which usuallyrepresented him in plate-armour, holding a spear, and wearing acoat-of-arms. He had once instructed his secretary to write privately toan editor pointing out that the caricaturist had committed a gross errorin heraldry; but in his heart he rather enjoyed the pictures, and it wasthe duty of one of his maids to stick them into a scrap-book, inscribedwith the proper dates, for the instruction and entertainment of hisdescendants. In fact, he had lately been found showing the book to a boyof three, who picked out his figure by its long nose, and said "Granpa!"with unerring decision. 

But what was the good of son or grandchild now? He had nothing to handdown to them but the barren title, the old estate, and wealth safelyinvested in urban land and financial enterprises which his stockbrokerrecommended. Titles, estates, and wealth were but shadows without thevitalising breath of power. Cotton-spinners, boot-finishers, purveyorsof food at popular prices could now possess such things, and theyappeared to enjoy them. There were people, he believed, satisfied withcomfort, amusements, rounds of visits, social ambitions, and domestic orluxurious joys. But for a Runnymede thus to decline would be worse thanextinction. 

For six centuries the Runnymedes had served their country. Edward I hadsummoned one of them to his "model Parliament, " and the present lordcould still spell out a word or two of the ancient writ that hung framedin the hall at Stennynge, with the royal seal attached. Two of hisancestors had died by public violence (one killed in battle, fightingfor the Yorkists, who Lord Runnymede inclined to think represented theLegitimist side; the other executed under Elizabeth, apparently bymistake), and regretting there were not more, he had searched therecords of the Civil Wars and the 'Forty-five in vain. But never had aRunnymede failed in Parliament, or the Council of the King, as hepreferred to call it; and their name had frequently appeared among theholders of subordinate but dignified offices, such as the Mastership ofthe Buckhounds, to which special knowledge gave an honourable claim. 

Trained from his first pony in political tradition, and encouraged byevery gamekeeper to follow the footsteps of his ancestors, LordRunnymede had inevitably taken "Noblesse oblige" as his private motto. But of what service was nobility if its obligations were abolished? Hesometimes pictured with a shudder the fate of the surviving Frenchnobility--retaining their titles by courtesy, and compelled to fritteraway their lives upon châteaux, travelling, aeroplanes, or amatoryintrigues, instead of directing their wisdom and influence to the rightgovernment of the State. The guillotine was better. He could not imaginehis descendants without a House of Lords to sit in. Without the Lords, he was indeed the last of the Runnymedes, and upon the scaffold he mightat least die worthy of his name. 

Compromise he despised as the artifice of lawyers and upstartpoliticians. It had been a dagger in his heart to hear his leaderspeaking of some readjustment between the two Houses as inevitable. Hedenied the necessity, unless the readjustment augmented the power of theLords. Planting himself on Edward I's statute, he had vehementlymaintained the right of the Lords to control finance, though he waswilling to allow the commercial gentlemen in the Commons the privilegeof working out the figures of national income and expenditure. He nowregarded the threatened creation of Peers as a gross insult to publicdecency. Properly speaking, he protested, Peers cannot be created. Youmight as well put terriers into kennels and call them foxhounds. Now andthen a distinguished soldier or even a statesman could be ennobledwithout much harm; and he supposed there was something to be said for alearned man, and a writer or two, though he preferred them to bechildless. He had once published a book himself, with the Runnymede armson the cover. But the thought of making Lords by batches vulgarised theKing's majesty, and reversed the order of nature. "Are we worse thanChinamen, " he asked, "that we seek to confer nobility on fellows sprungfrom unknown forefathers?" The Archbishop of Canterbury had appealed tothe House to approach the question with mutual consideration andrespect, high public spirit and common sense. But on such a questionconsideration was dangerous, and common sense fatal. He wished theBishops had stuck to their own Convocation from Plantagenet times, instead of intruding their inharmonious white sleeves where they werenot wanted. He was sorry he had subscribed so handsomely to therestoration of Stennynge Church. He ought to have ear-marked hiscontribution for the Runnymede aisle. 

Worse still, the Archbishop had mentioned "the average voter in tramcaror railway train, " and the words had called up a haunting vision ofdisgust. He often said that he had no objection to the working classesas such. He rather liked them. He found them intelligent andunpretentious. He could converse with them without effort, and theyalways had the interest of sport in common. He felt no depression inpassing through the working quarters of the city, and at Stennynge hewas well acquainted with all the cottagers and farmers alike. In onefamily he had put out a puppy at walk; in another he had let off a manwho had poached a pheasant when his wife was ill; in a third he hadstood godfather to the baby when the father was killed falling from astack. He felt a kind of warmth towards the poor whenever he saw themupon his own estate. 

But of the average voter, such as the Archbishop described, he could notthink without pain and apprehension. Coming to London from any part ofthe country, he always closed his eyes as the train entered the suburbs. Those long rows of monotonous little houses--so decent, so uneventful, so temporary--oppressed him like a physical disease. If he contemplatedthem, they induced violent dyspepsia, such as he had once incurred byvisiting the Crystal Palace. The consciousness that they were there, even as he passed through tunnels, lowered his vitality until he reachedhis town house or club in the centre of things. Not even theconsiderable income he derived from land on the outskirts of a largemanufacturing town consoled him for the horror of the town's extension. In those uniform houses--in their railings, their Venetian blinds, indiarubber plants, and stained-glass panels to the doors--he beheld thecoming degradation of his country. He saw them, like great armies ofwhite or red ants, creeping over the land, devouring all that wasbeautiful in it, or ancient, or redolent of grandeur. Bit by bit, streetby street, the ignoble, the tidy, the pettiness of the parlour, wasgaining upon splendour and renown, and the anticipation of the changecast a foreboding sadness over the beauty of his own ancestral home. Ittainted even his unuttered pride in his son, who had been at Etonwithout expulsion, and served two years in the Foot Guards withoutdiscredit. And now, there was his grandson. 

What future could be theirs? Should a Runnymede sit in a House shorn ofits prerogatives, bound to impotence, reduced to a mere echo of popularcaprice, with hardly the delaying power of a chaperon at a ball? Orshould a son of his trot round from door to door, seeking the suffragesof those distressing suburbs at the polls--a son whose ancestry hadknown the favour of princes, and withstood foes and traitors upon thefield? Lord Runnymede himself had never thought of election, even beforethe House of Lords received him. Yet if you wanted representatives, whowas more truly representative of his own estates and the interests ofevery soul upon it--interests identical with his own? Who was more fitto control the country than a man who had breathed the atmosphere ofState from childhood, and learnt history from the breast-plates, theswords, the cloaks, the wigs, and the side-whisker portraits of menwhose very blood beat in his heart?

As the carriage went down Piccadilly, he was overwhelmed with thedarkness of the prospect. He saw an ancient country staggering from sideto side on its road to ruin, while the hands which had directed andsteadied it for centuries lay bound or idle. He saw coverts and meadowsand cornfields eaten away by desirable residences, angular gardencities, and Socialist communities. He saw his own Stennynge advertisedfor plots, and its relics catalogued for a museum, while factoriesspouted smoke from its lawns and shrubberies, and if a Runnymedesurvived, he lived in a rough-cast villa, like an eagle in a cage atthe Zoo. The soul of all his ancestors rose within him. Never should ithappen while he had a sword to draw. At least he could display thecourage of the fine old stock. If he submitted to the degradation, hewould feel himself a coward, unfit for the position he and his fathershad occupied. Let the enemy do their worst; they should find him steadyat his post. Before him lay one solemn duty still to be performed forGod and country. The spirit of noble sacrifice was not dead. Thepopulace should see how an aristocrat still could die. Come what might, he would vote against the third reading of the Bill!

Dismounting from his carriage, he approached the entrance-porch of hishouse with so proud and resolute a bearing that three hatlessworking-girls passing by, in white frocks, with arms interlaced, allcried out "Percy!" as their ironic manner is. 

XVII

CHILDREN OF THE STATE

I

Mrs. Reeve was an average widow with encumbrances. Ten years before shehad married a steady-going man--a cabinet-maker during working hours, and something of a Dissenter and a Radical in the evenings and onSundays. His wages had touched thirty shillings, and they had lived inthree rooms, first floor, in a quiet neighbourhood, keeping themselvesto themselves, as they boasted without undue pride. In their living-roomwas a flowery tablecloth; a glass shade stood on the mantelpiece; therewere a few books in a cupboard. They had thoughts of buying a liveindiarubber plant to stand by the window, when unexpectedly the mandied. 

He had followed the advice of economists. He had practised thrift. During his brief illness his society had supplied a doctor, and itprovided a comfortable funeral. His widow was left with a small sum inhand to start her new life upon, and she increased it by at once pawningthe superfluous furniture and the books. She lost no time hanging aboutthe old home. Within a week she had dried her eyes, washed out herhandkerchiefs, made a hatchment of her little girl's frock withquarterings of crape, piled the few necessities of existence on abarrow and settled in a single room in the poorest street of thedistrict. 

It was not much of a place, and it cost her half a crown a week, but insix months she had come to think of it as a home. She had brushed theceiling and walls, and scrubbed the boards, the children helping. Shehad added the touch of art with advertisements and picture almanacs. Abed for the three children stood in one corner--a big green iron bed, once her own. On the floor was laid a mattress for herself and the baby. Round it she hung her shawl and petticoats as a screen over some lengthsof cords. Right across the room ran a line for the family's bits ofwashing. A tiny looking-glass threw mysterious rays on to the ceiling atnight. On the whole, it really was not so bad, she thought, as shelooked round the room one evening. Only unfortunately her capital hadbeen slipping away shilling by shilling, and the first notice to quithad been served that day. She was what she called "upset" about it. 

"Now, Alfred, " she said to her eldest boy, "it's time I got to my work, and it won't do for you to start gettin' 'ungry again after yer teas. Soyou put yerself and Lizzie to bed, and I'll make a race of it with Henand the baby. "

"There now, " she said when the race was over, "that's what's called adead 'eat, and that's a way of winnin' as saves the expense of givin' aprize. "

With complete disregard for the theorising of science, she then stuckthe poker up in front of the bars to keep the fire bright. 

"Now, Alfred, " she said, "you mind out for baby cryin', and if sheshould 'appen to want for anythink, just give a call to Mrs. Thomasthrough the next door. "

"Right you are, " said Alfred, feeling as important as a 'bus conductor. 

Mrs. Reeve hurried towards the City to her work. Office cleaning was thefirst thing that had offered itself, and she could arrange the hours soas to look after the children between whiles. Late at night and againearly in the morning she was in the offices, and she earned a fractionover twopence an hour. 

"You're not seemin' exackly saloobrious to-night, my dear, " said the oldwoman who had lately come to the same staircase, as they began to scourthe stone with whitening. "I do 'ope 'e ain't been layin' 'is 'and onyer. "

"My 'usband didn't 'appen to be one of them sort, thankin' yer kindly, "said Mrs. Reeve. 

"Oh, a widder, and beggin' yer pardon. And you'll 'ave children, ofcourse?"

"Four, " said Mrs. Reeve, and she thought of them asleep in thefirelight. 

The old woman--a mere bundle with a pair of eyes in it--looked at herfor a moment, and pretending out of delicacy to be talking to herself, she muttered loud enough to be heard: "Oh, that's where it is, is it?There's four, same as I've buried. And a deal too many to bring updecent on ten shillin' a week. Why, I'd sooner let the Poor Law 'ave'em, though me and the old man 'ad to go into the 'Ouse for it. Andthat's what I said to Mrs. Green when Mrs. Turner was left with six. AndMrs. Turner she went and done it. An uncommon sensible woman, was Mrs. Turner, not like some as don't care what comes to their children, solong as they're 'appy theirselves. "

In the woman's words Mrs. Reeve heard the voice of mankind condemningher. She knew it was all true. The thought had haunted her for days, and that she might not hear more, she drowned the words by sousing aboutthe dirty water under the hiss of the scouring brush. 

But when she reached home just before midnight, her mind was made up. Her husband had always insisted that the children should be well fed andhealthy. He had spoken with a countryman's contempt of the meagreCockney bodies around them. One at least should go. She lit the candle, and stood listening to their sleep. Suddenly the further questioncame--which of the four? Should it be Alfred, the child of her girlhood, already so like his father, though he was only just nine? She couldn'tget on without him, he was so helpful, could be trusted to light thelire, sweep the room and wash up. It could not possibly be Alfred. Should it be Lizzie, her little girl of five, so pretty and nice todress in the old days when even her father would look up from his bookwith a grunt of satisfaction at her bits of finery on Sundays? But agirl must always need the mother's care. It couldn't possibly be Lizzie. Or should it be little Ben, lying there with eyes sunk deep in his head, and one arm outside the counterpane? Why, Ben was only three. A fewmonths ago he had been the baby. It couldn't possibly be little Ben. Andthen there was the baby herself--well, of course, it couldn't be thebaby. 

So the debate went on, in a kind of all-night sitting. At half-past fiveshe started for the offices again, sleepless and undecided. 

That afternoon she went to the relieving officer at the workhouse. Twodays later she was waiting among other "cases" in a passage there, underan illuminated text: "I have not seen the righteous forsaken. " In herturn she was ushered into the presence of the Board from behind a blackscreen. A few questions were put with all the delicacy which time andcustom allowed. There was a brief discussion. 

"Quite a simple case, " said the chairman. "My good woman, the Guardianswill undertake to relieve you of two children to prevent the whole lotof you coming on the rates. Send the two eldest to the House at once, and they will be drafted into our school in due course. Good morning toyou. Next case, please. "

She could do nothing but obey. Alfred and Lizzie were duly delivered atthe gate. Bewildered and terrified, hoping every hour to be taken home, they hung about the workhouse, and became acquainted with the flabbypallor and desperate sameness of the pauper face. After two days theywere whirled away, they knew not where, in something between a broughamand an ambulance cart. 

"You lay, Liz, they're goin' to make us Lord Mayors of London, same asWhittington, and we'll all ride in a coach together, " said Alfred, excited by the drive, and amazed at the two men on the box. Then theyboth laughed with the cheerful irony of London children. 

II

It was an afternoon in early October, the day after Alfred and Lizziehad been removed from the workhouse. They were now in the probation wardof one of the great district schools. Lizzie was sitting in the girls'room, whimpering quietly to herself, and every now and then saying, "Iwant my mother. " To which the female officer replied, "Oh, you'll soonget over that. "

Alfred was standing on the outside of a little group of boys gatheredin idleness round a stove in a large whitewashed room on the oppositeside of the building. Nearest the warmth stood Clem Bowler, conscious ofthe dignity which experience gives. For Clem had a reputation tomaintain. He was a redoubtable "in and out. " Four times already within ayear his parents had entrusted themselves and him to the care of theState, and four times, overcome by individualistic considerations, theyhad recalled him to their own protection. His was not an unusual case. The superintendent boasted that his "turn-over" ran to more than fivehundred children a year. But there was distinction about Clem, andpeople remembered him. 

"You 'ear, now, " he said, looking round with a veteran's contempt uponthe squad of recruits in pauperism, "if none on yer don't break out withsomethink before the week's over, I'll flay the lot. I'm not pertiklerfor what it is. Last time it was measles first, and then ringworm. Nighon seven weeks I stopt 'ere with nothink to do only eat, and never gotso much as a smell of the school. What's them teachers got to learn_me_, I'd like to know?"

He paused with rhetorical defiance, but as no one answered he proceededto express the teachers and officers in terms of unmentionablequantities. Suddenly he turned upon a big, vacant-looking boy at hisside. 

"What's yer name, fat-'ead?" he asked. 

The boy backed away a pace or two, and stood gently moving his headabout, and staring with his large pale eyes, as a calf stares at a dog. 

"Speak, you dyin' oyster!" said Clem, kicking his shins. 

"Ernest, " said the boy, with a sudden gasp, turning fiery red andtwisting his fingers into knots. 

"Ernest what?" said Clem. "But it don't matter, for your sort alwaysbelongs to the fine old family of Looney. You're a deal too good for thelikes of us. Why, you ought to 'ave a private asylum all to yerself. Hi, Missus!" he shouted to the porter's wife who was passing through theroom. "This young nobleman's name's Looney, isn't it?"

"Looks as if it 'ad ought to be, " she answered, with a smile, for sheavoided unnecessary difficulties. It was her duty to act as mother tothe children in the probation ward, and she had already mothered aboutfive thousand. 

"Well, Looney, " Clem went on as soon as she had gone, "I'll give you afair run for your money. By next Sunday week you must 'ave a sore 'eador sore eyes, or I'll see as you get both. But p'raps I may as well taketwo of the lot of yer in 'and at once. "

He seized the daft creature and Alfred by the short hair at the back oftheir heads, and began running them up and down as a pair of ponies. Theothers laughed, partly for flattery, partly for change. 

"That don't sound as if they was un'appy, do it, sir?" said the porter'swife, coming in again at that moment with one of the managers, who waspaying a "surprise visit" to the school. 

"No, indeed!" he answered heartily. "Well, boys, having a real goodtime, are you? That's right. Better being here than starving outside, isn't it?"

"Oh yuss, sir, a deal better!" said Clem. "Plenty to eat 'ere, sir, andnobody to be crule to yer, and nice little lessons for an hour in theafternoon!"

It was getting dark, and as the gas was lit and cast its yellow glareover the large room, Alfred thought how his mother must just then belighting the candle to give Ben and the baby their tea. 

III

So the children waited the due fortnight for the appearance of disease. But no one "broke out. " Looney, it is true, developed a very sore head, but the doctor declared there was nothing contagious about it; at whichneglect of scientific precaution Clem expressed justifiable disgust. For, indeed, he could have diagnosed the case completely himself, as asore due to compulsory friction of the epidermis against an ironbedstead. But as science remained deaf to his protests, he hastened toget first pick of the regulation suits and shoes, and when fairlysatisfied with the fit, he bit private marks on their various parts, helped to put on Looney's waistcoat wrong way before, split Alfred'sshirt down the back to test its age, and with an emphatic remark uponthe perversity of mortal things, marched stoically up to the school withthe rest of the little band. Little Lizzie followed with the girls abouta hundred yards behind. Alfred pretended not to see her. Somehow he wasnow becoming rather ashamed of having a sister. 

The great bell was just ringing for dinner. Alfred and the other newboys were at once arranged according to height in the phalanx of foursmustered in the yard. At the word of command the whole solid mass putitself in motion, shortest in front, and advanced towards the hall withthe little workhouse shuffle. Dividing this way and that, the boys filedalong the white tables. At the same moment the girls entered fromanother door, and the infants from a third. By a liberal concession, "the sexes" had lately been allowed to look at each other from a safedistance at meals. 

A gong sounded: there was instant silence. It sounded again: all stoodup and clasped their hands. Many shut their eyes and assumed anexpression of intensity, as though preparing to wrestle with the Spirit. Clem, having planted both heels firmly on Looney's foot, screwed up hisface, and appeared to wrestle more than any. A note was struck on theharmonium. All sang the grace. The gong sounded: all sat down. Itsounded again: all talked. 

"Yes, we allow them to talk at meals now, " said the superintendent to avisitor who was standing with him in the middle of the room. "We find ithelps to counteract the effects of over-feeding on the digestion. "

"What a beautiful sight it all is!" said the visitor. "Such precisionand obedience! Everything seems satisfactory. "

"Yes, " said the superintendent, "we do our very best to make it a happyhome. Don't we, Ma?"

"We do, indeed, " said the matron. "You see, sir, it has to be a home aswell as a school. "

The superintendent had been employed in workhouse schools for manyyears, and had gradually worked himself up to the highest position. Onhis appointment he had hoped to introduce many important changes in thesystem. Now, at the end of nine years, he could point to a fewimprovements in the steam-laundry, and the substitution of a decentlittle cap for the old workhouse Glengarry. At one time he had conceivedthe idea of allowing the boys brushes and combs instead of having theirhair cropped short to the skin. But in this and other points he hadfound it better to let things slide rather than throw the whole placeout of gear for a trifle. Changes received little encouragement; and thepublic didn't really care what happened until some cruel scandal in theevening papers made their blood boil for half a minute as they went hometo dinner in the suburbs. 

The gong sounded. All stood up again with clasped hands, and againLooney suffered while Clem joined in the grace. As the boys marched outat one door, Alfred looked back and caught sight of Lizzie departingflushed and torpid with the infants after her struggle to make a "cleanplate" of her legal pound of flesh and solid dough. In the afternoon hewas sent to enjoy the leisure of school with his "standard, " or to creepabout in the howling chaos of play-time in the yard. After tea he washerded with four hundred others into a day-room quite big enough toallow them to stand without touching each other. Hot pipes ran round thesides under a little bench, and the whitewashed walls were relieved bydiagrams of the component parts of a sweet pea and scenes from the lifeof Abraham. As usual an attempt was made at hide-and-seek under strangeconditions. Some inglorious inventor had solved the problem of playingthat royal game in an empty oblong room. His method was to plant out the"juniors" in clusters or copses on the floor, whilst the "seniors"lurked and ran and hunted in and out their undergrowth. To add zest tothe chase, Clem now let Looney slip as a kind of bag-fox, and thehalf-witted creature went lumbering and blubbering about in real terrorof his life, whilst his pursuers encouraged his speed with artifices inwhich the animated spinnies and coverts deferentially joined. Unnoticedand lonely in the crowd, Alfred was almost sorry he was not half-wittedtoo. 

At last he was marched off to his dormitory with fifty-five others, andlay for a long time listening with the fascination of innocence whilstClem in a low voice described with much detail the scenes of "humannature" which he had recently witnessed down hopping with his people. Almost before he was well asleep, as it seemed, the strange new lifebegan again with the bray of a bugle and the flaring of gas, and he hadto hurry down to the model lavatory to wash under his special little jetof warm spray, so elaborately contrived in the hope of keepingophthalmia in check. 

So, with drills and scrubbings and breakfasts and schools, the greatcircles of childhood's days and nights went by, each distinguished fromanother only by the dinner and the Sunday services. And from first tolast the pauper child was haunted by the peculiar pauper smell, containing elements of whitewash, damp boards, soap, steam, hot pipes, the last dinner and the next, corduroys, a little chlorate of lime, andthe bodies of hundreds of children. It was not unwholesome. 

IV

One thing shed a light over the days as it approached, and then leftthem dark till the hope of its return brought a dubious twilight. Once amonth, on a Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Reeve had promised to come and seethe two children. She might have come oftener, for considerableallowance was made for family affection. But it was difficult enough infour weeks to lay by the few pence which would take her down to thesuburb. Punctually at two she was at the gate, and till four she mightsit with the children in the lodge. Not much was said. They clung toeach other in silence. Or she undid the boy's stiff waistcoat, andlooked at his grey shirt, and tried to accustom herself to her Lizzie'sshort hair and heavy blue dress. Many others came too, and sat in thesame room--eloquent drunkards appealing to heaven, exuberant relativeswith apples and sweets, unsatisfied till the children howled in answerto their pathos, girls half-ashamed to be seen, and quiet workingmothers. As four struck, good-bye was said, and with Lizzie's crying inher ears Mrs. Reeve walked blindly back through the lines of suburbanvillas to the station. Twice she came, and, counting the days and weeks, the children had made themselves ready for the third great Saturday. Carefully washed and brushed, they sat in their separate day-rooms, andwaited. Two o'clock struck, but no message came. All the afternoon theywaited, sick with disappointment and loneliness. At last, seeing thematron go by, Alfred said: "Please, mum, my mother ain't come to-day. "

"Not come?" she answered. "Oh, that _is_ a cruel mother! But they're allthe same. Each time, sure as fate, there's somebody forgotten, so you'reno worse off than anybody else. Look, here's a nice big sweet for youinstead! Oh yes, I'll tell them about your little sister. What's yourname, did you say?"

As he went out along the corridor, Alfred came upon Looney hiding behindan iron column, and crying to himself. "Why, what's the matter withyou?" he asked. 

"My mother ain't been to see me, " whined Looney, with unrestrained sobs;"and Clem says 'e's wrote to tell 'er she'd best not come no more, 'cosI'm so bad. "

His mother had been for years at the school herself, and after servingin a brief series of situations, had calculated the profit and loss, andgone on the streets. 

"Mine didn't come neither, " said Alfred. "Matron says they're all likethat. But never you mind, 'ere's a nice sweet for you instead. "

He took the sweet out of his own mouth. Looney received it cautiously, and his great watery eyes gazed at Alfred with the awe of a biologistwho watches a new law of nature at work. 

Next day after dinner Lizzie and Alfred met in the hall, as brothers andsisters were allowed to meet for an hour on Sundays. They sat side byside with their backs to the long tablecloths left on for tea. 

"She never come, " said Alfred after the growing shyness of meeting hadbegun to pass off. 

"You don't know what _I've_ got!" she answered, holding up her clenchedfist. 

"I s'pose she won't never come no more, " said Alfred. 

"Look!" she answered, opening her fingers and disclosing a damp penny, the bribe of one of the nurses. 

"Matron says she's cruel, and 'as forgot about us, same as they all do, "said Alfred. 

Then Lizzie took up her old wail. The penny dropped and rolled in a finecurve along the boards. 

"There, don't 'e cry, Liz, " he said. And they sat huddled togetherovercome by the dull exhaustion of childish grief. The chapel bell beganto ring. Alfred took a corner of her white pinafore, wetted it, andtried to wash off the marks of tears. And as they hurried away Lizziestooped and picked up the penny. 

A few minutes later they were at service in their brick and iron chapel, which suburban residents sometimes attended instead of going to churchin the evening. 

"My soul doth magnify the Lord, " they sang, following the choir, ofwhich the head-master was justly proud. And the chaplain preached on thetext, "Thou hast clothed me in scarlet, yea, I have a goodly heritage, "demonstrating that there was no peculiar advantage about scarlet, butthat dark blue would serve quite as well for thankfulness, if only thechildren would live up to its ideal. 

"This is a wonderful institution, " said the chaplain's friend afterservice, as they sat at tea by the fire. "It is a kind of little Utopiain itself, a modern Phalanstery. How Plato would have admired it! I'msure he'd have enjoyed this afternoon's service. "

"Yes, I daresay he would, " said the chaplain. "But you must excuse mefor an hour or so. I make a point of running through the infirmary andophthalmic ward on Sundays. Oh yes, we have a permanent ward forophthalmia. Please make yourself comfortable till I come back. "

His friend spent the time in jotting down heads for an essay on theadvantages of communal nurture for the young. He was a lecturer onsocial subjects, and liked to be able to appeal to experience in hislectures. 

V

Next morning came a letter written in a large and careful hand: "My dearAlfred, --I hope these few lines find you well, as they don't leave me atpresent. I fell down the office stairs last night and got a twist to myinside, so can't come to-day. Kiss Liz from me, and tell her to be good. From your loving mother, Mrs. Reeve. "

Day followed day, and the mother did not come. The children lived on, almost without thought of change in the daily round, the common task. 

It was early in Christmas week, and the female officers were doing theirbest to excite merriment over the decorations. Snow was falling, but theflakes, after hesitating for a moment, thawed into sludge on the surfaceof the asphalte yard. Seeing Alfred shivering about under the shed, thesuperintendent sent him to the office for a plan of the school drainage, which had lately been reconstructed on the most sanitary principles. Theboy found the plan on the table, under a little brass dog which someonehad given the superintendent as a paper-weight. 

"A dog!" he said to himself, taking it up carefully. It was a setterwith a front paw raised as though it sighted game. Alfred stroked itsback and felt its muzzle. Then he pushed it along the polished table, and thought of all the things he could make it do, if only he had it fora bit. He put it down, patted its head again with his cold hand, andtook up the plan. But somehow the dog suddenly looked at him with afriendly smile, and seemed to move its tail and silky ears. He caught itup, glanced round, slipped it up his waistcoat, and ran as hard as hecould go. 

"Thank you my boy, " said the superintendent, taking the plan. "You'venot been here long, have you?"

"Oh yes, sir, a tremenjus long time!" said Alfred, shaking all over, whilst the dog's paw kept scratching through his shirt. 

"My memory isn't what it was, " sighed the superintendent to himself, andhe thought of the days when he had struggled to learn the name at leastof every boy in his charge. 

That afternoon Alfred went into school filled with mixed shame, apprehension, and importance, such as Eve might have felt if she couldhave gone back to a girls' school with the apple. Lessons began with a"combined recitation" from Shakespeare. 

"Now, " said the teacher, "go on at 'Mercy on me. '"

"'Methinks nobody should be sad but I, '" shouted seventy mouths, openinglike one in a unison of sing-song. 

"Now, you there!" cried the teacher. "You with your hand up yourwaistcoat! You're not attending. Go on at 'Only for wantonness. '"

"'By my Christendom, '" Alfred blurted out, almost bringing dog and allto light in his terror:

 "'So I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be merry as the day is long. And so I should be here, but that I doubt--'"

"That'll do, " said the teacher, "Now attend. "

The seventy joined in with "My uncle practises, " and Alfred turned fromred to white. 

At tea the table jammed the hidden dog against his chest. When he soughtrelief by sitting back over the form, Clem corrected the irregularposture with a pin. At bedtime he undressed in terror lest the creatureshould jump out and patter on the boards as live things will. But atlast the gas was turned off at the main, and he cautiously groped forhis pet among his little heap of clothes under the bed. That nightClem's most outrageous story could not attract him. He roamed Elysianfields with his dog. Like all toys, it was something better than alive. And certainly no mortal setter ever played so many parts. It hunted ratsup the nightgown sleeves, and caught burglars by the throat as theystole into bed. It tracked murderers over the sheet's pathless waste. It coursed deer up and down the hills and valleys of his knees. It drovesheep along the lanes of the striped blanket. It rescued drowningsailors from the vasty deep around the bed. It dug out frozen travellersfrom the snowdrifts of the pillow. And at last it slept soundly, kennelled between two warm hands, and continued its adventures indreams. 

At the first note of the bugle Alfred sprang up in bed, sure that thedrill-sergeant would come to pull him out first. As he marchedlistlessly up and down the yard at drill, the wind blew pitilessly, andthe dog gnawed at him till he was red and sore. At meals and in schoolhe was sure that secret eyes were watching him. He searched everywherefor some hole where he might hide the thing. But the building was tooirreproachable to shelter a mouse. 

Next day was Christmas Eve. He had heard from the "permanents" that atChristmas each child received an apple, an orange, and twelve nuts in apaper bag. He hungered for them. Even the ordinary meals had become thechief points of interest in life, and the days were named from thedinners. He was forgetting the scanty and uncertain food of his home, now that dinner came as regularly as in a rich man's house or the Zoo. And Christmas promised something far beyond the ordinary. There was tobe pork. At Christmas, at all events, he would lay himself out forperfect enjoyment, undisturbed by terrors. He would take the dog back, and be at peace again. 

Just before tea-time he saw the superintendent pass over to the infants'side. He stole along the sounding corridors to the office, andnoiselessly opened the door. There was somebody there. But it was onlyLooney, who, being able to count like a calculating machine because noother thoughts disturbed him, had been set to tie up in bundles of ahundred each certain pink and blue envelopes which lay in heaps on thefloor. Each envelope contained a Christmas card with a text, and everychild on Christmas morning found one laid ready on its plate atbreakfast. A wholesale stationer supplied them, and a benevolent ladypaid the bill. 

"Leave me alone, " cried Looney from habit, "I ain't doin' nuffin. "

"All right, " said Alfred airily; "I've only come to fetch somethink. "

But just at that moment he heard the superintendent's footstep comingalong the passage. There was no escape and no time for thought. With theinstinct of terror he put the dog down noiselessly beside Looney on thecarpet, drew quickly back, and stood rigid beside the door as it opened. 

"Hullo!" said the superintendent, "what are you doing here?"

"Nothink, sir, only somethink, " Alfred stammered. 

"What's the meaning of that?" said the superintendent. 

"I wanted to speak to that boy very pertikler, sir, " said Alfred. 

The superintendent looked at Looney. But Looney in turning round hadcaught sight of the dog at his side, and was gazing at it open-mouthed, as a countryman gazes at a pigeon produced from a conjuror's hat. Suddenly he pounced upon it as though he was afraid it would fly away, and kept it close hidden under his hands. 

"Oh, that's what you wanted to speak about so particular, is it?" saidthe superintendent. "That paperweight's been lost these two or threedays, and it was you who stole it, was it?"

"Please sir, " said Alfred, beginning to cry, "'e never done it, and Ididn't mean no 'arm. "

"Oh, enough of that, " said the superintendent. "I've got other things todo besides standing here arguing with you all night. I'll send for youboth at bed-time, and then I'll teach you to come stealing about here, you young thieves. Now drop that, and clear out!" he added more angrilyto Looney, who was still chuckling with astonishment over his prize. 

So they were both well beaten that night, and Looney never knew why, buttook it as an incident in his chain of dim sensations. Next day theyalone did not receive either the Christmas card or the paper bag. Butafter dinner Clem had them up before him, and gave them each a nutshelland a piece of orange-peel, adding the paternal advice: "Look 'ere, mysons, if you two can't pinch better than that, you'd best turn uppinchin' altogether till you see yer father do it. "

On Boxing Day Mrs. Reeve at last contrived to come again. She wasinformed that she could not see her son because he was kept indoors forstealing. 

After this the machinery of the institution had its own way with him. Itwas as though he were passed through each of its scientific appliancesin turn--the steam washing machine, the centrifugal steam wringer, thehot-air drying horse, the patent mangle, the gas ovens, the heatingpipes, the spray baths, the model bakery, and the central engine. Afterdrifting through the fourth standard he was sent every other day to aworkshop to fit him for after life. Looney joined a squad of littlegardeners which shuffled about the walks, two deep, with spadesshouldered like rifles. Alfred was sent to the shoemaker's, as therewas a vacancy there. He did such work as he was afraid not to do, andall went well as long as nothing happened. 

Only two events marked the lapse of time. Mrs. Reeve did not recoverfrom the "twist in her inside. " In answer to her appeal, abrother-in-law in the north took charge of her two remaining children, and then she died. It was about three years after Alfred had entered theschool. He was sorry; but the next day came, and the next, and there wasno visible change. The bell rang: breakfast, dinner, and tea succeededeach other. It was difficult to imagine that he had suffered any loss. 

The other event was more startling, and it helped to obliterate the lastthought of his mother's death. After a brief interval of parentalguidance, Clem had returned to the school for about the tenth time. Asusual he devoted his vivacious intellect chiefly to Looney, in whoseprogress he expressed an almost grandmotherly interest. Looney sputteredand made sport as usual, till one night an unbaptized idea was somehowwafted into the limbo of his brain. He was counting over the faggots inthe great store-room under his dormitory when the thought came. Soonafterwards he went upstairs, and quietly got into bed. It was a modeldormitory. So many cubic feet of air were allowed for each child. Thetemperature was regulated according to thermometers hung on the wall. Windows and ventilators opened on each side of the room to give athorough draught across the top. The beds had spring mattresses ofsteel, and three striped blankets each, and spotted red and whitecounterpanes such as give pauper dormitories such a cheerful look. Looney and Clem slept side by side. Before midnight the dormitory wasfull of suffocating smoke. The alarm was raised. For a time it wasthought that all the boys had escaped down an iron staircase latelyerected outside the building. But when the flames had been put out inthe store-room below, the bodies of Looney and Clem were found claspedtogether on Clem's bed. Looney's arms were twisted very tightly aroundClem's neck, and people said he had perished in trying to save hisfriend. Next Sunday the chaplain preached on the text, "And in deaththey were not divided. " Their names were inscribed side by side on alittle monument set up to commemorate the event, and underneath wascarved a passage from the Psalms: "Except the Lord keep the city, thewatchman waketh but in vain. "

EPILOGUE

At last Alfred's discharge paper came from the workhouse, and he trudgeddown the road to the station, carrying a wooden box with his outfit, valued at £7. He had been in charge of the State for six years, and hadquite forgotten the outside world. His nurture and education had costthe ratepayers £180. He was now going to a home provided by benevolentpersons as a kind of featherbed to catch the falling workhouse boy. Herethe manager found him a situation with a shoemaker, since shoemaking washis trade, but after a week's trial his master called one evening at thehome. 

"Look 'ere, Mr. Waterton, " he said to the manager. "I took on that thereboy Reeve to do yer a kindness, but it ain't no manner of good. Isuppose the boy 'ad parents of some sort, most likely bad, but 'e seemsto me kind of machine-made, same as a Leicester boot. I can't make outwhether you'd best call 'im a sucklin' duck or a dummercyle. And as forbootmakin'--I only wish 'e knowed nothing at all. "

So now Alfred is pushing a truck for an oilman in the Isle of Dogs at ashilling a day. But the oilman thinks him "kind of dormant, " and it ispossible that he may be sent back to the school for a time. Next year hewill be sixteen, and entitled to the privileges of a "pauper in his ownright. "

Meanwhile little Lizzie is slowly getting her outfit ready for herdeparture also. A society of thoughtful and energetic ladies will spendmuch time and money in placing her out in service at £6 a year. And, asthe pious lady said to herself when she wrote out a good character forher servant, God help the poor mistress who gets her!

But in all countries there is a constant demand of one kind or anotherfor pretty girls, even for the foster-children of the State. 

XVIII

THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS

Mr. Clarkson, of the Education Office, was coming back from a GardenSuburb, where the conversation had turned upon Eugenics. Photographs ofthe most beautiful Greek statues had stood displayed along theovermantel; Walter Pater's praise of the Parthenon frieze had been read;and a discussion had arisen upon the comparative merits of masculine andfeminine beauty, during which Mr. Clarkson maintained a modest silence. He did, however, support the contention of his hostess that the humanform was the most beautiful of created things, and he shared her regretthat it is so seldom seen in London to full advantage. He also agreedwith the general conclusion that, in the continuance of the race, quality was the first thing to be considered, and that the chief aim ofcivilisation should be to restore Hellenic beauty by selecting parentagefor the future generation. 

Meditating over the course of the discussion, and regretting, as healways did, that he had not played a distinguished part in it, Mr. Clarkson became conscious of a certain dissatisfaction. "Should not onequestion, " he asked himself, "the possibility of creating beauty bypreconcerted design? Conscious and deliberate endeavours to manipulatethe course of Nature often frustrate their own purpose, and the actionof cultivated intelligence might conduce to a delicate peculiarityrather than a beauty widely diffused. Such a sense for form as pervadedGreece must spring, unconscious as a flower, from a passion for thebeautiful implanted in the heart of the populace themselves. "

His motor-'bus was passing through a region unknown to him--one of thoseregions where raw vegetables and meat, varied with crockery and oldbooks, exuberate into booths and stalls along the pavement, and salesmenshout to the heedless passer-by prophetic warnings of opportunitieseternally lost. Contemplating the scene with a sensitive loathingagainst which his better nature struggled in vain, Mr. Clarkson had hisgaze suddenly arrested by a flaunting placard which announced:

 TO-NIGHT AT 10. 30!

 UNEXAMPLED ATTRACTION!!

 OUR BEAUTY SHOW!!!

 UNEQUALLED IN THE WORLD!

 PRIZES OF UNPRECEDENTED VALUE!!

 ENCOURAGE HOME LOVELINESS!!!

"The very thing!" thought Mr. Clarkson, rapidly descending from hisseat. "Sometimes one is almost compelled to believe in a Divinity thatshapes our criticism of life. "

"Shillin', " said the box-office man, when Mr. Clarkson asked for astall. "Evenin' dress hoptional" And Mr. Clarkson entered the vasttheatre. 

It was crammed throughout. Every seat was taken, and excited crowds ofstraw-hatted youths, elderly men, and sweltering women stood thick atthe back of the pit and down the sides of the stalls. "'Not here, OApollo, '" quoted Mr. Clarkson sadly, as he squeezed on to the end of aseat beside a big man who had spread himself over two. "But still, evenin the lower middle, beauty may have its place. "

"Warm, " said the big man conversationally. 

"Unavoidably, with so fine an audience, " replied Mr. Clarkson, with hisgrateful smile for any sign of friendliness. 

"Like it warm?" asked the big man, turning upon Mr. Clarkson, as thoughhe had said he preferred babies scolloped. 

"Well, I rather enjoy the sense of common humanity, " said Mr. Clarkson, apologising. 

"Enjoy common humanity?" said the big man, mopping his head. "Can't sayI do. 'Cos why, I was born perticler. "

For a moment Mr. Clarkson was tempted to claim a certain fastidiousnesshimself. But he refrained, and only remarked, "What _is_ a Beauty Show?"

The big man turned slowly to contemplate him again, and then, slowlyturning back, regarded his empty pipe with sad attention. 

"'Ear that, Albert?" he whispered at last, leaning over to a smartlittle fellow in front, who was dressed in a sportsmanlike manner, anddisplayed a large brass horseshoe and hunting crop stuck sideways in histie. 

"The ignorance of the upper classes is somethink shockin', " thesportsman replied, imitating Mr. Clarkson's Oxford accent. Then turningback half an eye upon Mr. Clarkson, like a horse that watches its rider, he added, "You wait and see, old cock, same as the Honourable Asquith. "

"Isn't the retort a trifle middle-aged?" suggested Mr. Clarkson, withfriendly cheerfulness. 

"Who's that he's callin' middle-aged?" cried a girl, sharply facinground, and removing the sportsman's arm from her waist. 

"I only meant, " pleaded Mr. Clarkson, "that an obsolescent jest is, likemiddle-age, occasionally vapid, possessing neither the interest ofantiquity nor the freshness of surprise. "

"Very well, then, " said the girl, flouncing back and seeking Albert'sarm again; "you just keep your tongue to yourself, same as me mine, or_I'll_ surprise you!"

At that moment the rising curtain revealed a cinematograph scene, representing a bull-dog which stole a mutton chop, was at once pursuedby a policeman and the village population, rushed down streets and roundcorners, leapt through a lawyer's office, ran up the side of a house, followed by all his pursuers, and was finally discovered in a child'scot, where the child, with one arm round his neck, was endeavouring tomake him say grace before meat. The audience was profoundly moved. Criesof "Bless his 'eart!" and "Good old Ogden!" rang through the house. 

"Great!" said the big man. 

"It illustrates, " replied Mr. Clarkson, "the popular sympathy with thefugitive, combined with the public's love of vicarious piety. "

"Fine dog, " said the sportsmanly Albert. 

"It was a clever touch, " Mr. Clarkson agreed, "to introduce so hideous acreature immediately before a Beauty Show. The strange thing is that thedog's ugliness only enhanced the sympathetic affection of the audience. Yet beauty leads us by a single hair. "

"You wait before you start talkin' about beauty or hair either!" saidAlbert. 

The curtain then rose upon a long green-baize table placed at the backof the stage. Behind it were sitting eleven respectable and portlygentlemen in black coats. One in the centre, venerable for goldeye-glasses and grey side-whiskers, acted as chairman. 

"Are those the beauties?" asked Mr. Clarkson ironically, recalling theGarden Suburb discussion as to the superiority of the masculine form. 

"'Ear that, Albert?" said the big man again. "Judges, " he added, insolemn pity. 

"On what qualification are they selected as critics?" Mr. Clarksonasked. 

"Give prizes, " said the big man. 

"That qualifies them for Members of Parliament rather than judges ofbeauty, " said Mr. Clarkson, but he was shown that on the table beforeeach judge stood a case of plated articles, a vase, a candlestick, orsomething, which he had contributed as a prize. 

An authoritative person in a brown suit and a heavy watch-chainfestooned across his waistcoat came forward and was greeted withapplause, varied by shouts of "Bluebeard!" "Crippen!" and "FatherMormon!" In the brief gasps of silence he explained the rules of thecompetition, remarking that the entries were already unusually numerous, the standard of beauty exceptionally high and accordingly he called uponthe audience by their applause or the reverse to give the judges everyassistance in allotting as desirable a set of prizes as he had everhandled. 

"The first prize, " he went on, "is a silver-plated coffee-set, presentedby our ardent and lifelong supporter, Mr. Joseph Croke, proprietor ofthe celebrated grocery store, who now occupies the chair. The secondprize is presented by our eminent butcher, Mr. James Collins, whoconsiders his own stock unsuitable for the occasion, and has thereforesubstituted a turquoise necklace, equivalent in value to a primesirloin. For third prize Mr. Watkins, the conspicuous hairdresser of theHigh Street, offers a full-sized plait of hair of the same colour asworn by the lady. "

"Thoughtful!" observed the big man approvingly. 

"He could hardly give black hair to a yellow-haired woman, " Mr. Clarksonreplied. 

"I said thoughtful, " the big man repeated; "always thoughtful isWatkins, more especial towards females. "

"Besides these superb rewards, " the showman continued, "the rest of thejudges present sixteen consolation prizes, and Mr. Crawley, theeminently respected provision-merchant round the corner, invites allcompetitors to supper at twelve o'clock to-night, without distinction ofpersonal appearance. "

"Jolly good blow-out!" said Albert's girl, with satisfaction. 

"Rather a gross reward for beauty, " Mr. Clarkson observed. 

"And why shouldn't nice-lookin' people have a good blow-out, same asyou?" inquired the girl, with a flash of indignation. "They deserves itmore, I 'ope!"

"I entirely agree, " said Mr. Clarkson; "my remark was Victorian. "

A babel of yells, screams, and howlings greeted the appearance of thetwo first candidates. The Master of the Ceremonies led them forward, bythe right and left hand. Pointing at one, he shouted her name, and awild outburst of mingled applause and derision rent the air. Shoutingagain, he pointed at the other, and exactly the same turmoil of noisearose. Then he faced the girls round to the judges, and they instantlybecame conscious of the backs of their dresses, and put their hands upto feel if their blouses were hooked. 

But the chairman, with responsible solemnity, having contemplated thegirls through his eyeglasses, holding his head slightly on one side, briefly consulted the other judges, and signalled one girl to passbehind the table on his right, the other on his left. The one on hisleft was recognised as winner, and the house applauded with tumult, thesupporters of the defeated yielding to success. 

Before the applause had died, two more girls were led forward, and thestorm of shouts and yells arose again. One of the candidates was dressedin pink, with a shiny black belt round her waist, a huge pink bow in herfluffy, light hair, and white stockings very visible. When the Mastershouted her name, she cocked her head on one side, giggled, and writhedher shoulders. Cries of "Saucy!" "Mabel!" "Ain't I a nice little girl?"and "There's a little bit of all right!" saluted her, and the approvalwas beyond question. He pointed to the other, and a rage of execrationburst forth, "O Ginger!" "Ain't she got a cheek?" "Lock her up for thenight!" "Oh, you giddy old thing!" were the chief cries that Mr. Clarkson could distinguish in the general howling. A band of youthsbehind him began singing, "Tell me the old, old story. " In the gallerythey sang "Sit down, sit down, " to the tune of the Westminster chimes. Half the theatre joined in one song, half in the other, and the singingended in cat-calls, whistles, and shrieks of mockery. The red-hairedgirl stood pale and motionless, her eyes fixed on some point of vacancybeyond the yelling crowd. 

"Terribly painful position for a woman!" said Mr. Clarkson. 

"Ill-advised, " said the big man, shaking his head; "very ill-advised. "

"Good lesson for her, " remarked Albert. "These shows teach the ugly onesto know their place. Improve the breed these shows do--same as'orse-racing. " And having shouted "Ginger!" again, he added, "Bandy!"

"Ain't it wicked for a woman to have such an imperence?" cried Albert'sgirl, joining in the yell as the candidate was marched off to the sideof the losers. 

"Isn't this all a little personal?" Mr. Clarkson protested; "atrifle--what should I say?--Oriental, perhaps?"

"She don't know how hidjus she is, " the big man explained. "No femaledon't. "

"Nor no man neither, I should 'ope!" said Albert's girl, and wrigglingout of the encircling arm, she suddenly sprang up, put her hat straight, and forced her way towards the stage. 

"Now the fat's on!" observed the big man, with a foreboding sigh. 

"You may pull her 'ead off, " Albert answered resignedly. "There ain't no'oldin' of her. "

"Dangerous, very dangerous!" whispered the big man to Mr. Clarkson. "Aterror is Albert when she's beat! Bloodshed frequent outside! She'salways beat--always starts, and always beat. "

"Celtic, I suppose, " Mr. Clarkson observed. 

"Dangerous, very dangerous!" repeated the big man with a sigh. 

And so, indeed, it proved. Pair after pair were led forward, and whenthe turn of Albert's girl came, she won the heat easily. Then theprocess of selection among the forty or fifty of the first set ofwinners began, and she won the second heat. At last the competitorswere reduced to six, and she stood on the right, in line with theothers, while the showman pointed to each in turn, and called for thejudgment of the audience. Then, indeed, passion rose to hurricane. Tumultuous storms of admiration and fury received each girl. Again andagain each was presented, and the same seething chaos of sound ensued. The whole theatre stood howling together, waving hats and handkerchiefs, blowing horns and whistles, carried beyond all limits of reason by therage for the beautiful. 

Albert gathered his friends round him, conducted them like an orchestra, and made them yell, "The one on the right! The one on the right! We wantthe one on the right, or well never go home to-night!"

"Shout!" he screamed to Mr. Clarkson, who was contemplating the scenewith his habitual interest. 

"Certainly, I will, though the lady is not a Dreadnought, " Mr. Clarksonreplied soothingly, and he began saying "Brava! Brava!" quite loud. Instantly, Albert's opponents caught up the word, and echoed it inmockery, imitating his correct pronunciation. Mincing syllables of"Brava! Brava!" were heard on every side. 

"You just let me catch you booin' my girl!" shouted Albert, springing infrenzy upon the seat, and shaking his fist close to Mr. Clarkson's eyes. "You let me catch you! Ever since you came in, you've been layin' oddsagainst my girl, you and your rotten talk!"

"On the contrary, " replied Mr. Clarkson, smiling, "even apart fromaesthetic grounds, I should be delighted to see her victorious. "

"Then put up your dukes or take that on your silly jaw, " cried Albert, preparing to strike. 

"The beautiful is always hard, " Mr. Clarkson observed, still smiling. 

"Best come away with me, mister, " said the big man, pushing betweenthem. "Avoid unpleasantness. "

"Race as good as over, " he added, as he forced Mr. Clarkson down thegangway. "Places: pink first, 'cos she puts her 'ead a' one side;factory girl second, 'cos they likes her bein' dressed common; bluethird, 'cos of her openwork stockin's; Albert's girl nowhere, 'cos shenever is. "

They mounted one of the cars that are fed on the County Council'slightning. 

"Certainly a remarkable phase, " Mr. Clarkson observed, "although Iconcluded that, in regard to beauty, the voice of the people is notnecessarily identical with the voice of God. "

"Coachman!" said the big man, calling down to the driver, and imitatingthe voice of a duchess. "Coachman! drive slowly twice round the Park, and then 'ome. "

XIX

ABDUL'S RETREAT

"No nasty shells here, Sire! No more screaming shells, and we are bothalive!" said the jester, lying on the ground at his master's feet. 

It was in May 1909, and the large room was littered with bundles andvarious kinds of luggage. Several women, covered from head to foot inlong cloaks and veils, lay about the floor or on the divans round thewalls, hardly distinguishable from the bundles except that now and thenthey moaned or uttered some brief lamentation. From other parts of thehouse came sounds of hammering and the hurried swish of cleaning walls. From the long windows a deep and quiet harbour could be seen, and a feworange lights were beginning to glimmer from the quay and anchoredboats. Across the purple of the water rose the blue mass of Olympus, itscraggy edges sharp against the sunset sky, and over Olympus a filmycloud was blown at intervals across the crescent moon. 

"No more shells, Sire!" the jester kept repeating, and at the word"shells" the women groaned. But the man whom he addressed was silent. Since dawn he had said nothing. 

"Last night no one thought we should be alive this evening, Sire, " saidthe jester. "We have gained a day of life. Who could have given us afiner present?"

The half-moon disappeared behind Olympus, and out of the gatheringdarkness in the chamber a voice was at last heard: "They have killedother Sultans, " it said. "They will kill me too. "

At the sound of the voice the women stirred and whispered. One cried, "Iam hungry;" another said, "Water, O give me water!" but no one answeredher. 

"Death is coming, " the voice went on. "Every minute for thirty years Ihave escaped death, and to-night it will come. What is so terrible asdeath?"

"One thing is more terrible, " said the jester, "it is death's brother, fear. "

"When death is quick, they say you feel nothing, " said the voice, "butthey lie. The shock that stops life--the crash of the bullet into thebrain, the stab of the long, cold dagger piercing the heart between theribs, the slice of the axe through the neck, the stifling of breath whensomeone kicks away the stool and the noose runs tight--do you not feelthat? To think of life ending! One moment I am alive, I am well, I cantalk and eat; next moment life is going--going--and it is no use tostruggle. Thought stops, breath stops, I can see and hear no more. Onesecond, and I am nothing for ever. "

"Your Majesty is pleased to overlook Paradise, " said the jester. 

"Let me live! Only let me live!" the voice continued. "I am not old. Many men have lived twenty or even thirty years longer than I have. Theysay when you are really old death comes like sleep. Nothing is soterrible as death. That is why I have shown myself merciful in my power. What other Sultan has kept his own brother alive for thirty years? Did Inot give him a great palace to live in, and gardens where he could walkwith few to watch his safety? Did I not send him every day delicate foodfrom my own table? Did I not grant him such women as he desired, andbooks to read, and musicians to delight his soul? His were the joys ofParadise, and he was alive as well. He had life--the one thing needful, the one thing that can never be restored! And now my own brother turnsagainst me. He will let them take my life. The shock of death willstrike me down, and I shall be nothing any more. "

"Truly, " said the jester, "the joys of the Prophet's Paradise arenothing to be compared with the blessedness of your Majesty's happyreign. Yet men say that where there is life there is sorrow. "

"Have I not watched over my people? Have I not upheld the city againstthe enemy? Have I not toiled? What pleasure have I given myself? Whenhave I been drunk with wine as the Infidels are drunken? What excess ofdelight have I taken with the women sent me as presents year by year?They dwelt in their beautiful chambers, and I saw them no more. I haveneglected no duty to God or man. Week by week I risked my life toworship God. From dawn till evening I have laboured, taking no rest andseeking no pleasure, though the right to all pleasure was mine. Whateverpassed in my Empire, I knew it. Whatever was whispered in secret, Iheard. The breath of treason could not escape, me, and where treacherythrust out its head to look, my sword was ready. "

"Truly, Sire, " said the jester, "from the days of Midhat it was ready, and there are peacemakers more silent than the sword. "

"The Powers of the Infidel stood waiting. Like vultures round a dyingsheep they stood waiting round the dominions of Islam. Here and thereone snatched a living piece and devoured it as though it were carrion, while the others screamed with gluttonous fury and threatened with wingsand claws. "

"Ah, Sire, " said the jester, "you have shown us how these Christianslove one another!"

"One war, " the voice went on, "one war I have lost, but the enemy didnot receive the fruits of victory. In one war I was victorious, and theCrescent would again be flying over Athens if the Infidel Powers had notbarred the way. I have not lived without glory. From east to west themoon of Islam shines brighter now. The sons of Islam are gathering sideby side. They stand again for the glory of the Prophet and his Khalif. Isee the brown peoples of Asia, I see the black hordes from Africandeserts and forests. They pass quick messages. They pledge their faithon the Sacred Book. They issue out again to the conquest of the world, and it is I who have gathered the might of Islam into one hand. It is Iwho have swept away the princes, the ministers, the governors, and theagents who divided the power of Islam and squandered its riches. It is Iwho have stored up wealth for the great day when the sword of Islamshall again be drawn. "

"Forget not, Sire, " said the jester, "the names of Fehim and Izzet, whostood beside you and also stored up the wealth of Islam against thecoming of that great day. If I could find where it is stored now, Islamwould be more secure, and I less hungry. "

"I held the city of the world, " said the voice from the darkness: "Ikept the breath of life moving throughout the Empire when all said itmust perish. For thirty years my one brain outmatched the diplomacy ofall the Embassies. Emperors have been proud the dominions of Islam. Here and there one snatched a living piece and devoured it as though itwere carrion, while the others screamed with gluttonous fury andthreatened with wings and claws. "

"Ah, Sire, " said the jester, "you have shown us how these Christianslove one another!"

"One war, " the voice went on, "one war I have lost, but the enemy didnot receive the fruits of victory. In one war I was victorious, and theCrescent would again be flying over Athens if the Infidel Powers had notbarred the way. I have not lived without glory. From east to west themoon of Islam shines brighter now. The sons of Islam are gathering sideby side. They stand again for the glory of the Prophet and his Khalif. Isee the brown peoples of Asia, I see the black hordes from Africandeserts and forests. They pass quick messages. They pledge their faithon the Sacred Book. They issue out again to the conquest of the world, and it is I who have gathered the might of Islam into one hand. It is Iwho have swept away the princes, the ministers, the governors, and theagents who divided the power of Islam and squandered its riches. It is Iwho have stored up wealth for the great day when the sword of Islamshall again be drawn. "

"Forget not, Sire, " said the jester, "the names of Fehim and Izzet, whostood beside you and also stored up the wealth of Islam against thecoming of that great day. If I could find where it is stored now, Islamwould be more secure, and I less hungry. "

"I held the city of the world, " said the voice from the darkness: "Ikept the breath of life moving throughout the Empire when all said itmust perish. For thirty years my one brain outmatched the diplomacy ofall the Embassies. Emperors have been proud to visit my palace. Kingshave called me venerable. I have worshipped God, I have protected mypeople, and now I must die. "

"Ah, Sire, " said the jester, "even in your blessed reign men have died. Their life was sweet, but they managed to die, and what is so common canhardly be intolerable. People have even been murdered before, and iftogether with the women we should now be murdered in the dark--"

He was interrupted by the cries of the women. "We shall bemurdered--murdered in the dark, " they moaned. "We knew how it would end!Death is the honour of a Sultan's wives. "

A rifle-shot sounded from the street and, dark in the darkness, a formcowered back upon the divan, making the draperies shake. 

"They are quick, " he gasped. "They are always so quick! They do notleave time for my plans. The sword of Islam is at work in Asia now. Myorders were to slay and slay. They must be dead by now--thousands ofthem dead--thousands of cursed men and women--as many thousands as oncemade the quays so red--as many thousands as in the churches and villageslong ago, or on the mountains of Monastir. Europe will not endure it. The Powers will intervene. They will save my life. They will come to setme free. They will give me back my power--my power and my life. I alonecan govern this people. They know it. I am the only chance of peace. Ihave toiled without ceasing. I have never harmed a living soul. Theythemselves say I am merciful. It is no pleasure to me to have peoplekilled. The Powers will come to save me. They will not let me die. Whyare those rebels so quick? They do not give me time, and all my planswere ready! Far down in Asia the killing has begun. Why does not thetelegraph speak? The Powers will intervene. They will not let me die. "

"Sire, " said the jester, "people are lighting lamps in the street. Theyare firing guns. They are crying 'Long live the new Sultan!' YourMajesty's brother is proclaimed. "

"I am the Sultan, " cried the voice; "I am the Khalif, I am the successorof the Prophet. Tell them I am the successor of the Prophet! Tell themthey dare not kill me!"

"Sire, " said the jester, "greatness shares the common fate. The will ofthe Eternal is above all monarchs. "

The firing of many rifles was heard in the street below. The door of thelarge chamber was flung wide, open, and a flood of yellow light revealedthe piled up luggage, the muffled forms of women, and a dark littlefigure curled upon the divan, his head hidden in his arms. 

"Oh, be merciful, " he cried. "Spare my life, only spare my life! What, would you kill a ruler like me? Would you kill an old, old man?"

"Your Highness, " said an officer in a quiet voice, "dinner is served. "

XX

"NATIVES"

No doubt the Gods laughed when Macaulay went to India. Among themillions who breathed religion, and whose purpose in life was thecontemplation of eternity, a man intruded himself who could not evenmeditate, and regarded all religion, outside the covers of the Bible, asa museum of superstitious relics. Into the midst of peoples of animmemorial age, which seemed to them as unworthy of reckoning as thebeating wings of a parrot's flight from one temple to the next, therecame a man in whose head the dates of European history were arranged infaultless compartments, and to whom the past presented itself as aseries of Ministerial crises, diversified by oratory and politicalsongs. To Indians the word progress meant the passage of the soulthrough aeons of reincarnation towards a blissful absorption into theinconceivable void of indistinctive existence, as when at last a jar isbroken and the space inside it returns to space. For Macaulay the wordprogress called up a bustling picture of mechanical inventions, anincreasing output of manufactured goods, a larger demand for improvingliterature, and a growth of political clubs to promulgate the blessingsof Reform. The Indian supposed success in life to lie in patientlyfollowing the labour and the observances of his fathers before him, dwelling in the same simple home, suppressing all earthly desire, andsaving a little off the daily rice or the annual barter in the hopethat, when the last furrow was driven, or the last brazen pot hammeredout, there might still be time for the glory of pilgrimage and thesanctification of a holy river. To Macaulay, success in life was thegoing shop, the growing trade, a seat on the Treasury Bench, theapplause of listening Senates, and the eligible residence of deservingage. 

Thus equipped, he was instructed by the Reform Government which heworshipped, to mark out the lines for Indian education upon a basis ofthe wisdom common to East and West. Though others were dubious, he neverhesitated. From childhood he had never ceased to praise the goodness andthe grace that made the happy English child. As far as in him lay, hewould extend that gracious advantage to the teeming populations ofIndia. In spite of accidental differences of colour, due to climaticinfluences, they too should grow as happy English children, lisping ofthe poet's mountain lamb, and hearing how Horatius kept the bridge inthe brave days of old. They should advance to a knowledge of Partyhistory from the Restoration down to the Reform Bill. The great mastersof the progressive pamphlet, such as Milton and Burke, should be placedin their hands. Those who displayed scientific aptitude should beinstructed in the miracle of the steam-engine, and economic minds shouldearly acquaint themselves with the mysteries of commerce, upon which, asupon the Bible, the greatness of their conquerors was founded. Undersuch influence, the soul of India would be elevated from superstitiousdegradation, factories would supersede laborious handicrafts, artists, learning to paint like young Landseer, would perpetuate the appearanceof the Viceregal party with their horses and dogs on the Calcuttaracecourse, and it might be that in the course of years the estimableWhigs of India would return their own majority to a Front Bench inGovernment House. 

It was an enviable vision--enviable in its imperturbableself-confidence. It no more occurred to Macaulay to question thebenefaction of English education and the supremacy of England's commerceand Constitution than it occurred to him to question the contemptibleinferiority of the race among whom he was living, and for whom he mainlylegislated. In his essay on Warren Hastings he wrote:

 "A war of Bengalis against Englishmen was like a war of sheep against wolves, of men against demons. .. . Courage, independence, veracity, are qualities to which his constitution and his situation are equally unfavourable. .. . All those arts which are the natural defence of the weak are more familiar to this subtle race than to the Ionian of the time of Juvenal, or to the Jew of the Dark Ages. What the horns are to the buffalo, what the paw is to the tiger, what the sting is to the bee, what beauty, according to the old Greek song, is to woman, deceit is to the Bengali. "

And yet, impenetrable as Macaulay's own ignorance of the Indian peoplesremained, his Minute of 1835, "to promote English literature andscience, " and to decree that "all funds appropriated for educationshould be employed in English education alone, " has marked in Indianhistory an era from which the present situation of the country dates. 

It is true that the education has not gone far. The Government spendsless than twopence per head upon it; less than a tenth of what it spendson the army. Only ten per cent. Of the males in India can write orread; only seven per thousand of the females. But, thanks chiefly toMacaulay's conviction that if everyone were like himself the world wouldbe happy and glorious, there are now about a million Indians (or one inthree hundred) who can to some extent communicate with each other inEnglish as a common tongue, and there are some thousands who have becomeacquainted with the history of English liberties, and the writings of afew political thinkers. Together with railways, the new common languagehas increased the sense of unity; the study of our political thinkershas created the sense of freedom, and the knowledge of our history hasshown how stern and prolonged a struggle may be required to win thatpossession which our thinkers have usually regarded as priceless. "Theone great contribution of the West to the Indian Nationalist movement, "writes Mr. Ramsay Macdonald with emphasis, "is its theory of politicalliberty. "

It is a contribution of which we may well be proud--we of whomWordsworth wrote that we must be free or die. Whatever the failures ofunsympathetic self-esteem, Macaulay's spirit could point to thiscontribution as sufficient counterbalance. From the works of suchteachers as Mill, Cobbett, Bagehot, and Morley, the mind of India hasfor the first time derived the principles of free government. But of allits teachers, I suppose the greatest and most influential has beenBurke. Since we wished to encourage the love of freedom and theknowledge of constitutional government, no choice could have beenhappier than that which placed the writings and speeches of Burke uponthe curriculum of the five Indian universities. Fortunately for India, the value of Burke has been eloquently defined by Lord Morley, who hashimself contributed more to the future constitutional freedom of Indiathan any other Secretary of State. In one passage in his well-knownvolume on Burke, he has spoken of his "vigorous grasp of masses ofcompressed detail, his wide illumination from great principles of humanexperience, the strong and masculine feeling for the two great politicalends of Justice and Freedom, his large and generous interpretation ofexpediency, the morality, the vision, the noble temper. " Writing ofBurke's three speeches on the American War, Lord Morley declares:

 "It is no exaggeration to say that they compose the most perfect manual in our literature, or in any literature, for one who approaches the study of public affairs, whether for knowledge or for practice. They are an example without fault of all the qualities which the critic, whether a theorist or an actor, of great political situations should strive by night and day to possess. "

For political education, one could hardly go further than that. "Themost perfect manual in any literature"--let us remember that decisivepraise. Or if it be said that students require style rather thanpolitics, let us recall what Lord Morley has written of Burke's style:

 "A magnificence and elevation of expression place him among the highest masters of literature, in one of its highest and most commanding senses. "

But it is frequently asserted that what Indian students require is, notpolitical knowledge, or literary power, but a strengthening ofcharacter, an austerity both of language and life, such as mightcounteract the natural softness, effeminacy, and the tendency todeception which Macaulay and Lord Curzon so freely informed them of. Forsuch strengthening and austerity, on Lord Morley's showing, no teachercould be more serviceable than Burke:

 "The reader is speedily conscious, " he writes, "of the precedence in Burke of the facts of morality and conduct, of the many interwoven affinities of human affection and historical relation, over the unreal necessities of mere abstract logic. .. . Besides thus diffusing a strong light over the awful tides of human circumstance, Burke has the sacred gift of inspiring men to use a grave diligence in caring for high things, and in making their lives at once rich and austere. "

Here are the considered judgments of a man who, by political experience, by literary power, and the study of conduct, has made himself anunquestioned judge in the affairs of State, in letters, and in morality. As examples of the justice of his eulogy let me quote a few sentencesfrom those very speeches which Lord Morley thus extols--the speeches onthe American War of Independence. Speaking on Conciliation with theColonies in 1775, Burke said:

 "Permit me to observe that the use of force alone is but temporary. It may subdue for a moment, but it does not remove the necessity of subduing again; and a nation is not governed which is perpetually to be conquered. .. . Terror is not always the effect of force, and an armament is not a victory. "

Speaking of the resistance of a subject race to the predominant power, Burke ironically suggested:

 "Perhaps a more smooth and accommodating spirit of freedom in them would be more acceptable to us. Perhaps ideas of liberty might be desired more reconcilable with an arbitrary and boundless authority. Perhaps we might wish the colonists to be persuaded that their liberty is more secure when held in trust for them by us (as their guardians during a perpetual minority) than with any part of it in their own hands. "

And, finally, speaking of self-taxation as the very basis of all ourliberties, Burke exclaimed:

 "They (British statesmen) took infinite pains to inculcate as a fundamental principle, that in all monarchies the people must in effect themselves, mediately or immediately, possess the power of granting their own money, or no shadow of liberty could subsist. "

It was the second of these noble passages that I once heard declaimed onthe sea-beach at Madras to an Indian crowd by an Indian speaker, who, following the precepts of Lord Morley, then Secretary of State forIndia, had made Burke's speeches his study by day and night. That phrasedescribing the ruling Power as the guardians of a subject race during aperpetual minority has stuck in my mind, and it recurred to me when Iread that Burke's writings and speeches had been removed from theUniversity curriculum in India. Carlyle's _Heroes_ and Cowper's_Letters_ have been substituted--excellent books, the one giving theIndians in rather portentous language very dubious information aboutOdin, Luther, Rousseau, and other conspicuous people; the other tellingthem, with a slightly self-conscious simplicity, about a melancholyinvalid's neckcloths, hares, dog, and health. Such subjects are all verywell, but where in them do we find the magnificence and elevation ofexpression, the sacred gift of inspiring men to make their lives at oncerich and austere, and the other high qualities that Lord Morley found in"the most perfect manual in any literature"? Reflecting on this newdecision of the Indian University Council, or whoever has taken onhimself to cut Burke out of the curriculum, some of us may find twopassages coming into the memory. One is a passage from those veryspeeches of Burke, where he said, "To prove that the Americans ought notto be free, we were obliged to depreciate the value of freedom itself. "The other is Biglow's familiar verse, beginning "I du believe inFreedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Payris is, " and ending:

 "It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves an' triggers, -- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers. "

XXI

UNDER THE YOKE

If ever there was a nation which ought to have a fellow-feeling withsubject races it is the inhabitants of England. I have heard of no landso frequently subjected, unless, perhaps, it were northern India. Long-headed builders of long tombs were subjected by round-headedbuilders of round tombs; and round-headed builders of tombs weresubjected by builders of Stonehenge; for five hundred years the buildersof Stonehenge were a subject race to Rome; Roman-British civilisationwas subjected to barbarous Jutes and heavy Saxons; Britons, Jutes andSaxons became the subjects of Danes; Britons, Jutes, Saxons and Daneslay as one subject race at the feet of the Normans. As far as subjectiongoes, English history is like a house that Jack built:

 "This is the Norman nobly born, Who conquered the Dane that drank from a horn. Who harried the Saxon's kine and corn, Who banished the Roman all forlorn, Who tidied the Celt so tattered and torn, "

and so on, back to the prehistoric Jack who built the long house of thedead. 

Our later subjections to the French, the Scots, the Dutch and theGermans, who have in turn ruled our courts and fattened on theirfavours, have not been so violent or so complete; but for somecenturies they depressed our people with a sense of humiliation, andthey have left their mark upon our national character and language. Indeed, our language is a synopsis of conquests, a stratification ofsubjections. We can hardly speak a sentence without recording a certainnumber of the subject races from which we have sprung. The only one everleft out is the British, and that survives in the names of our mostbeautiful rivers and mountains. It is true that all of our conquerorshave come to stay--all with the one exception of Rome. We have neverformed part of a distant and foreign empire except the Roman. Even ourNorman invaders soon regarded our country as the centre of their powerand not as a province. Nevertheless, nearly every strand of ourinterwoven ancestry has at one time or other suffered as a subject race, and perhaps from that source we derive the quality that Mark Twainperceived when at the Jubilee Procession of our Empire he observed, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. " Perhaps alsofor this reason we raise the Recessional prayer for a humble andcontrite heart, lest we forget our history--lest we forget. 

We pray in contrite humility to remember, but we have forgotten. Inspeaking of Finland's loss of liberty, Madame Malmberg, the Finnishpatriot, once said that in old days, when their liberties seemed secure, the Finns felt no sympathy with other nationalities--the Poles, theGeorgians, or the Russians themselves--struggling to be free. They didnot know what it was to be a subject race. They could not realise thedegrading loss of nationality. They were soon to learn, and they knownow. We have not learned. We have forgotten our lesson. That is why weremain so indifferent to the cry of freedom, and to the suppression ofnationality all over the world. 

Let us for a moment imagine that something terrible has happened; thatour statesmen have at last got their addition sums in Dreadnoughtsright, and have learned by hard experience that we have less than two toone and therefore are wiped from the seas; or that our august Russianally, using Finland as a base, has established an immense naval port inthe Norwegian fiords and thence poured the Tartar and Cossack hordesover our islands. Let us imagine anything that might leave some dominantPower supreme in London and reduce us for the sixth or seventh time tothe position of a subject race. Where should we feel the differencemost? Let us suppose that the conqueror retained our country as part ofhis empire, just as we have retained Ireland, India, Egypt, and theSouth-African Dutch republics; or as Russia has retained Poland, Georgia, Finland, the Baltic Provinces and Siberia, and is on the pointof retaining Persia; or as Germany has retained Poland andAlsace-Lorraine; or as France has retained Tonquin and an enormousempire in north-west Africa and is on the point of retaining Morocco; oras Austria has retained Bohemia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, Croatia, and manyother nationalities, and is constantly plotting to retain Albania. Letus only judge of what might happen to us by observing what is actuallyhappening in other instances at this moment. 

 * * * * *

The dominant Power--let us call it Germany for short and merely as anillustration--would at once appoint its own subjects to all the highpositions of State. England would be divided into four sections underGerman Governor-Generals and there would be German Governor-Generals inScotland, Wales, and Ireland. Germans would be appointed as DistrictCommissioners to collect revenue, try cases, and control the police. ACouncil of Germans, with a proportion of nominated British lords andsquires, would legislate for each province, and perhaps, after a centuryor so, as a great concession a small franchise might be granted, withspecial advantages to Presbyterians, so as to keep religious differencesalive, the German Governor-General retaining the right to reject anycandidate and to veto all legislation. A German Viceroy, surrounded by aCouncil in which the majority was always German, and the chief officesof Chancellor of the Exchequer, Commander-in-Chief of the army, and soforth, were always filled by Germans, would hold a Court at Windsor orat Balmoral in summer and Buckingham Palace in winter. We should have toundertake the support of Lutheran Churches for the spiritual consolationof our rulers. We should be given a German Lord Mayor. German would bethe official language of the country, though interpreters might beallowed in the law courts. Public examinations would be conducted inGerman, and all candidates for the highest civilian posts would have togo to Germany to be educated. The leading newspapers would be publishedin German and a strict censorship established over the _Times_ and otherrebellious organs. The smallest criticism of the German Government wouldbe prosecuted as sedition. English papers would be confiscated, Englisheditors heavily fined or imprisoned, English politicians deported to theOrkneys without trial or cause shown. Writers on liberty, such asMilton, Wordsworth, Shelley, Burke, Mill, and Lord Morley would beprohibited. The works of even German authors like Schiller, Heine, andKarl Marx would be forbidden, and a pamphlet written by a German andfounded on official evidence to prove the injustice and tortures towhich the English people were exposed under the German system of policewould be destroyed. On our railways English gentlemen and ladies wouldbe expected to travel second or third class, or, if they travelledfirst, they would be exposed to the Teutonic insolence of the dominantrace, and would probably be turned out by some German official. Publicbuildings would be erected in the German style. English manufacturersand all industries would be hampered by an elaborate system of excisewhich would flood our markets with German goods. Such art as Englandpossesses would disappear. Arms would be prohibited. The common people, especially in Scotland and the North-West Provinces, would be encouragedto recruit in the native army under the command of German officers, andthe Scottish regiments would maintain their proud tradition; but noBritish officer would be allowed to rise above the rank ofsergeant-major. The Territorials would be disbanded. The Boy Scoutswould be declared seditious associations. If a party of German officerswent fox-shooting in Leicestershire, and the villagers resisted theslaughter of the sacred animal, some of the leading villagers would behanged and others flogged during the execution. Our National Anthemwould begin: "God save our German king! Long live our foreign king!" Thesinging of "Rule, Britannia, " would be regarded as a seditious act. 

I am not saying that so complete a subjection of England is possible. Wemay believe that in a powerful, wealthy, proud, and highly civilisedcountry like ours it would not be possible. All I say is that, if weassume it possible, something like that would be our condition if wewere treated by the dominant Power as we ourselves are treating otherraces which were powerful, wealthy, proud and, in their own estimation, highly civilised when we invaded or otherwise obtained the mastery overthem. I am only trying to suggest to ourselves the mood and feelings ofa subject race--the humble and contrite heart for which we pray as God'sancient sacrifice. If we wish to be done by as we do, these are someincidents in the government we should wish to lie under when we werereduced beneath a dominant Power, as India and Egypt are reduced beneathourselves. I have not taken the worst instances of the treatment ofsubject races I could find. I have not spoken of the old methods ofpartial or complete extermination whether in Roman Europe or Spanish andBritish Americas; nor have I spoken of the partial or completeenslavement of subject races in the Dutch, British, Portuguese, Belgian, and French regions of Africa. I have not dwelt upon the hideous scenesof massacre, torture, devastation and lust which I have myself witnessedin Macedonia under the Turks, and in the Caucasus, the Baltic Provinces, and Poland under Russia when subject races attempted some poor effort toregain their freedom. I have not even mentioned the old ruin andslaughter of Ireland, or the latest murder of a nation in Finland or inPersia. I have taken my comparison from the government of subject racesat what is probably its very best; at all events, at what the Englishpeople regard as its best--the administration of India and Egypt--and wehave no reason to suppose that Germany would administer England betterif we were a subject race under the German Empire. 

 * * * * *

If Germany did as well she would have something to say for herself. Shemight lay stress on the great material advantages she would bestow onthis country. Such industries as she left us she would reorganise on theKartel system. She would much improve our railways by unifying them as aState property, so that even our South-Eastern trains might arrive intime. She would overhaul our education, ending the long wrangle betweenreligious sects by abolishing all distinctions. She would erect anentirely new standard of knowledge, especially in natural science, chemistry, and book-keeping. She would institute special classes forprospective chauffeurs and commercial travellers. She would abolishEton, Harrow, and the other public schools, together with the collegebuildings of Oxford and Cambridge, converting them all into barracks, while the students would find their own lodgings in the towns and standon far greater equality in regard to wealth. German is not a verybeautiful language, but it has a literature, and we should have theadvantage of speaking German and learning something of German literatureand history. Great improvements would be introduced in sanitation, town-planning, and municipal government, and we should all learn to eatblack bread, which is much more wholesome than white. 

In a large part of the country peasant proprietors would be established, and the peasants as a whole would be far better protected against theexactions and petty tyranny of the landlords than they are at present. Under the pressure of external rule, all the troublesome divisions andsmall animosities between English, Scots, Irish, and Welsh would tend todisappear, though the Germans might show special favour to the Scots andPresbyterians generally on the principle of "Divide and Rule, " just aswe show special favour to the Mohammedans of India. We should, ofcourse, be compelled to contribute to the defence of the Empire, andshould pay the expenses of the large German garrisons quartered in ourmidst and of the German cruisers that patrolled our shores. But as weshould have no fleet of our own to maintain, and in case of foreignaggression could draw upon the vast resources of the German Empire, ourtaxation for defence would probably be considerably reduced from itspresent figure of something over seventy millions a year. 

That, I think, is an impartial statement of the reasons which somedominant Power, such as Germany, might fairly advance in defence of herrule if we were included in a foreign Empire. At all events, they veryclosely resemble the reasons we put forward to glorify the services ofour Empire to India and Egypt. I suppose also that the Fabians amongourselves would support the foreign domination, just as their leaderssupported the overthrow of the Boer republics, on the ground that largerstates bring the Fabian--the very Fabian--revolution nearer. And, perhaps, the Social Democrats would support it by an extension of theirtheory that the social millennium can best arrive out of a condition ofgeneral enslavement. The Cosmopolitans would support it as tending toobliterate the old-fashioned distinctions of nationality that impede theunity of mankind, while a host of German pedants and poets would pourout libraries in praise of the Anglo-Teutonic races united at last inirresistible brotherhood and standing ready to take up the Teuton'sburden imposed upon the Blood by the special ordinance of the Lord. 

The parallel is false, some may say; the conditions are not the same; inspite of all material and educational advantages, we in England wouldnever endure such subjection; we should live in a state of perpetualrebellion; our troops would mutiny; much as we all detest assassination, the lives of our foreign Governors would hardly be secure. I agree. Ihope there is implanted in all of us such a hatred of subjection that weshould conspire to die rather than endure it. I only wish to suggest themood of a subject race, under the best actual conditions ofsubjection--to suggest that other peoples may possibly feel an equalhatred toward foreign domination--and to supply in ourselves somethingof that imaginative sympathy which Madame Malmberg tells us the Finnsonly learned after their own freedom had been overthrown. 

We feel at once that something far more valuable than all the material, or even moral, advantages which a dominant Power might give us would beinvolved in the overthrow of our independent nationality. That somethingis nationality itself. But what is nationality? Like the camel in thefamiliar saying, it is difficult to define, but we know it when we seeit. Or, as St. Augustine said of Time, "I know what it is when you don'task me. " Nationality implies a stock or race, an inborn temperament, with certain instincts and capacities. It is the slow production offorgotten movements and obscure endeavours that cannot be repeated orrestored. It is sanctified by the long struggles of growth, and by theaffection that has gathered round its history. If nationality haskindled and maintained the light of freedom, it is illuminated by aglory that transforms mountain poverty into splendour. If it has enduredtyranny, its people are welded together by a common suffering and acommon indignation. At the lowest, the people of the same nationalityhave their customs, their religion, generally their language--that mostintimate bond--and always the familiar outward scenes of earth andwater, hill and plain and sky, breathing with memories. Nationalityenters into the soul of each man or woman who possesses it. Mr. Chesterton has well described it as a sacrament. It is a silent oath, aninvisible mark. Life receives from it a particular colour. It is felt asan influence in action and in emotion, almost in every thought. Infreedom it sustains conduct with a proud assurance of community andreputation. Under oppression, it may fuse all the pleasant uses ofexistence into one consuming impulse of fanatical devotion. It hasinspired the noblest literature and all the finest forms of art, andchiefly in countries where the flame of nationality burned strong andclear has the human mind achieved its greatest miracles of beauty, thought, and invention. 

Nationality possesses that demonic and incalculable quality from whichalmost anything may be expected in the way of marvel, just as certainspiky plants that have not varied winter or summer for years in theirhabitual unattractiveness will suddenly shoot up a ten-foot spire ofradiant blossom abounding in honey. Partly by nationality has the humanrace been preserved from the dreariness of ant-like uniformity and hasretained the power of variation which appears to be essential for thehighest development of life. With what pleasure, during our travels, wediscover the evidences of nationality even in such things as dress, ornaments, food, songs, and dancing; still more in thought, speech, proverbs, literature, music, and the higher arts! With what regret wesee those characteristics swept away by the advancing tide of dominantmonotony and Imperial dullness! The loss may seem trivial compared withthe loss of personal or political freedom, but it is not trivial. It isa symptom of spiritual ruin. How deep a degradation of intellect andpersonality is shown by the introduction of English music-hall songsamong a highly poetic people like the Irish, or by the vulgar corruptionof India's superb manufactures and forms of art under the blight ofBritish commerce! You know the Persian carpets, of what magical beautythey are in design and colour. When I was on the borders of Persia in1907 the Persian carpet merchants were selling one kind of carpet with ahuge red lion being shot by a sportsman in the middle of it to pleasethe English, and another kind decorated with a Parisian lady in a motorto please the Russians. From those carpets one may realise what theEnglish Government's acquiescence in the subjection of Persia reallyinvolves. 

No subject race can entirely escape this degradation. No matter how goodthe government may be or how protective, all forms of subjection involvea certain loss of manhood. Under an alien Power the nature of thesubject nationality becomes soft and dependent. Instead of working outits own salvation, it looks to the government for direction orassistance in every difficulty. Atrophy destroys its power of action. Itloses the political sense and grows incapable of self-help orself-reliance. The stronger faculties, if not extinguished, becomemutilated. In Ireland, even to-day, we see the result of domination inthe continued belief that the British Government which has brought thecountry to ruin possesses the sole power of restoring it to prosperity. In India we see a people so enervated by alien and paternal governmentthat they have hardly the courage or energy to take up such smallresponsibilities in local government as may be granted them. This iswhat a true Liberal statesman, Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, meant byhis wise saying that self-government is better than good government. Andit might be further illustrated by the present condition of the largestsubject race in the world--the race of women--to whom all the protectivelegislation and boasted chivalry and lap-dog petting, fondly supposed tobe lavished upon them by men, are not to be compared in personal valuewith just the small right to a voice in the management of their own andnational affairs. 

Such mutilation of character is the penalty of subjection at its best. At its worst the subject race pays the penalty in tormenting rancour, undying hatred, and the savage indignation that tears the heart. It maybe said that indignation is at all events better than loss of manhood, and again I agree. Where there is despotism it may well be that for thisreason a cruel despotism is less harmful than a paternal despotism--lessharmful, I mean, to the individual soul, which is the only thing thatcounts. But the soul that is choked by hatred and torn by indignation isnot at its best. Its functions go wrong, its sight is distorted, itsjudgment perturbed, its sweetness poisoned, its laughter killed. Thewhole being suffers and is changed. For a time it may blaze with afierce, a magnificent intensity. But we talk of a "consuming rage, " andthe phrase is terribly true. Rage is a consuming fire, always a gloriousfire, a wild beacon in the night of darkness, but it consumes to ashesthe nature that is its fuel. 

Loss of manhood or perpetual rancour--those are the penalties imposed onthe soul of a subject race. Nor does the dominant race escape scot free. Far from it. On the whole, it suffers a deeper degradation. A dominantrace, like a domineering person, is always disagreeable and always abore, and the nearer it is to the scene of domination the moredisagreeable and wearisome it becomes, just as a tyrannical man is worstat home. I have known English people start as quiet, pleasing, modest, and amiable passengers in a P. & O. From Marseilles, but become lessendurable every twenty-four hours of the fortnight to Bombay. There arenoble and conspicuous exceptions alike in the army, the Indian CivilService, and among the officials scattered over the Empire. But, as arule, we may say that the worst characteristics not only of our own butof all dominant races, such as the French, Germans, and Russians, aredisplayed among their subject peoples. If, indeed, the subjects are on alevel with spaniels that can be beaten or patted alternately and retaina constant affection and respect, the English son of squires thoroughlyenjoys his position and does the beating and patting well. But it isalways with a certain loss of humour and common humanity: it brings akind of stiffness and pedantry such as Charles Lamb complained of in theold-fashioned type of schoolmaster. It exaggerates a sense ofHeaven-born superiority which the English squire has no need toexaggerate. 

I am not one of those who set out to "crab" their countrymen. We havelately had so much criticism and contempt poured upon us by moreintelligent people like the Irish, the Germans, and an ex-President ofthe United States that sometimes I have been driven to wonder whether wemay not somewhere possess some element worthy of respect. But, keepingthe lash in our own discriminating hands, we should all perhaps confessthat in regard to other people's feelings and ideas we are ratherinsensitive as a nation. This form of unimaginative obtusenessundoubtedly increased during the extension of our grip upon subjectraces between the overthrow of Gladstone's first Home Rule Bill and theend of the Boer War. Perhaps those fifteen years were the most entirelyvulgar period of our history, and vulgarity springs from an insensitivecondition of mind. It will be a terrible recompense if the price of ourworld-wide Empire is an Imperial vulgarity upon which the sun neversets. 

There is another danger, not so subtle and pervading, but more likely toescape the notice of people who are not themselves acquainted with thefrontiers of Empire. It is the production and encouragement of a set ofscoundrels and wasters who trade upon our country's prestige to rob, harry, and even enslave the members of a subject race while they pose aspioneers of Empire and are held up by sentimental travellers, like Mr. Roosevelt, as examples of toughness and courage to the victims ofmonotonous toil who live at home at ease. There is no call either forMr. Roosevelt's pity or admiration. I have known those wasters well, andhave studied all their tricks for turning a dirty half-crown. They enjoymore pleasure and greater ease in a day than any London shop assistantor bank clerk in a month. They take up the white man's burden and findit light, because it is the black man who carries it. Of all theimpostors that nestle under our flag, I have found none more contentedwith their lot or more harmful to our national repute than the "toughs"who devour our subject races and stand in photographic attitudes for Mr. Kipling to slobber over. These scoundrels and wasters are a far worseevil than most people think, for they erect a false ideal which easilycorrupts youth with its attraction, and they furnish ready instrumentsfor land-grabbers and company directors, as is too often seen in theironslaughts upon Zulus, Basutos, and other half-savage peoples whom theydesire to exterminate or enslave. They are a singularly poisonousby-product of Empire, all the more poisonous for their brag; and thoughthey belong to the class whom their relations gladly contribute toemigrate, they are far worse employed in debauching and plundering ourso-called fellow-subjects in Africa than they would be in thepublic-houses, gambling-dens, pigeon-shooting enclosures, workhouses, and jails of their native land. Of course, it is very useful to havedumping-grounds for our wasters, and it is pleasant to reflect upon theseven thousand miles of sea between one's self and one's worthlessnephew, but a dumping-ground for nepotism can scarcely be considered thenoblest aim of conquest. 

Why is it, then, that one nation desires to subjugate another at all?Sometimes the object has simply been space--the pressure of populationupon the extent of ground. Pastoral and nomad hordes, like the"Barbarians" and Tartars, have had that object, but, as a rule, it hasended in their own absorption. The motives of the Roman Empire werestrangely mixed. Plunder certainly came in; trade came in; in latertimes the slave-trade and the supply of corn to Rome were greatincentives. The personal advantage and ambition of prominent statesmenlike Sulla or Caesar were among the aims of many conquests. Theextension of religion had little to do with it, for the Romans had thedecency to keep their gods to themselves and never slaughtered in thename of Jove. But they were compelled to Empire by a peculiar convictionof destiny. They did not destroy or subdue other peoples so much forglory as from a sense of duty. It was their Heaven-sent mission torule. Their poet advised other nations to occupy themselves with wisdom, learning, statuary, the arts, or what other trivialities they pleased;it was the Roman's task to hold the world in sway. To the Roman theobject of Empire was Empire. It seemed to him the natural thing toconquer every other nation, making the world one Rome. That was, infact, his true religion, and we can but congratulate him on the unshakenfaith of his self-esteem. The Turk, on the other hand, who was the nextImperial race, boasted no city and no self-conscious superiority of lawsor race. He subdued the nations only in the name of God, and to all whoaccepted God he nobly extended the vision of Paradise and a completeequality of earthly squalor. The motives of mediaeval and more recentconquests were the strangest of all. They were usually dynastic. Theydepended on the family claim of some family man to a title implyingactual possession of another country and all its population. There wasalways one claimant contending against another claimant, this heiragainst that heir, as though the destinies of nationality could besettled by a strip of parchment or a love-affair with a princess. Peoplegrew so accustomed to this folly that even now we hardly realise itsabsurdity. Yet I suppose if the King of Spain left his kingdom by willto his well-beloved cousin George of England, not an English wherrywould stir to take possession, and our newspapers would merely remarkthat there was always a strain of insanity in the Spanish branch of theBourbons. Two hundred years ago such a will would have produced aprolonged and devastating war. Something is gained. We have eliminatedroyal dynasties from the motives of conquest. 

In the extension and maintenance of our own Empire all previous motiveshave been combined. We have pleaded want of space; we have sought slaveseither for export or for local labour; we have sought plunder and alsotrade or "markets"; we have sought dumping-grounds for our wasters, andcareers for our public school-boys; like the Turks and Spaniards, wehave sought to promote the knowledge of God by the slaughter andenslavement of His creatures; like the Romans, we have thought it ourmanifest duty to paint the world red and rule it. But within the lastsixty or seventy years we have added the further motive most aptlyexpressed by the late King Leopold of Belgium in the document by whichhe obtained his rights over the Congo: I mean "the moral and materialamelioration" of the subject peoples. That was a motive unknown to theancients, though the Romans came near it when they granted equalcitizenship to all provincials--a measure far in advance of anyconcession of ours. And it was unknown to the Middle Ages, though Turksand Spaniards came near it when they destroyed the infidels for theirgood and opened heaven to converted slaves and corpses. To subjugate anationality for its own moral and material advantage is something almostnew in history. It sounds the true modern note. That is not a pleasantnote, but it is a sign of change, an evidence of hope. In the Boer Warour real objects were to paint the country red on the maps and toexploit the gold-mines. But some people said we were fighting for equalrights; some said it was to insure good treatment for the natives; somethought we were Christianising the Boers; one man told me "the Boerswanted washing. " Those excuses may have been false and hypocritical, but, at all events, they were tributes to virtue. They were arecognition that the old motives of Empire no longer sufficed. Theyexposed the hypocrites themselves to the retort of serious and innocentpeople: "Very well, then. If these were your motives, give equal rights, protect the natives, Christianise the Boers, wash them if you can. " Itis a retort against which hypocrisy cannot long stand out. It provesthat a new standard of judgment is slowly forming in the world. But forthis new standard, where would be the Congo agitation, or the movementagainst the Portuguese cocoa slavery, or such sympathy as exists withthe Nationalists of India, Egypt, and Persia? When the doctrines ofequal rights or even of moral and material amelioration are assumed, honesty will at last raise her protest and hypocrites be no longerallowed to reap the harvest of a quiet lie. 

It is an advance. As history counts time it is a rapid advance. Now thatRussia is reducing Finland to a state of entire subjection without evena pretext of right or the shadow of a pretence at improved civilisation, a general feeling of shame and loss pervades Europe. The governments donot move, but here and there the peoples raise a protest. Not even themost thorough-going champions of Imperialism, such as the _Times_, haveventured to defend the action. They have contented themselves withCain's excuse that the murder was no affair of ours. A century and ahalf ago they would not have needed an excuse. No protest would havebeen raised, for it did not matter what nationality was enslaved. Thereis an advance, and we have now to extend it. In regard to races alreadysubject, we have but to act up to the pleadings of our own hypocrisy; wehave to maintain among them equal justice, equal rights and equalconsideration as members of one great community, instead of deprivingthem of their manhood and kicking them out of their own railwaycarriages. We have to train them on the way to self-government, insteadof clapping them into prison if they mention the subject. 

And in regard to nationalities that still retain their freedom, we mustbring our governments up into line with the leading thought of the day. We must show them that the destruction of a free people like Finland orPersia is not a local or distant disaster only, but affects the wholecommunity of nations and spreads like a poison, blighting the growth offreedom in every land and encouraging all the black forces of tyranny, darkness, and suppression. Rapidly growing among us, there is already acertain solidarity between free States, and the problem of the immediatefuture is how to make their common action effective on the side ofliberty. When I saw Tolstoy during the Russian revolution of 1905 hesaid to me:

 "The present movement in Russia is not a riot; it is not even a revolution; it is the end of an age. The age that is ending is the age of Empires--the collection of smaller States under one large State. There is no true community of heart or thought between Russia, Finland, Poland, the Caucasus and all our other States and races. And what has Hungary, Bohemia, Syria, or the Tyrol to do with Austria? No more than Canada, Australia, India, or Ireland has to do with England. People are now beginning to see the absurdity of these things, and in the end people are reasonable. That is why the age of Empires is passing away. "

It was a bold prophecy, but it contains the root of the whole matter. Only where there is community of heart and thought is national orpersonal life possible in any worthy sense. Unless that community existsbetween the various nationalities within an Empire, we may be sure theEmpire is moribund. It is dying, as Napoleon said, of indigestion, andthat other community of the world which is slowly taking shape amongfree and reasonable peoples will demand its dissolution. Our hope isthat the other community will further proceed to demand that thesedisastrous experiments in the overthrow and subjection of freenationalities shall no longer be tolerated by the combined forces ofliberty. 

XXII

BLACK AND WHITE

One night Mr. Clarkson, of the Education Office, was rather late inleaving the Savile Club. He always makes a point of selecting the bestarticles in the _Nineteenth Century_, the _Fortnightly_, and the_Contemporary_ on the first Monday of every month, and, owing to asuspension of political activity in the House of Commons, he had latelyspent more time than usual over the daily papers as well, since theycould now afford greater space for subjects of interest. He noticed withsome regret that it was half-past eleven as he came up Piccadilly andadmired, as he never failed to admire, that urbane aspect of nature'scharm presented by the Green Park. 

It was late, but the evening was cool and dry. He wished to follow up atrain of thought suggested by the question: "Should Aristotle be leftout?" but, to preserve his mind from exclusiveness, he now and thenconsidered it advantageous to plunge into what he called the full tideof humanity at Charing Cross. So that night, instead of making his wayby the shortest route to his rooms in Westminster, he strolled, with apleasurable sense of sympathetic abandonment, through the usual crowdsthat were hurrying home from theatres or supper-room. 

But he soon perceived that all the crowds were not usual. Some were nothurrying; they were stationary. They were nearly all men, unrelieved bythat subdued feminine radiance which Mr. Clarkson so much valued in thecolour scheme of London. They were mainly silent. They appeared to bewaiting for something. 

"Is the King returning from the Opera?" he asked a policeman near KingCharles's statue. But the policeman regarded him with a silent pity soprofound that he suddenly remembered a King's recent death and themourning in which the country was still partially immersed. No, it couldnot be royalty, and, feeling for the first time like a stranger in thecentre of existence, Mr. Clarkson hurriedly crossed the road. 

Between the top of Northumberland Avenue and Charing Cross Station heobserved another crowd of the same character, but in thicker numbersstill. Unwilling to eschew any emotion that thus stirred his fellowcitizens, he approached the outskirts and waited, in hopes of gatheringinformation without further inquiry. But the crowd was doggedly silent. Nearly all were reading the evening papers, and the few snatches ofconversation that Mr. Clarkson caught appeared to be meaningless. Atlast he ventured to accost a harmless-looking, pale-faced youth in astraw hat, who was reading the latest _Star_, and asked him what he waswaiting for. 

The youth looked him up and down from head to foot, and then slowlyuttered the words: "I don't think!"

"I'm so very sorry for that, " said Mr. Clarkson, a little irritated, but, as he turned hastily away he reflected with a smile that, afterall, one should be grateful to find imbecility so frankly acknowledged. 

Next time he was more diplomatic. Standing quietly for a while beside agood-tempered-looking man, who was evidently an out-of-work cab-driver, he yawned two or three times, and said at last: "How long shall we haveto wait, do you think?"

"Depends on cable, " said the cab-driver. "Got a bit on?"

"Well, no; I haven't exactly got anything on, " said Mr. Clarkson, uneasily; "but may I ask what cable you mean?"

"Don't be silly, " said the cabman, and spat between his feet. 

"Cheer up, long-face!" said another man, who had been listening. "Heonly means the cable from the States. Perhaps you've never heard of theWhite Man's Hope?"

Light at last broke upon Mr. Clarkson. "Of course, " he said, "it'sIndependence Day! I've seen the American flag flying from severalbuildings. It has always appeared a most remarkable thing to me that weEnglish people should thus ungrudgingly accept the celebration of ourmost disastrous national defeat. Such entire disappearance of racialanimosity is, indeed, full of future promise. I suppose, if you liked, you might without exaggeration call it the White Man's Hope?"

"Stow it, " said the cabman. 

"No doubt the day is being marked in the United States by some specialevent, " Mr. Clarkson continued, "and you are waiting for the account?"

No one answered. An American was reading aloud from a newspaper: "If theImperturbable Colossus gets knocked out, a general assault upon allnegroes throughout the States may be expected to ensue. The wail thatgoes up from Reno will be re-echoed from every land where the blackproblem sits like a nightmare on the chest. It is not too much to saythat a new chapter in the world's history will open before ourastonished eyes, so adequately is the gigantic struggle between theblack and white races prefigured in the persons of their chosenchampions. "

All listened with attention. 

"That's what I call thickened truth, " said the American, lookingsolemnly round. "If that coloured gentleman with a yellow streak worriesour battle-hardened veteran and undefeated hero of all time, the negrowill grow scarce. "

"They've been praying for Jeffries in all the American churches, " saidone, in the solemn pause that followed this announcement. 

"So they have for Johnson in the negro churches, " said another, "but hecounts most on his mother's prayers. She lives in Chicago. "

"It is peculiar in modern and Christianised countries, " said Mr. Clarkson, anxious to show that he now fully understood the point atissue; "it is peculiar that the opposing parties in a war or othercontest implore with equal confidence the assistance of the same deity. "

"Millionaires is sleeping three in a bed at Reno. There's a thing!" saidthe man who was most anxious to impart information. 

"The gate comes to £50, 000, let alone the pictures, " said another. "Eachof them's going to get £500 a minute for the time they fight. "

"Beats taxis, " said the cabman. 

"It's hardly fair to criticise the amount, " Mr. Clarkson expostulatedpleasantly; "the £500 represents prolonged training and practice in theart. As Whistler said, the payment is not for a day's work, but for alifetime. "

"Who are you calling the Whistler?" asked the cabman; "Jim Corbett, orJohn Sullivan?"

"Jeffries ate five lamb chops to his breakfast this morning, " said theman of information, "and Johnson ate a chicken. "

"Wish I'd eat both, " said the cabman. 

"What do you think of the upper-cut?" said the other, turning to Mr. Clarkson to escape the cabman's frivolity. 

"Well, I suppose it's a matter of taste--upper-cut or under-cut, " Mr. Clarkson answered, smiling at his seriousness. "Most people, I think, prefer under-cut. "

"Johnson's right upper-cut is described as the piston of an oceangreyhound making twenty-seven knots, " said the man, taking no notice ofthe answer, and speaking in awestruck tones. "Do you know, one paperdescribes Johnson as the best piece of fighting machinery the world hasever seen!"

"I thought that was the last _Dreadnought_?" said Mr. Clarkson. 

"Perhaps you don't study the literature of the Ring, " the otheranswered, with cold superiority. 

"Oh, indeed I do!" cried Mr. Clarkson eagerly. "It is rather remarkablewhat a fascination the art of boxing has frequently exercised upon themasters of literature. Even the Greeks, in spite of their artisticreverence for the human body, practised boxing with extreme severity, and on their statues, you know, we sometimes find a recogniseddistortion which they called 'the boxer's ear. ' It seems to show thatthey hit round rather than straight from the shoulder. The ancientboxing-gloves were intended, not to diminish, but to increase theseverity of the blow, being made of seven or eight strands of cow-hide, heavily weighted with iron and lead. There is that fine description of aprize-fight in Virgil, where the veteran--'the imperturbable colossus'of his time, I suppose we may call him--almost knocks the life out ofthe younger man, and sends him from the contest swinging his head to andfro, and spitting out teeth mingled with blood--rather a horriblepicture!"

"Ten to six on the boiler-maker, " said the cabman; "I'll take ten tosix. "

"And then, of course, " Mr. Clarkson continued, "in recent times thereare splendid accounts of the fights in _Lavengro_ and Meredith's_Amazing Marriage_, and Browning once refers to the Tipton Slasher, andwe all know Conan Doyle. "

"No, we don't, " said the cabman. 

"It seems rather hard to explain the attraction of prize-fighting, " Mr. Clarkson went on, meditatively; "perhaps it comes simply from thedramatic element of battle. It is a war in brief, a concentratedmilitancy. Or perhaps it is the more barbaric delight in vicarious painand endurance; and I think sometimes we ought to include the pleasure ofour race in fair play and the just and equal rigour of the game. "

What other reasons Mr. Clarkson might have found were lost in theyelling of newsboys tearing down the Strand. Too excited to speak, thecrowd engulfed them. The papers were torn from their hands. Short cries, short sentences followed. Here and there Mr. Clarkson caught anintelligible word: "Revolvers taken at gate"; "Expected Johnson would beshot if victorious"; "Opening spar almost academic in its calmness";"Old wound on Jeffries's right eye opened"; "Both cheeks gashed to thebone"; "Jack handed out some wicked lefts"; "Terrible gruelling"; "Bothshutters out of working order"; "Defeat certain after eighth round";"Johnson hooked his left"; "The Circassian remained on his knees";"Counting went on"; "Fatal ten was reached. "

The crowd gasped. Then it shouted, it swore, it broke up swearing. 

"Negroes had best crawl underground to-night, " said the American; "itain't good for negroes when their heads grow through their hair. "

"Another proof, " sighed Mr. Clarkson, "another proof that, onRoosevelt's principle, the United States are unfit for self-government. "

When he reached his rooms it was nearly one, but a door opened softly onthe top floor, and the landlady's little boy looked over the banistersand asked: "Please, sir, did Jim win, sir?"

"Let me see, " said Mr. Clarkson, "which was Jim?"

XXIII

PEACE AND WAR IN THE BALANCE[7]

When your Committee invited me to deliver the Moncure Conway addressthis year, I was even more surprised at their choice of subject than attheir choice of person. For the chosen subject was Peace, and my chiefstudy, interest, and means of livelihood for some twenty years past hasbeen War. It seemed to me like inviting a butcher to lecture onvegetarianism. So I wrote, with regret, to refuse. But your Committeevery generously repeated the invitation, giving me free permission totake my own line upon the subject; and then I perceived that you did notask for the mere celebration of an established doctrine, but were stillprepared to join in pursuit, following the track of reason wherever itmight lead, as became the traditions of this classic building, which Isometimes think of as reason's last lair. I perceived that what youdemanded was not panegyric, or immutable commonplace, but, above allthings, sincerity. And sincerity is a dog with nose to the ground, uncertain of the trail, often losing the scent, often harking back, butpossessed by an honest determination to hunt down the truth, if by anymeans it can be caught. 

It is one of my many regrets for wasted opportunity that I never heardMoncure Conway; but, with a view to this address, I have lately read agood deal of his writings. Especially I have read the _Autobiography_, an attractive record and commentary on the intellectual history ofrapidly-changing years, most of which I remember. On the question ofpeace Moncure Conway was uncompromising--very nearly uncompromising. Many Americans feel taller when they think of Lexington and the shotthat echoed round the world. Moncure Conway only saw lynchers in thechampions of freedom who flung the tea-chests into the sea; and in theWar of Independence he saw nothing but St. George Washington spearing aGeorge the Third dragon. [8] He quotes with approval the saying of QuakerMifflin to Washington: "General, the worst peace is better than the bestwar. "[9] Many Americans regard the Civil War between North and Southwith admiration as a stupendous contest either for freedom and unity, orfor self-government and good manners. Moncure Conway was strongly andconsistently opposed to it. The question of slavery did not affect hisopposition. He thought few men had wrought so much evil as John Brown ofHarper's Ferry, whose soul marched with the Northern Armies. [10] "Ihated violence more than slavery, " he wrote, "and much as I dislikedPresident Buchanan, I thought him right in declining to coerce theseceding States. "[11] Just before the war began, he wrote in a famouspamphlet: "War is always wrong; it is because the victories of Peacerequire so much more courage than those of war that they are rarelywon. "[12] "I see in the Union War, " he wrote, "a great catastrophe. ""Alas! the promises of the sword are always broken--always. " And in theconcluding pages of his _Autobiography_, as though uttering his finalmessage to the world, he wrote:

 "There can arise no important literature, nor art, nor real freedom and happiness, among any people until they feel their uniform a livery, and see in every battlefield an inglorious arena of human degradation. .. . The only cause that can uplift the genius of a people as the anti-slavery cause did in America is the war against war. "

For the very last words of his _Autobiography_ he wrote:

 "And now, at the end of my work, I offer yet a new plan for ending war--namely, that the friends of peace and justice shall insist on a demand that every declaration of war shall be regarded as a sentence of death by one people on another; and shall be made only after a full and formal judicial inquiry and trial, at which the accused people shall be fairly represented. .. . The meanest prisoner cannot be executed without a trial. A declaration of war is the most terrible of sentences: it sentences a people to be slain and mutilated, their women to be widowed, their children orphaned, their cities burned, their commerce destroyed. The real motives of every declaration of war are unavowed and unavowable. Let them be dragged into the light! No war would ever occur after a fair judicial trial by a tribunal in any country open to its citizens. 

 "Implore peace, O my reader, from whom I now part. Implore peace, not of deified thunderclouds, but of every man, woman, or child thou shalt meet. Do not merely offer the prayer, 'Give peace in our time, ' but do thy part to answer it! Then, at least, though the world be at strife, there shall be peace in thee. "[13]

That sounds uncompromising. We cannot doubt that one of the main motivesof Conway's life was "War against War. " He suffered for peace; he lostfriends and influence for peace; we may almost say he was exiled forpeace. Those are the marks of sincerity. He, if anyone, we mightsuppose, was a "Peace-at-any-price man. " But let us remember one passagein an address delivered only a few months before his death. In thataddress, on William Penn, given in April 1907 (he died in the followingNovember), speaking of Mr. Carnegie's proposal for a compulsory Court ofInternational Arbitration, he said:

"In order to prevent swift attacks of one nation on another withoutnotice, or outrages on weak and helpless tribes, there shall be selectedfrom the armaments of the world a combination armament to act as theinternational police. .. . Even if in the last resort there were neededsuch united force of mankind to prevent any one nation from breaking thepeace in which the interests of all nations are involved, that would notbe an act of war, but civilisation's self-defence. Self-defence is notwar, although the phrase is often used to disguise aggression. "[14]

Speaking with all respect for a distinguished man's memory, I disagreewith every word of those sentences. An international police, directed bythe combined Powers, would almost certainly develop into a tremendousengine of injustice and oppression. The Holy Alliance after Napoleon'soverthrow aimed at an international police, and we want no more HolyAlliances. I would not trust a single government in the world to enterinto such a combination. I would rather trust Satan to combine with sin. Think of the fate of Egypt from Arabi's time up to the present, or ofTurkey controlled by the Powers, or of Persia and Morocco to-day! Butthe point to notice is that you cannot alter things by altering names. The united force of civilisation brought to bear upon any nation, however guilty, would be an act of war, however much you called itinternational police. Civilisation's self-defence would be war. Everyform of self-defence by violence, whether it disguises aggression ornot, is war. For many generations every war has been excused asself-defence of one kind or another. I can hardly imagine a modern warthat would not be excused by both sides as defensive. By making theseadmissions--by maintaining that self-defence is not war--MoncureConway gives away the whole case of the "peace-at-any-price man, " Hecomes down from the ideal positions of the early Quakers, the modernTolstoyans, and the Salvation Army. They preach non-resistance to evilconsistently. Like all extremists who have no reservations, but willtrust to their principle though it slay them, they have gained a certainglow, a fervour of life, which shrivels up our ordinary compromises andpolitical considerations. But by advocating civilisation's self-defencein the form of a combined international armament, Moncure Conwayabandoned that vantage ground. He became sensible, arguable, uncertain, submitting himself to the balances of reason and expediency like therest of us. 

A certain glow, a fervour of life--those are signs that alwaysdistinguish extremists--men and women who are willing literally to diefor their cause. I did not find those signs at the Hague PeaceConference, when I was sent there in 1907 as being a war correspondent. Such an assembly ought to have marked an immense advance in humanhistory. It was the sort of thing that last-century poets dreamed of asthe Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World. It surpassed PrinceAlbert's vision of an eternity of International Exhibitions. One wouldhave expected such an occasion to be heralded by Schiller's _Ode to Joy_sounding through the triumph of the Choral Symphony. Long and dubioushas been the music's struggle with pain, but at last, in greatsimplicity, the voices of the men give out the immortal theme, and thewhole universe joins in harmony with a thunder of exultation:

 "Seid umschlungen, Millionen, Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!"

Surely at the Hague Conference, in the fulfilment of time, peace hadcome on earth and goodwill among men. Here once more would sound thesong that the morning stars sang together, when all the sons of Godshouted for joy. 

As loaders in that celestial chorus, I found about 400 frock-coated, top-hatted gentlemen from various parts of the world--elderlydiplomatists, ambassadors inured to the stifling atmosphere of courts, Foreign Ministers who had served their time of intrigue, professors whoworshipped law, worthy officials primed with a stock of phrases about"the noble sentiments of justice and humanity, " but reared in thedeadening circle of uniforms, decorations, and insincere courtesy, having no more knowledge of the people's desires than of the people'sbacon, and instructed to maintain the cause of peace chiefly bysafeguarding their country's military interests. An atmosphere ofsuspicion and secrecy surrounded them, more dense than the fog of war. For their president they elected an ambassador who had grown old in theservice of three Tsars, and now represented a tyrant who refused thefirst principles of peace to his own people, and repressed the strugglefor freedom by methods of barbarism such as no general could use againsta belligerent in the stress of war without incurring the execration ofmankind. 

With commendable industry, those delegates at this Second PeaceConference devoted themselves to careful preparations for the next war, especially for the next naval war. They appeared to me like two farmersmaking arrangements to abstain from burning each other's hay-ricks. "Look here, " says one, "this rick-burning's a dangerous and expensivejob. Let us give up wax vestas, and stick to safety matches. " "Done!"says the other. "Now mind! Only safety matches in future!" and they partwith mutual satisfaction, conscious of thrift and Christian forbearance. Or, again, I thought the situation might be expressed in the form of afable, how the Fox of the Conference said to the Rabbit of Peace, "Withwhat sauce, Brer Rabbit, would you like to be eaten?" "Please, Mr. Fox, I don't want to be eaten at all, " said the Rabbit "Now, " answered theFox, "you are gettin' away from the pint. "

Something, no doubt, has been gained. Even the jealous diplomatists andcautious lawyers at The Hague have secured something. Mankind hadgradually learnt that certain forms of horror were too horrible foraverage civilisation, and The Hague confirmed man's veto, in someparticulars. Laying mines at sea and the destruction of private propertyat sea were not forbidden, nor were the rights of belligerents extendedto subject races or rebels. Men and women are still exposed to everykind of torture and brutality, provided the brutalities are practised bytheir own superior government. But it is something, certainly, to havegained a permanent Court of Arbitration for the trial of disputed pointsbetween nations. The points are at present minor, it is true. Questionsaffecting honour, vital interests, and independence are expresslyexcluded. But the habit of referring any question at all to arbitrationis a gain, if only we could trust the members of the Court. So long asthose members are appointed by the present governments of Europe, thereis danger of the Court becoming merely another engine in the hands ofdespotism, as was proved by the conduct of the Savarkar case at TheHague in February 1911. But the field of reference will growimperceptibly, and we have had President Taft protesting that he desiresan Arbitration Treaty with England from which even questions of honour, vital interests, and independence shall not be excluded. [15] Out of theeater cometh forth meat. Even a blood-stained Tsar's proposals for peacehave not been entirely without effect. But in the midst of the warringdiplomatists at The Hague one could discover none of that glow, thatfervour of devotion to peace, which distinguished the early Quakers andis still felt among a few fine enthusiasts. The first duty imposed uponevery representative at The Hague was to get everyone to do as much aspossible for peace, except himself. It is not so that the world ismoved. 

Neither in the representatives nor in their governments can we find anyprinciple or passionate desire for peace. The emperors, kings, and menof wealth, birth, and leisure who impudently claim the right of decidingquestions of peace and war in all nations, display no objection to war, provided it looks profitable. Provided it looks profitable--what a vistaof devilry those words call up! What a theme for satire! But also, tosome extent, and in the present day, what ground for hope!

They bring us suddenly face to face with a little book which will leaveits mark, not only on the mind, but, perhaps, on the actual and externalhistory of man. In my opinion, the next Nobel prize should be sharedequally between Mr. J. A. Hobson and Mr. Lane, the younger writer whocalls himself Norman Angell. Between them they have completely analysedthe motives, the pretexts, the hypocrisies, the deceptions, thecorruptions, and the fallacies of modern war. [16] When we say that themen who impudently claim the control of foreign politics among thenations display no objection to war, provided it looks profitable, weenter at once the sphere of that "Great Illusion" which is thedistinguishing theme of Norman Angell's pamphlet. 

His main contention is that in modern times, owing to theinterdependence of nations, especially in trade, the readiness ofcommunication, the conduct of commerce and finance almost entirely bythe exchange of bills and cheques, the complicated banking relations, and the solidarity of credit in all great capitals, so that if Londoncredit is shaken the finance of Berlin, Paris, St. Petersburg, and NewYork feels the shock almost equally--for all these reasons modern warcannot be profitable even to the victorious Power. 

To advocates of peace, here comes a gleam of hope at last--perhaps thestrongest gleam that has reached us yet. Upon the kings of the earth, sitting, as Milton said, with awful eye; upon diplomatists, ambassadors, Foreign Office officials, courtiers, clergy, and the governing class ingeneral, appeals to pity, mercy, humanity, religion, or reason have hadno effect whatever. If you think I speak too strongly, look around you. Name within the last century any ruler or minister who has been guidedby humanity or religion in the question of peace or war. Name any rulerwho has abstained from war because force is no argument. With thepossible exception of Mr. Gladstone in the cases of the _Alabama_ andMajuba Hill, I can think of none. Against that one possible exceptionplace all the wars of a century past, including three that were amongthe most terrible in human history--the Napoleonic war, theFranco-German, and the Russo-Japanese. And as to the sweet influences ofChristianity, remember the Russian Archbishops, how they blessed thesacred Icons that were to lead the Russian peasants to the slaughter ofJapanese peasants. Remember our Archbishop of Canterbury in February1911 deeply regretting that a previous engagement prevented him frompassing on the blessing of the Apostles to the battleship _Thunderer_. Remember how he sent his wife as a substitute to occupy the Apostolicposition in the hope that the hand which rocks the cradle might proveequally efficacious. 

Against the pugnacity and courage which urge our rulers to send otherpeople to die for them, the claims of humanity, reason, and religionhave no effect. The new hope is that self-interest may succeed where themotives that act upon most decent people almost invariably fail. NormanAngell's appeal goes straight to the pocket, and his choice of thatobjective inspires hope. If rulers can no longer plead that by war theyare advancing the material interests of their State, if it is recognisedthat even a victorious war involves as great disaster as defeat, or evengreater (and it is remarkable that, in one of his latest speeches, Moltke maintained that, next to defeat, the greatest disaster whichcould befall any State was victory)--if it can be shown that, in a warbetween great nations, trade does not follow the flag, but moves rapidlyin the other direction, then one of the pretexts of our rulers will beremoved, one veil of hypocrisy will be stripped off. To that extent thehope of peace will have grown brighter, and that extent is large. 

On the whole, it is the brightest hope that has lately risen--or thebrightest but one which we will speak of later on. I would only hint attwo considerations which may obscure it. Granted that in modern timeswar-power or victory does not give prosperity; that the invader cannotdestroy or capture the enemy's trade; that his own finance is equallydisturbed; and that the most enormous indemnity can add nothing to thevictorious nation's actual wealth--granted all this, nevertheless, thewarlike, though vicarious, heroism of our rulers might not on thisaccount be restrained. In many, if not most, recent wars the object hasnot been national aggrandisement, or even national commerce, but privategain. We have but to think of the South African War, so cleverlyengineered in the gold-mining interest, or of the Russo-Japanese war, where so many thousands died for the Russian aristocracy's timberconcessions on the Yalu. Or, as permanent incitements to warfare, we maythink of all the manufacturers of armaments, the enormous companies thatfatten on blood and iron, the contractors, purveyors, horse-breeders, tailors, advertisers, army-coaches, landowners, and well-to-do familieswhose wealth, livelihood, or position depends mainly upon thecontinuance of warlike preparations, and whose personal interests areenormously increased by actual war. When a nation is pouring out itswealth at the rate of £2, 000, 000 or even £10, 000, 000 a week, as in thefuture it may well do, much of it will run away to waste, but most of itwill stick to one finger or another; and the dirtier the finger the morewill stick. It seems silly, it seems almost incredible, that, only a fewgenerations ago, the peoples of Europe were engaged in killing eachother as fast as possible over a question of dynasty--whether this orthat poor forked radish of a mortal should be called King of Spain orKing of France. But in our own days men kill each other for dynasties ofcash--for wealthy firms and intermarried families. Nations fight thatprivate companies may show a higher percentage on dividends. It issilly; it is almost incredible. But to shareholders and speculatorsinstigated by these motives Norman Angell's appeal is futile. Even avictorious war may spell disaster to the nation; but even defeat spellscash for them. 

Holland was in February 1911 compelled to buy twenty-four inferior bigguns from Krupp, without contract or competition, for the defence of herJavanese possessions, which no one thinks of attacking. Do you supposethat Krupp's Company regards war as disadvantageous, or circulatesNorman Angell's book for a new gospel? "What plunder!" cried Blücher, looking over London from St. Paul's. Nowadays he would not wait toplunder a foreign nation; he would invest in a Dreadnought company, andplunder his own. Our naval expenditure in 1911-12 amounted to£46, 000, 000; our army expenditure to nearly £28, 000, 000--a total of£73, 650, 000 for what is called defence! Ten years ago we were in themidst of a most expensive war. Nevertheless, in ten years the annualexpenditure upon armaments has increased by £14, 000, 000--far more thanenough to double our Old Age Pensions. Within thirty years the navalestimates have more than quadrupled. Are we to suppose that no one growsfat on the people's money? _Quidquid delirant reges_. The kings of theearth stood up and violently raged together; their subjects died. Butnow the kings of the earth are raging financiers with a shrewd eye tobusiness, and their subjects starve to pay them. We used to be told thatthe man who paid the piper called the tune. Do the people call the tuneof peace or war? Not at all. The ruling classes both call the tune andpocket the pay. 

There is one other point that may obscure the hope arising from NormanAngell's book. His main contention concerns wars between great Powers, nearly equally matched--Powers of high civilisation, with elaboratesystems of credit and complicated interdependence of trade. But mostrecent wars have been attacks--defensive attacks, of course--upon small, powerless, and semi-civilised nations by the great Powers. Under thepretext of extending law and order, justice, peace, good government, and the blessings of the Christian faith, a great Power attacks a smalland half-organised people with the object of taking up the White Man'sBurden, capturing markets, contracting for railways, and extendingterritory. To wars of this kind, I think, Norman Angell's comfortingtheory does not apply--the great illusion does not come in. A strongPower may conquer Morocco, or Persia, or seize Bosnia, or enslaveFinland, or penetrate Tibet, or maintain its hold on India, or occupyEgypt, or even destroy the Dutch Republics of South Africa, withoutdisorganising its own commerce or raising a panic on its own credit. Most actual fighting has lately been of this character. It aims at thesuppression of freedom in small or unarmed nationalities, the absorptionof independent countries into great empires. It is the moderncounterpart of the slave-trade. It is supported by similar arguments, and may be quite lucrative, as the slave-trade was. 

Actual warfare generally takes this form now, but behind it one mayalways feel the latent or diplomatic warfare that consists in thecalculation of armaments. A great Power says: "How much of Persia, Turkey, China, or Morocco do I dare to swallow? Germany, Russia, France, Japan, England, or Spain (as the case may be) will not like it if Iswallow much. But what force could she bring against me, if it came toextremities, and what force could I set against hers?" Then the Powersset to counting up army corps and Dreadnoughts. In Dreadnoughts theyseldom get their addition-sums right, but they do their poor best, strike a balance, and declare that a satisfactory agreement has beencome to. This latent war is expensive, but cheaper than real war--and itis not bloody; it does not shock credit, though it weakens it; it doesnot ruin commerce, though it hampers it. The drain upon the nations isexhausting, but it does not kill men so horribly, and our rulers do notfeel it; for the people pay, and the concession-hunters, thecontractors, the company directors, and suchlike people with whom ourrulers chiefly associate, grow very fat. 

If, then, Norman Angell's hopeful theory applies only partially to thesecommon wars of Imperial aggrandisement and the perpetual diplomatic warby comparison of armaments, to what may we look for hope? Lord Roseberywould be the last person to whom one would look for hope in general. Hishope is too like despair for prudence to smother. Yet, in his speech atthe Press banquet during the Imperial Conference of 1909, when he spokeof our modern civilisation "rattling into barbarism, " he gave a hint ofthe movement to which alone I am inclined to trust. "I can onlyforesee, " he exclaimed, "the working-classes of Europe uniting in agreat federation to cry: 'We will have no more of this madness andfoolery, which is grinding us to powder!'" The words may not have beenentirely sincere--something had to be said for the Liberal Press tables, which cheered while the Imperialists sat glum; but there, I believe, lies the ultimate and only possible chance of hope. We mustrevolutionise our Governments; we must recognise the abject folly ofallowing these vital questions of peace, war, and armaments to bedecided according to the caprice or advantage of a single man, a cliqueof courtiers, a gang of adventurers, or the Cabal of a Cabinet formedfrom the very classes which have most to gain and least to lose, whetherfrom actual war or the competition in armaments. Over this Executive, whether it is called Emperor, King, Court, or Cabinet, the people of thenation has no control--or nothing like adequate control--in foreignaffairs and questions of war. In England in the year 1910 not a singlehour was allowed for Foreign Office debate in the Commons. In no countryof Europe have the men and women of the State a real voice in a matterwhich touches every man and every woman so closely as war touchesthem--even distant war, but far more the kind of war that devastates thelarder, sweeps out the drawing-room, encamps in the back garden, and atany moment may reduce the family by half. [17] One remembers that picturein Carlyle, how thirty souls from the British village of Dumdrudge arebrought face to face with thirty souls from a French Dumdrudge, afterinfinite effort. The word "Fire!" is given, and they blow the souls outof one another:

 "Had these men any quarrel?" asks the Sartor. "Busy as the Devil is, not the smallest! They lived far enough apart--were the entirest strangers; nay, in so wide a Universe there was even, unconsciously, by Commerce, some mutual helpfulness between them. How then? Simpleton! their Governors had fallen out; and, instead of shooting one another, had the cunning to make these poor blockheads shoot. "

Slowly and dimly the Dumdrudges of the world--the peasants andartisans, the working people, the people who have most right tocount--are beginning to recognise the absurdity of paying and dying forwars of which they know nothing, and in the quarrels of kings andministers for whom they have neither reverence nor love. "What is theBritish Empire to me, " I heard a Whitechapel man say, "when I have toopen the window before I get room to put on my trousers?" A section ofthe country was opposed to the Crimean War; a far larger section wasopposed to the Boer War. Both were ridiculed, persecuted, andmaltreated; but nearly everyone now admits that both were right. In thenext unjust or unreasonable war the peace party will be stronger still. Something has thus been gained; but the greatest gain ever yet won forthe cause of peace was the refusal of the Catalonian reservists to servein the war against the Riff mountaineers of Morocco in July 1909. "Riskour lives and the subsistence of our little families to secure dividendsfor shareholders in mining concessions illegally inveigled from asemi-savage chieftain? Never! We will raise hell rather, and die inrevolution upon our native streets. " So Barcelona flared to heaven, andfor nearly a week the people held the vast city. I have seen many noble, as well as many terrible, events, but none more noble or of finerpromise for mankind than the sudden uprising of the Catalan workingpeople against a dastardly and inglorious war, waged for the benefit ofa few speculators in Paris and Madrid. Ferrer had no direct part in thatrising; his only part lay in sowing the seed of freedom by his writings. It was a pity he had no other part. He lost an opportunity such as comesin few men's lives--and he was executed just the same. [18]

The event was small and brief, but it was one of the most significant inmodern times. If the working classes refuse to fight, what will thekings, ministers, speculators, and contractors do? Will they go out tofight each other? Then, indeed, warfare would become a blessingundisguised, and we could freely join the poet in calling carnage God'sdaughter. When I was a child I drew up a scheme for a vast British armyrecruited from our lunatic asylums. With lunatic soldiers, as Iexplained to my mother, the heavier our losses, the greater would be ourgain. It seems to me still a promising idea. But an army recruited fromkings, lords, Cabinet Ministers, Members of Parliament, speculators, contractors, and officials--the people who are the primary originatorsof our wars--would have even greater advantages, and the losses inbattle would be balanced by still greater compensations. 

The Barcelona rising was, indeed, full of promise. It marked the gradualapproach of a time when the working-people, who always supply most ofthe men to be killed in war, will refuse to fight for the rulingclasses, as they would now refuse to fight for dynasties. If they refuseto fight in the ordinary Government wars, either war will cease, or itwill rise to the higher stage of war between class and class. It willbecome either civil war--the most terrible and difficult, but the finestkind of war, because some principle of the highest value must be atstake before civil war can arise; or it will become a combined war ofthe classes in various countries between whom there is a feeling ofsympathy and common interest. That would take the form of a civil warextended throughout Europe, and perhaps America and the highly-developedparts of Asia. The allied forces in the various countries would thenstrike where the need was greatest, the French or English army corps ofworking-men going to the assistance of Russian or German working-menagainst the forces of despotism or capital. But a social war on thatscale, however desirable, is like the Spanish fleet in the _Critic_--itis not yet in sight. The growing perfection of modern arms gives tooenormous an advantage to established forces. The movement is much morelikely to take the Barcelona form of refusal to fight; and if thepeoples of Europe could combine in that determination, the effect wouldbe irresistible. This international movement is, in fact, very slowly, growing. The telegraph, the railway, cheap tickets, Cook's tours, thepower of reading, and even the peculiar language taught as French in ourschools, combine to wear away the hostility of peoples. The "beastlyforeigner" is almost extinct. The man who has been for a week inGermany, or for a trip to lovely Lucerne, feels a reflected glory insaying those foreigners are not so bad. There was a fine old song with arefrain, "He's a good 'un when you know him, but you've got to know himfirst. " Well, we are getting to know the foreigner whom we once called"beastly. "

Ultimately the best, the only hope for peace lies in the determinationof the peoples not to do anything so silly as to settle the quarrels oftheir rulers by killing each other. But then come the deeper questions:Do people love peace? Do they hate war? Would the total abolition of warbe a good thing for the world? After a lengthy period of peace thereusually arises a craving for battle. Nearly fifty years of peacefollowed the defeat of the Persians in Greece, and at the end of thattime, just before the Peloponnesian War, which was to bring ruin on thecountry, Thucydides tells us that all Greece, being ignorant of therealities of war, stood a-tiptoe with excitement. It was the same inEngland just before our disastrous South African War, when readers ofKipling glutted themselves with imaginary slaughter, and Henley cried toour country that her whelps wanted blooding. In England this martialspirit was more violent than in Greece, because, when war actually came, the Greeks were themselves exposed to all its horrors and sufferings, but in England the bloodthirsty mind could enjoy the conflict in asuburban train with a half-penny paper. As in bull-fights orgladiatorial shows, the spectators watched the expensive butentertaining scene of blood and death from a safe and comfortabledistance. They gave the cash and let the credit go; they thoroughlyappreciated the rumble of a distant drum. "Blood! blood!" they cried. "Give us more blood to make our own blood circulate more agreeably underour unbroken skins!" Christianity joined in the cry through the mouthsof its best accredited representatives. As at the Crucifixion it iswritten, "On that day Herod and Pilate were friends, " so on the outbreakof a singularly unjust, avaricious, and cruel war, the ChristianChurches of England displayed for the first and last time some signs ofunity. Canterbury and Armagh kissed each other, and the City Templeapplauded the embraces of unrighteousness and war. Dean Farrar ofCanterbury, concluding his glorification of the hell which I then sawenacted in South Africa, quoted with heartfelt approval the Archbishopof Armagh's poem:--

 "And, as I note how nobly natures form Under the war's red rain, I deem it true That He who made the earthquake and the storm Perhaps makes battles too. 

 Thus as the heaven's many-coloured flames At sunset are but dust in rich disguise, The ascending earthquake-dust of battle frames God's picture in the skies. "[19]

We are no longer compelled to regard the dogmas of Christianity or theopinions of eminent Christians as authoritative. The appeal toChristianity, which used to be regarded as decisive in favour of peace, is no longer decisive one way or other. Christ's own teaching issubmitted to critical examination like any other teacher's, and I shouldbe the last to decry the representatives of the Prince of Peace foracclaiming the virtues of war, if they think their Master was mistaken. When bishops and deans and leading Nonconformists thirst for war's redrain, we must take account of their craving as part of man's nature. Wemust remember also that war has popular elements sometimes overlooked inits general horror. It is believed that in the American Civil War nearlya million men lost their lives; but against this loss we must set thepeculiar longevity with which the survivors have been endowed, and theincreasing number of heroes who enjoyed the State's reward for theirservices of fifty years before. Even during the South African Warcertain compensations were found. A charitable lady went on a visit ofcondolence to a poor woman whose husband's name had just appeared in thelist of the killed at Spion Kop. "Ah, Mum, " exclaimed the widow withfeeling, "you don't know how many happy homes this war has made!"

Before we absolutely condemn war we must take account of thesereligious, medicinal, and domestic considerations. On the side of peaceI think it is of little avail to plead the horrors and unreason of war. We all know how horrible and silly it is for two countries to pretend tosettle a dispute by ordering large numbers of innocent men to kill eachother. If horrors would stop it, anyone who has known war could a taleunfold surpassing all that the ghost of Hamlet's father had seen inhell. There are sights on a battlefield under shell-fire, and in acountry devastated by troops, so horrible that even war correspondentshave silently agreed to leave them undescribed. But the truth is thatpeople who are not present in war enjoy the horror. That is what theylike reading about in their back-gardens, clubs, and city offices. Themore you talk of the horrors of war the more warlike they become, and Ihave met no one quite so bloodthirsty as the warrior of peace. Nor is itany good pleading for reason when about ninety-nine per cent. Of everyman's motives are not reasonable, but spring from passion, taste, orinterest. The appeal even to expense falls flat in a country like ours, where about 200, 000 horses, valued at £12, 000, 000, and maintained at acharge of £8, 000, 000 a year, are kept entirely for the pursuit of foxes, which are preserved alive at great cost in order that they may bepursued to death. [20] Protests against the horrors, the unreason, andeven the expense of war have hitherto had very small effect. 

The real argument in favour of war welcomes horror, defies reason, anddisregards expense. There are certain military qualities and aspects oflife, it says, that are worth preserving at the cost of all the horror, unreason, and waste of war. The stern military character, brave buttender, is a type of human nature for which we cannot pay too much. Consider physical courage alone, how valuable it is, and how rare. Withwhat speed the citizen runs at the first glimpse of danger! With whatpleasure or shamefaced cowardice citizens look on while women are beingviolently and indecently assaulted when attempting to vindicate theirpolitical rights! How gladly everyone shouts with the largest crowd!Consider how many noble actions men leave undone through fear of beinghurt or killed. "Dogs! would you live for ever?" cried Frederick theGreat to his soldiers, in defeat; and most of us would certainly answer:"Yes, we would, if you please!" Only through war, or the training forwar, says the argument, can this loathly cowardice be kept in check. Only by war can the spirit be maintained that redeems the world fromsinking into a Pigs' Paradise. Only in the expectation or reality of warcan life be kept sweet, strong, and at its height. War is life inextremes; it is worth preserving even for its discipline and training. 

 "Manhood training [said Mr. Garvin, editor of the _Observer_, in the issue of January 22, 1911]--manhood training has become the basis of public life, not only in every great European State, but in young democratic countries, like Australia and South Africa. 'One vote, one rifle, ' says ex-President Steyn. .. . As a means of developing the physical efficiency of whole nations, of increasing their patriotic cohesion, of implanting in individuals the sense of political reality and responsibility, no substitute for manhood training has yet been discovered. "

This kind of argument implies despair of perpetual, or even oflong-continued, peace. It is true that those who advocate a nationaltraining of all our manhood for war generally urge upon us that it isthe best security for peace. In the same way, peaceful Anarchists mightplead that they maintained several enormous bomb-factories in order toimpress upon rulers the advantages of freedom. But if peace were thereal and only object of Conscription, and if Conscription precluded theprobability of war, military training, after some years, would almostcertainly decline, and its supposed advantages would be lost. When youbreed game-cocks, they will fight; but if you forbid cock-fighting, thebreed will decline. You cannot have training for war without theexpectation of war. For many years I was a strong advocate of nationalservice, even though I knew it would never be adopted in this countryuntil we had seen the realities of war in our very midst, and had sat inmorning trains to the City stopped by the enemy's batteries outsideLiverpool Street and London Bridge. I also foresaw the extremedifficulty of enforcing military training upon Quakers, the SalvationArmy, the Peace Society, and many Nonconformists and Rationalists. Nevertheless, twenty-five years ago I advocated Conscription in acarefully-reasoned article that appeared in Mr. Stead's _Pall MallGazette_. It was received with a howl of rage and derision by bothparties in the State, and by all newspapers that noticed it at all. Itis significant--perhaps terribly significant--that it would not bereceived with derision now, but that nearly the whole of one party andthe great majority of newspapers would welcome it only too gladly. 

It seemed to me at that time--and it seems to me still--one of the mosthorrible things in modern British life that we bribe the unemployed, that we compel them by fear of starvation, to do our killing and dyingfor us. I have passed more men into the army, probably, than anyrecruiting sergeant, and I have never known a man who wished to recruitunless he was unemployed. The Recruiting Report issued by the War Officefor 1911 shows ninety per cent. Of the recruits "out of work. " I shouldhave put the percentage still higher. But when you next see a fullcompany of a hundred soldiers, and reflect that ninety of them have beenpersuaded to kill and die for you simply through fear of starvationunder our country's social system--I say, whether you seek peace oradmire war, the thought is horrible; it is hardly to be endured. 

To wipe out this hideous shame, to put ourselves all in one boat, and, if war is licensed murder, at all events to share the murder that welicense, and not to starve the poor into criminals for our own relief, perhaps Conscription would not be too high a price to pay. Otheradvantages are more obvious--the physical advantage of two years'regular food and healthy air and exercise for rich and poor alike, thesocial advantage of the mixture of all classes in the ranks, the moraladvantage of giving the effeminate sons of luxury a stern and bittertime. For all this we would willingly pay a very heavy price. I wouldpay almost any price. 

But should we pay the price of compulsion? That is the only price thatmakes me hesitate. I used to cherish a frail belief in discipline andobedience to authority and the State. My belief in discipline is stillalive--discipline in the sense of entire mutual confidence betweencomrades fighting for the same cause; but I have come to regardobedience to external authority as one of the most dangerous virtues. Idoubt if any possible advantage could balance an increase of thatdanger; and every form of military life is almost certain to increaseit. To me the chief peril of our time is the growing power of the State, its growing interference in personal opinion and personal life, theintrusion of an inhuman being called an expert or official into the mostintimate, inexplicable, and changing affairs of our lives and souls, andthe arrogant social legislation of a secret and self-appointed Cabal orCabinet, which refuses even to consult the wishes of that half of thepopulation which social restrictions touch most nearly. If generalmilitary service would tend to increase respect and obedience toexternal authority of this kind, it might be too big a price to pay forall its other advantages. And I do think it would tend to increase thatabhorrent virtue of indiscriminate obedience. Put a man in uniform, andten to one he will shoot his mother, if you order him. Yet the shame ofour present enlistment by hunger is so overwhelming that I confess Istill hesitate between the two systems, if we must assume that thecontinuance of war is inevitable, or to be desired. 

Is it inevitable? Is it to be desired? If it were dying out in theworld, should we make efforts to preserve war artificially, as wepreserve sport, which would die out unless we maintained it at greatexpense? The sportsman is an amateur butcher--a butcher for love. Oughtwe to maintain soldiers for love--for fear of losing the advantages ofwar? Those advantages are thought considerable. War has inspired muchart and much literature. It is the background or foreground in nearlyall history; it sheds a gleam of uniforms and romance upon a drab world;it delivers us from the horrors of peace--the softness, the monotony, the sensual corruption, the enfeebling relaxation. No one desires apopulation slack of nerve, soft of body, cruel through fear of pain, andincapable of endurance or high endeavour. 

 "It is a calumny on men, " said Carlyle, "to say they are roused to heroic action by ease, hope of pleasure, recompense in this world or the next. Difficulty, abnegation, martyrdom, death, are the allurements that act on the heart of man. "[21]

At times war appears as a kind of Last Judgment, sentencing folly andsensuality to hell. The shame of France was consumed by the fire of1870, and her true genius was restored. Abominable as the Boer War was, the mind of England was less pestilential after it than before. Passionpurifies, and surely there can be no passion stronger than one whichdrives you to kill or die. 

The trouble is that, in modern wars, passion does not drive _you_, butyou drive someone else, who probably feels no passion at all. It isthought a reproach against an unwarlike soldier that "he has never seena shot fired in anger. " But in these days he might have been throughmany battles without seeing a shot fired in anger. Except in theBalkans, few fire in anger now. What passion can an unemployed workmanfeel when he is firing at an invisible unemployed workman or semi-savagein the interest of a mining concession? Nor is it true that war in thesedays encourages eugenics by promoting the survival of the fittest. Onthe contrary, the fittest, the bravest, and the biggest are the mostlikely to be killed. The smallest, the cowards, the men who get behindstones and stick there, will probably survive. And as to the dangers ofeffeminate peace, it is only the very small circle of the rich, theoverfed, the over-educated, and the over-sensitive who are exposed tothem. There is no present fear of the working classes becoming too soft. The molten iron, the flaming mine, the whirling machine, the engulfingsea, and hunger always at the door take care of that. Every working manlives in perpetual danger. Compared to him, and compared to any woman inchildbirth, a soldier is secure, even under fire. The daily peril, thedaily toil, the fear for the daily bread harden most working men andwomen enough, and for that very reason we should welcome the finesuggestion of Professor William James--his last great service--that therich and highly educated should pass through a conscription of labourside by side with the working classes, who would heartily enjoy thesight of young dukes, capitalists, barristers, and curates toiling inthe stokeholes, coal-mines, factories, and fishing-fleets, to theincalculable advantage of their souls and bodies. 

So the balance swings this way and that, and neither scale willdefinitely settle down. It is very likely that the bias of temperamentmakes us incapable of decision. What is called the personal equationholds the two scales of our minds painfully equal, and while we meditateperpetual peace we suddenly hear the trumpet blowing. In many of us aprimitive instinct survives which blinds and warps the reason, and callsus like a bugle to the silly and atrocious field. For the immediatefuture, I can only hope, as I confidently believe, that the present ageof capitalist war will pass, as the age of dynastic war has passed, forever into the inferno where slavery and religious persecution now lieburning, though they seemed so natural and strong. I think it will notmuch longer be possible to fool the working classes into wars forconcessions or the extension of empires. I believe that already thepeoples of the greatest countries are awakening to the folly ofentrusting their foreign politics, involving questions of peace and war, to the guidance of rulers, Ministers, and diplomatists who serve theinterests of their own class, and have no knowledge or care for thedesires or interests of the vast populations beneath them. I lookforward to the time when the extreme arbitrament of war will be resortedto mainly in the form of civil or class contentions, involving one orother of the noblest and most profound principles of human existence. Orif war is to be international, we may hope that the finest peoples ofthe world will resolve only to declare it in defence of the threatenedindependence of some small but gallant race, or for the assistance ofrebel peoples in revolt for freedom against an intolerable tyranny. 

I suppose a man's truest happiness lies in the keenest energy, theconquest of difficulties, the highest fulfilment of his own nature; andI think it possible that, under the conditions of our existence as men, the finest happiness--the happiness of ecstasy--can only exist against avery dark background, or in quick succession after extreme toil anddanger. It can only blaze like lightning against the thunder-cloud, orlike the sun's radiance after storm. For most of us other perils ordisasters or calls for energy supply that terrific background to joy;but it is none the less significant that most people who have shared inperilous and violent contests would, in retrospect, choose to omit anypart of active and happy lives rather than the wars and revolutions inwhich they have been present, no matter how terrible the misery, thesickness, the hunger and thirst, the fear and danger, the loss offriends, the overwhelming horror, and even the defeat. 

We must not take as argument a personal note that may sound only from aprimitive and unregenerate mind. But when I look back upon the longtravail of our race, it appears to me still impossible to adopt thepeace position of non-resistance. As a matter of bare fact, in reviewinghistory would not all of us most desire to have chased the enslavingPersian host into the sea at Marathon, to have driven the Austrians backfrom the Swiss mountains, to have charged with Joan of Arc at Orleans, to have gone with Garibaldi and his Thousand to the wild redemption ofSicily's freedom, to have severed the invader's sinews with De Wet, tohave shaken an ancient tyranny with the Russian revolutionists, or tohave cleaned up the Sultan's shambles with the Young Turks? Probablythere is no man or woman who would not choose scenes and actions likethose, if the choice were offered. To very few do such opportunitiescome; but we must hold ourselves in daily readiness. We do well to extolpeace, to confront the dangers, labour, and temptations of peace, andto hope for the general happiness of man in her continuance. But fromtime to time there come awful moments to which Heaven has joined greatissues, when the fire kindles, the savage indignation tears the heart, and the soul, arising against some incarnate symbol of iniquity, exclaims, "By God, you shall not do that. I will kill you rather. I willrather die!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: An address delivered at South Place Institute in London onMoncure Conway's birthday, March 17, 1911. ]

[Footnote 8: Address on William Penn at Dickinson College, April 1907(_Addresses and Reprints_, p. 415). ]

[Footnote 9: _Ibid_. , p. 411. ]

[Footnote 10: _Autobiography_, vol. I. P. 239. ]

[Footnote 11: _Ibid_. , vol. I. P. 320. ]

[Footnote 12: _Autobiography_, vol. I. P. 341 (from "The RejectedStone"). ]

[Footnote 13: _Autobiography_, vol. Ii. Pp. 453, 454. ]

[Footnote 14: _Addresses and Reprints_, p. 432. ]

[Footnote 15: Speech before the American International ArbitrationSociety, January 1911. ]

[Footnote 16: See Mr. Hobson's _Imperialism_ and _The Psychology ofJingoism_; Norman Angell's _The Great Illusion_. ]

[Footnote 17: "It is especially in the domain of war that we, thebearers of men's bodies, who supply its most valuable munition, who, notamid the clamour and ardour of battle, but singly and alone, with athree-in-the-morning courage, shed our blood and face death that thebattlefield may have its food--a food more precious to us than ourheart's blood; it is we especially who, in the domain of war, have ourword to say--a word no man can say for us. It is our intention to enterinto the domain of war, and to labour there till, in the course ofgenerations, we have extinguished it"--Olive Schreiner's _Woman andLabour_, p. 178. ]

[Footnote 18: Of course, other causes combined for the Barcelonaoutbreak--hatred of the religious orders, chiefly economic, and theCatalonian hatred of Castile; but the refusal of reservists to embarkfor Melilla was the occasion and the main cause. ]

[Footnote 19: Quoted in J. A. Hobson's _Psychology of Jingoism_, p. 52. ]

[Footnote 20: Figures from an article by Mr. Leonard Willoughby in the_Pall Mall Magazine_ for November 1910. ]

[Footnote 21: _The Hero as Prophet_, p. 65. ]

XXIV

THE MAID

From the early morning of Sunday, August 18, 1909, till evening came, the Square of St. Peter's in Rome and the interior of the great basilicaitself were thronged from end to end with worshippers and pilgrims. Thescene was brilliant with innumerable lamps, with the robes of manycardinals and the vestments of bishops, archbishops, and all the ranksof priesthood. The ceremony of adding one more to the calendar of theBlessed was performed, a solemn "Te Deum" was sung in praise of God'seternal greatness, and Pontifical Mass was celebrated, with all thesplendour of ancient ritual and music of the grandest harmony. In theafternoon Christ's Vicar himself entered from his palace, attended byfifteen cardinals, seventy of the archbishops and bishops of France, with an equal number of their rank from elsewhere, and, amid thegleaming lights of scarlet and gold, of green and violet, of jewels andholy flames, he prostrated himself before the figure of the Blessed One, to whom effectual prayer might now be offered even by the Head of theChurch militant here on earth. Till late at night the vast cathedral wascrowded with increasing multitudes assembled for the honour of one whomthe Church which judges securely as the world, commanded them to revere. 

It was a simple peasant girl--"just the simplest peasant you could eversee"--whom the Head of the Church thus worshipped and crowds delightedto honour. Short and deep-chested she was, capable of a man's endurance, and with black hair cut like a boy's. She could not write or read, wasso ignorant as to astonish ladies, and had only the peasant arts. Theearliest description tells of her "common red frock carefully patched. ""I could beat any woman in Rouen at spinning and stitching, " she said toher judges, who, to be sure, had no special knowledge of anything beyondtheology. "I'm only a poor girl, and can't ride or fight, " she said whenfirst she conceived her mission, and she had just the common instinctsof the working woman. We may suppose her fond of children, for wherevershe went she held the newborn babies at the font. She hated death andcruelty. "The sight of French blood, " she said, "always makes my hairstand on end, " and even to the enemy she always offered peace. "Or, ifyou want to fight, " she sent a message to the Duke of Burgundy, "youmight go and fight the Saracens. " She never killed anyone, she said ather trial. Just an ordinary peasant girl she seemed--"la plus simplebergerette qu'on veit onques"--with no apparent distinction but a sweetand attractive voice. To be sure, she could put that sweet voice toshrewd use when she pleased. "What tongue do your Visions speak?" atheologian kept asking her. "A better tongue than yours!" she answeredwith the retort of an open-air meeting. But in those days there weretheologians who would try the patience of a saint, and Joan of Arc isnot a saint even yet, having been only Beatified on that Sunday, nearlyfive centuries after her death. 

And she was only nineteen when they burnt her. At least, she thoughtshe was about nineteen, but was not quite sure. Few years had passedsince she was a child dancing under the big trees which fairies hauntedstill. Her days of glory had lasted only a few months, and now she hadlain week after week in prison, weighed down with chains and balls ofiron, watched day and night by men in the cell, because she alwaysclaimed a prisoner's right to escape if she could. Her trial before theBishop of Beauvais and all the learning and theology of Paris Universitylasted nearly three months. Sometimes forty men were present, sometimesover sixty, for it was a remarkable case, and gave fine opportunity forthe display of the superhuman knowledge and wisdom upon which divinesexist. Human compassion they displayed also, hurrying away just beforethe burning began one May morning, and shedding tears of pity over thesins of one so young. Indeed, their preachings and exhortations to herwhilst the stake and fire were being arranged continued so long that therude English soldiers, so often deaf to the beauty of theology, askedwhether they were going to be kept waiting there past dinner-time. 

However, the verdict of divine and human law could never be reallydoubtful from the first, for the charges on which she was found guiltycomprehended many grievous sins. The inscription placed over her head asshe stood while the flames were being kindled declared this Joan, whocalled herself the Maid, to be a liar, a plague, a deceiver of thepeople, a sorceress, superstitious, a blasphemer of God, presumptuous, amisbeliever in the faith of Christ, a boaster, idolatress, cruel, dissolute, a witch of devils, apostate, schismatic, and heretic. It wasa heavy crime-sheet for a mere girl, and there was no knowing into whata monster she might grow up. So the Bishop of Beauvais could not wellhesitate in pronouncing the final sentence whereby, to avoid furtherinfection to its members, this rotten limb, Joan, was cast out from theunity of the Church, torn from its body, and delivered to the secularpower, with a request for moderation in the execution of the sentence. Accordingly she was burnt alive, and the Voices and Visions to which shehad trusted did not save her from the agony of flames. 

At first sight the contrast between these two scenes, enacted by theauthority of the same Church, may appear a little bewildering. It mighttempt us to criticise the consistency of ecclesiastic judgment, did wenot know that in theology, as in metaphysics, extreme contradictions arecapable of ultimate reconciliation. The Church's attitude was, in fact, definitely fixed in January 1909 by the Papal proclamation declaringthat the girl's virtues were heroic and her miracles authentic. One canonly regret that the discovery was not made sooner, in time to save herfrom the fire, when her clerical judges came to the very oppositeconclusion. Yet we must not hastily condemn them for an error which, even apart from theological guidance, most of us laymen would probablyhave committed. 

Let us for a moment imagine Joan herself appearing in the England ofto-day on much the same mission. It is not difficult to picture thecontempt, the derision, the ribaldry, with which she would be greeted. In nearly every point her reception would be the same as it was, exceptthat fewer people would believe in her inspiration. We have only to readher trial, or even the account given in _Henry VI_, to know what weshould say of her now. There would be the same reproaches ofunwomanliness, the same reminders that a woman's sphere is the home, thesame plea that she should leave serious affairs to men, who, indeed, hadcarried them on so well that the whole country was tormented withperpetual panic of an enemy over sea. There would be the same taunts ofimmodesty, the same filthy songs. Since science has presumed to take theplace of theology, we should talk about hysteria instead of witchcraft, and hallucination instead of demoniacal possession. Physiologists wouldexpound her enthusiasm as functional disorder of the thyroid gland. Historians would draw parallels between her recurring Voices and the"tarantism" of the Middle Ages. Superior people would smile with politecuriosity. The vulgar would yell in crowds and throw filth in her face. The scenes of the fifteenth century in France would be exactly repeated, except that we should not actually burn her in Trafalgar Square. If sheescaped the madhouse, the gaol and forcible feeding would be alwaysready. 

So that we must not be hard on that theological conclave which made themistake of burning a Blessed One alive. They were inspired by thehighest motives, political and divine, and they made the fullest use oftheir knowledge of spiritual things. Being under divine direction, theycould not allow any weak sentiment of pity or human consideration toinfluence their judgment. Their only error was in their failure todiscern the authenticity of the girl's miracles, and we must call that avenial error, since it has taken the Church nearly five centuries togive a final decision on the point. The authenticity of miracles! Of allquestions that is the most difficult for a contemporary to decide. Inthe case of Joan's judges, indeed, the solution of this mystery musthave been almost impossible, unless they were gifted with prophecy; formost of her miracles were performed only after her death, or at leastonly then became known. And as to the bare facts they knew of herlife--the realities that everyone might have seen or heard, and manythousands had shared in--there was nothing miraculous about them, nothing to detain the attention of theologians. They were naturalevents. 

For a hundred years the country had been rent and devastated by foreignwar. The enemy still clutched its very centre. The south-west quarter ofthe kingdom was his beyond question. By treaty his young king was heirto the whole. The land was depopulated by plague and impoverished byvain revolution. Continuous civil strife tore the people asunder, andthe most powerful of the factions fought for the invader's claim. Armiesate up the years like locusts, and there was no refuge for the poor, nopreservation of wealth for men or honour for women. Even religion wasdistracted by schism, divided against herself into two, perhaps intothree, conflicting churches. In the midst of the misery and tumult thisgirl appears, possessed by one thought only--the pity for her country. Modest beyond all common decency; most sensitive to pain, for it alwaysmade her cry; conscious, as she said, that in battle she ran as muchrisk of being killed as anyone else, she rode among men as one ofthemselves, bareheaded, swinging her axe, charging with her standardwhich all must follow, heartening her countrymen for the cause ofFrance, striking the invading enemy with the terrors of a spirit. Just aclear-witted, womanly girl, except that her cause had driven fear fromher heart, and occupied all her soul, to the exclusion of lesser things. "Pity she isn't an Englishwoman!" said one of the enemy who was near herafter a battle, and he meant it for the most delicate praise. In a fewmonths she changed the face of her country, revived the hope, inspiredthe courage, rekindled the belief, re-established the unity, staggeredthe invader with a blow in the heart, and crowned her king as the symbolof national glory. Within a few months she had set France upon theassured road to future greatness. Little over twenty years after theyburnt her there was hardly a trace of foreign foot upon French soil. 

It was all quite natural, of course. The theologians who condemned herto death, and those who have now raised her to Beatitude, were concernedwith the authenticity of her miracles, and there is nothing miraculousin thus raising a nation from the dead. Considering the difficulty oftheir task, we may forgive the clergy some apparent inconsistency intheir treatment. But for myself, as a mere layman, I should be contentto call any human being Blessed for the natural magic of such a history;and compared with that deed of hers, I would not turn my head to witnessthe most astonishing miracle ever performed in all the records of thesaints. 

XXV

THE HEROINE

It is strange to think that up to August of 1910, a woman was alive whohad won the highest fame many years before most people now living wereborn. To remember her is like turning the pages of an illustratednewspaper half-a-century old. Again we see the men with long and pointedwhiskers, the women with ballooning skirts, bag nets for the hair, andlittle bonnets or porkpie hats, a feather raking fore and aft. Thosewere the years when Gladstone was still a subordinate statesman, earningcredit for finance, Dickens was writing _Hard Times_, Carlyle wasbeginning his _Frederick_, Ruskin was at work on _Modern Painters_, Browning composing his _Men and Women_, Thackeray publishing _TheNewcomes_, George Eliot wondering whether she was capable ofimagination. It all seems very long ago since that October night whenthat woman sailed for Boulogne with her thirty-eight chosen nurses onthe way to Scutari. I suppose that never in the world's history has thechange in thought and manners been so rapid and far-reaching as in thetwo generations that have arisen in our country since that night. And itis certain that Florence Nightingale, when she embarked without fuss inthe packet, was quite unconscious how much she was contributing to sovast a transformation. 

One memory almost alone still keeps a familiar air, suggestingsomething that lies perhaps permanently at the basis of man's nature. The present-day detractors of all things new, of every step in advance, every breach in routine, every promise of emancipation, and everydeparture from the commonplace, would feel themselves quite at homeamong the evil tongues that spewed their venom upon a courageous andnoble-hearted woman. They would recognise as akin to themselves thecalumny, scandal, ridicule, and malignity with which their naturalpredecessors pursued her from the moment that she took up her heroictask to the time when her glory stilled their filthy breath. She wentunder Government direction; the Queen mentioned her with interest in aletter; even the _Times_ supported her, for in those days the _Times_frequently stood as champion for some noble cause, and its owncorrespondent, William Russell, had himself first made the suggestionthat led to her departure. But neither the Queen, the Government, northe _Times_ could silence the born backbiters of greatness. Cowards, startled at the sight of courage, were alert with jealousy. Pleasure-seekers, stung in the midst of comfort, sniffed withdepreciation. Culture, in pursuit of prettiness, passed by with artisticindifference. The narrow mind attributed motives and designs. The snakeof disguised concupiscence sounded its rattle. That refined andrespectable women should go on such an errand--how could proprietyendure it? No lady could thus expose herself without the loss offeminine bloom. If decent women took to this kind of service, wherewould the charm of womanhood be fled? "They are impelled by vanity, andseek the notoriety of scandal, " said the envious. "None of them willstand the mere labour of it for a month, if we know anything, " said thephysiologists. "They will run at the first rat, " said masculine wit. "Let them stay at home and nurse babies, " cried the suburbs. "TheseNightingales will in due time become ringdoves, " sneered _Punch_. 

With all that sort of thing we are familiar, and every age has known it. The shifts to which the _Times_ was driven in defence show the nature ofthe assaults:

 "Young, " it wrote of Florence Nightingale, "young (about the age of our Queen), graceful, feminine, rich, popular, she holds a singularly gentle and persuasive influence over all with whom she comes in contact. Her friends and acquaintance are of all classes and persuasions, but her happiest place is at home, in the centre of a very large band of accomplished relatives, and in simplest obedience to her admiring parents. "

"About the age of our Queen, " "rich, " "feminine, " "happiest at home, ""with accomplished relatives, " and "simply obedient to her parents, " shebeing then thirty-five--those were the points that the _Times_ knewwould weigh most in answer to her accusers. With all that sort of thing, as I said, we are familiar still; but there was one additional line ofabuse that has at last become obsolete. For weeks after her arrival atScutari, the papers rang with controversy over her religious beliefs. She had taken Romish Sisters with her; she had been partly trained in aconvent. She was a Papist in disguise, they cried; her purpose was toclutch the dying soldier's spirit and send it to a non-existentPurgatory, instead of to the Hell it probably deserved. She was theincarnation of the Scarlet Woman; she was worse, she was a Puseyite, atraitor in the camp of England's decent Church. "No, " cried the others, "she is worse even than a Puseyite. She is a Unitarian; it is doubtfulwhether her father's belief in the Athanasian Creed is intelligent andsincere. " Finally, the climax in her iniquities of mind and conductreached its height and she was publicly denounced as a Supralapsarian. Idoubt whether, at the present day, the coward's horror at the sight ofcourage, the politician's alarm at the sound of principle, or envy'sutmost malignity would go so far as to call a woman that. 

I dwell on the opposition and abuse that beset Florence Nightingale'sundertaking, because they are pleasanter and more instructive than thesentimentality into which her detractors converted their abuse when herachievement was publicly glorified. It is significant that, in itsminute account of the Crimean War, the _Annual Register_ of the timeappears to have made no mention of her till the war was over and she hadreceived a jewel from the Queen. Then it uttered its little complaintthat "the gentler sex seems altogether excluded from public reward. "Well, it is matter for small regret that a great woman should not beoffered such titles as are bestowed upon the failures in Cabinets, thecontributors to party funds, and the party traitors whom it is hoped torestrain from treachery. But whether a peerage would have honoured heror not, there is no question of the disservice done to the truth of hercharacter by those whose sentimental titles of "Lady with the Lamp, ""Leader of the Angel Band, " "Queen of the Gracious Dynasty, ""Ministering angel, thou!" and all the rest of it have created an idealas false as it is mawkish. Did the sentimentalists, at first sohorrified at her action, really suppose that the service which in theend they were compelled to admire could ever have been accomplished by asoft and maudlin being such as their imagination created, all brimmingeyes and heartfelt sighs, angelic draperies and white-winged shadowsthat hairy soldiers turned to kiss?

To those who have read her books and the letters written to her by oneof the sanest and least ecstatic men of her day, or have conversed withpeople who knew her well, it is evident that Florence Nightingale was atno point like that. Her temptations led to love of mastery andimpatience with fools. Like all great organisers, quick and practical indetermination, she found extreme difficulty in suffering fools gladly. To relieve her irritation at their folly, she used to write her privateopinions of their value on the blotting-paper while they chattered. Itwas not for angelic sympathy or enthusiasm that Sidney Herbert chose herin his famous invitation, but for "administrative capacity andexperience. " Those were the real secrets of her great accomplishment, and one remembers her own scorn of "the commonly received idea that itrequires nothing but a disappointment in love, or incapacity for otherthings, to turn a woman into a good nurse. " It was a practical andorganising power for getting things done that distinguished theremarkable women of the last century, and perhaps of all ages, far morethan the soft and sugary qualities which sentimentality has delighted toplaster on its ideal of womanhood, while it talks its pretty nonsenseabout chivalry and the weakness of woman being her strength. Asinstances, one could recall Elizabeth Fry, Sister Dora, JosephineButler, Mary Kingsley, Octavia Hill, Dr. Garrett Anderson, Mrs. F. G. Hogg (whose labour secured the Employment of Children Act and theChildren's Courts), and a crowd more in education, medicine, naturalscience, and political life. But, indeed, we need only point to QueenVictoria herself, her strong but narrow nature torn by the false idealwhich made her protest that no good woman was fit to reign, while allthe time she was reigning with a persistent industry, a mastery ofdetail, and a truthfulness of dealing rare among any rulers, and atintervals illuminated by sudden glory. 

"Woman is the practical sex, " said George Meredith, almost withover-emphasis, and certainly the saying was true of FlorenceNightingale. In far the best appreciation of her that has appeared--anappreciation written by Harriet Martineau, who herself died about fortyyears ago--that distinguished woman says: "She effected two greatthings--a mighty reform in the cure of the sick, and an opening for hersex into the region of serious business. " The reform of hospital lifeand sick nursing, whether military or civil, is near fulfilment now, andit is hard to imagine such a scene as those Scutari wards where, inWilliam Russell's words, the sick were tended by the sick and the dyingby the dying, while rats fed upon the corpses and the filth could not bedescribed. But though her other and much greater service is, owing toits very magnitude, still far from fulfilment, it is perhaps even harderfor us to imagine the network of custom, prejudice, and sentimentthrough which she forced the opening of which Harriet Martineau speaks. 

XXVI

THE PENALTY OF VIRTUE

His crime was that he actually married the girl. It had always been thefashion for an Austrian Archduke to keep an opera-dancer, whether heliked it or not, just as he always kept a racehorse, even though hecared nothing about racing. For any scion of the Imperial House she wasa necessary part of the surroundings, an item in the entourage of Court. He maintained her just as our Royal Family pay subscriptions tocharities, or lay the foundation-stone of a church. It was expected ofhim. _Noblesse oblige_. Descent from the House of Hapsburg involves itsduties as well as its rights. The opera-dancer was as essential toArchducal existence as the seventy-seventh quartering on the Hapsburgarms. She was the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritualImperialness. She justified the title of "Transparency. " She was themark of true heredity, like the Hapsburg lip. As the advertisements say, no Archduke should be without one. 

But really to love an opera-dancer was a scandal for derision, movingall the Courts of the Empire to scorn. Actually to marry her was a crimebeyond forgiveness. It shook the Throne. It came very near the sin oftreason, for which the penalties prescribed may hardly be whispered inpolite ears. To mingle the Imperial blood with a creature born withouta title, and to demand human and divine sanction for the deed! Itbrought a blush to the cheek of heraldry. What of the possible resultsof a union with a being from the stage? Only if illegitimate, could suchresults legitimately be recognised; only if ignoble in the eyes ofmorality, could they be received without censure among the nobility. Itwas not fair to put all one's Imperial relations, to say nothing of theCourt officials, the Lord High Chamberlain, the Keepers of the Pedigree, the Diamond Sticks in Waiting, the Grooms of the Bedchamber, and theValets Extraordinary--it was not fair to put their poor brains into sucha quandary of contradiction and perplexity. And who shall tell thedivine wrath of that august figure, obscurely visible in the recesses ofancestral homes, upon whose brow had descended the diadem of RomanEmperors, the crown of Christ's Vicar in things terrestrial, and who, when he was not actually wearing the symbol of Imperial supremacy, enjoyed the absolute right to assume the regalia of eight kingdoms inturn, including the sacred kingdom of Jerusalem, and possessedforty-three other titles to pre-eminent nobility, not counting theetceteras with which each separate string of titles was concluded? Who, without profanity, shall tell his wrath?

It was the Archduke Johann Salvator of Austria, head of the Tuscanbranch of the House of Hapsburg, who confronted in his own person thatImperial wrath, and committed the inexpiable crime of marriage. It istrue that he was not entirely to blame. He did not succumb without astruggle, and his efforts to resist the temptation to legality appear tohave been sincere. Indeed, as has so often happened since the days ofEve, it was chiefly the woman's fault. He honestly endeavoured to makeher his mistress, in accordance with all Archducal precedent, but shepersistently, nay, obstinately, refused the honour of Imperial shame. With a rigidity that in other circumstances might, perhaps, have beencommended, but, in relation to an Archduke, can only be described asdesigning, she insisted upon marriage. She was but Fraulein MilliStubel, light-skirted dancer at the Court Opera-House, but, withunexampled hardihood, she maintained her headlong course along thecriminal path of virtue. What could a man do when exposed to temptationso severe?

The Archduke was in love, and love is an incalculable force, driving allof us at times irresistibly to deeds of civil and ecclesiasticalwedlock. He was a soldier, a good soldier, in itself an unusual andsuspicious characteristic in one of the Hapsburg blood. He was amusician and a man of culture--qualities that, in a prince, must betaken as dangerous indications of an unbalanced mind. He was an intimatefriend of the Crown Prince Rudolph, that bewildering personality, whoseown fate was so unhappy, so obscure. Skill in war, intelligence, knowledge, friendship all marked him out as a man only too likely tobring discredit on Archducal tradition. His peers in birth shook theirheads, and muttered the German synonym for "crank. " Worse than all, hewas in love--in love with a woman of dangerous virtue. What could such aman do against temptation? Struggle as he might, he could not long repelthe seductive advances of honourable action. He loved, he fell, hemarried. 

In London, of all places, this crime against all the natural dictates ofSociety was ultimately perpetrated. We do not know what church lentitself to the deed, or what hotel gave shelter to the culprits' shame. By hunting up the marriage register of Johann Orth (to such shifts mayan Archduke be reduced in the pursuit of virtue), one might, perhaps, discover the name of the officiating clergyman, and we can confidentlyassume he will not be found upon the bench of Bishops. But it is allmany years ago now, and directly after the marriage, as though in thevain hope of concealing every trace of his offence, Johann Orthpurchased a little German ship, which he called by the symbolic name of_Santa Margherita_--for St. Margaret suffered martyrdom for the sin ofrejecting a ruler's dishonourable proposals--and so they sailed forSouth America. By what means the wedded fugitives purposed there tosupport their guiltless passion, is uncertain. But we know that theyarrived, that the captain gave himself out as ill, and left the ship, together with most of the crew, no doubt in apprehension of divinevengeance, if they should seem any longer to participate in the breachof royal etiquette. We further know that, in July 1890, the legal loverssailed from Buenos Ayres, with a fresh crew, the Archduke himself incommand, and were never heard of more. 

An Austrian cruiser was sent to search the coasts, in vain. No letterscame; no ship has ever hailed the vessel of their iniquity. Theinsurance companies have long paid the claims upon the Archduke'spremiums for his life, and that fact alone is almost as desirable anevidence as a death-certificate to his heir. But one Sunday in July1910, the Imperial Court of Austria also issued an edict to appearsimultaneously in the chief official gazettes of the habitable globe, declaring that, unless within six months further particulars weresupplied concerning one, namely, the Archduke Johann Salvator, of theHouse of Austria and Tuscany, otherwise and hereinafter known as JohannOrth, master mariner, and concerning his alleged decease, together withthat of one Milli Orth, _née_ Stubel, his reputed accomplice inmatrimony, the property, estates, effects, titles, jewels, familyvaults, and other goods of the aforesaid Johann Orth, should forthwithand therewithal pass into the possession of the Archduke JosephFerdinand, nephew and presumptive heir of the aforesaid Johann Orth, tothe estimated value of £150, 000 sterling, in excess or defect thereof asthe case might be, it being thereafter presumed that the aforesaidJohann Orth, together with the aforesaid Milli Orth, his reputedaccomplice in matrimony, did meet or encounter their death upon the highseas by the act or other intervention of God. 

Oh, never believe it! There is an unsuspected island in untravelledseas. Like the island of Tirnanog, which is the Irish land of eternalyouth, it lies below the sunset, brighter than the island-valley ofAvilion:

 "Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. "

To that island have those star-like lovers fared, since they gave theworld and all its Imperial Courts the slip. There they have discoveredan innocent and lovely race, adorned only with shells and the flowers ofhibiscus; and, intermingled with that race, in accordance withindigenous marriage ceremonies, the crew of the _Santa Margherita_ nowrear a dusky brood. In her last extant letter, addressed to the leaderof the _corps de ballet_ at the Ring Theatre in Vienna, Madame MilliOrth herself hinted at a No-Man's Land, which they were seeking as thehome of their future happiness. They have found it now, having troddenthe golden path of rays. There palls not wealth, or state, or any rank, nor ever Court snores loudly, but men and women meet each evening todiscuss the next day's occupation, and the Chancellor of the Exchequercollects the unearned increment in the form of the shell called Venus'ear. For a time, indeed, Johann Orth attempted to maintain a kind ofkingship, on the strength of his superior pedigree. But when ademocratic cabin-boy one day turned and told him to stow his Hapsburglip, the beautiful ex-opera-dancer burst out laughing, and Johann agreedin future to be called Archduke only on Sundays. With their eldest son, now a fine young man coming to maturity, the title is expected toexpire. 

XXVII

"THE DAILY ROUND, THE COMMON TASK"

Mr. Clarkson, of the Education Office, was enjoying his breakfast withhis accustomed equanimity and leisure. Having skimmed the LiterarySupplement of the _Times_, and recalled a phrase from a symphony on hispiano, he began opening his letters. But at the third he paused insudden perplexity, holding his coffee-cup half raised. After a while thebrightness of adventurous decision came into his eyes, and he set thecup down, almost too violently, on the saucer. 

"I'll do it!" he cried, with the resolute air of an explorercontemplating the Antarctic. "The world is too much with me. I willrecover my true personality in the wilderness. I will commune with myown heart and be still!"

He rang the bell hurriedly, lest his purpose should weaken. 

"Oh, Mrs. Wilson, " he said carelessly, "I am going away for a few days. "

"Visiting at some gentleman's seat to shoot the gamebirds, I make nodoubt, " answered the landlady. 

"Why, no; not precisely that, " said Mr. Clarkson. "The fact is, Mr. Davies, a literary friend of mine--quite the best authority on Jacobeanverse--offers me his house, just by way of a joke. The house will beempty, and he says he only wants me to defend his notes on the _Historyof the Masque_ from burglary. I shall take him at his word. "

"You alone in a house, sir? There's a thing!" exclaimed the landlady. 

"A thing to be thankful for, " Mr. Clarkson replied. "George Sand alwayslonged to inhabit an empty house. "

"Mr. Sand's neither here nor there, " answered the landlady firmly. "Butyou're not fit, sir, begging your pardon. Unless a person comes in themorning to do for you. "

"I shall prefer complete solitude, " said Mr. Clarkson. "The calm of theuninterrupted morning has for me the greatest attraction. "

"You'll excuse me mentioning such things, " she continued, "but there'sthe washing-up and bed-making. "

"Excellent athletic exercises!" cried Mr. Clarkson. "In Xenophon'scharming picture of married life we see the model husband instructingthe young wife to leave off painting and adorning herself, and to seekthe true beauty of health and strength by housework and turning beds. "

"There's many on us had ought to be beauties, then, without paint noryet powder, " said the landlady, turning away with a little sigh. Andwhen Mr. Clarkson drove off that evening with his bag, she stood by therailings and said to the lady next door: "There goes my gentleman, andhim no more fit to do for hisself than a babe unborn, and no more ideaof cooking than a crocodile!"

The question of cooking did not occur to Mr. Clarkson till he hadentered the semi-detached suburban residence with his friend's latchkey, groped about for the electric lights, and discovered there was nothingto eat in the house, whereas he was accustomed to a biscuit or two and alittle whisky and soda before going to bed. 

"Never mind, " he thought. "Enterprise implies sacrifice, and hunger willbe a new experience. I can buy something for breakfast in the morning. "

So he spent a placid hour in reading the titles of his friend's books, and then retired to the bedroom prepared for him. 

He woke in the morning with a sense of profound tranquillity, andthought with admiration of the Dean of his College, whose one rule oflife was never to allow anyone to call him. "This is worth a littlesubsequent trouble, if, indeed, trouble is involved, " he murmured tohimself, as he turned over and settled down to sleep again. But hardlyhad he dozed off when he was startled by an aggressive double-knock atthe front door. He hoped it would not recur; but it did recur, and wasaccompanied by prolonged ringing of an electric bell. Feeling that hispeace was broken, he put on his slippers and crept downstairs. 

"What do you want?" he said at the door. 

"Post, " came a voice. Undoing the bolts, he put out a naked arm. "Evenif you are the post, " he remarked, "you need not sound the LastTrumpet!"

"Davies, " said the postman, crammed a bundle of proofs into theexpectant hand, and departed. 

Mr. Clarkson turned into the kitchen. It presented a rather drearyaspect. The range and fire-irons looked as though they had been out allnight. The grate was piled with ashes, like a crater. 

"No wonder, " said Mr. Clarkson, "that ashes are the popular comparisonfor a heart of extinguished affections. Could anything be moredesolate, more hopeless, or, I may say, more disagreeable? To how many adisappointed cook that simile must come home when first she gets down inthe morning!"

He took the poker and began raking gently between the bars. But nomatter how tenderly he raked, his hands appeared to grow black ofthemselves, and great clouds of dust floated about the room and coveredhim. 

"This _must_ be the way to do it, " he said, pausing in perplexity; "Isuppose a certain amount of dirt is inevitable when you are grapplingwith reality. But my pyjamas will be in a filthy state. "

Taking them off, he hung them on the banisters, and, with a passingthought of Lady Godiva, closed the kitchen door and advanced againtowards the grate, still grasping the poker in his hand. Then he sethimself to grapple with reality in earnest. The ashes crashed together, dust rose in columns, iron rang on iron, as in war's smithy. But littleby little the victory was achieved, and lines of paper, wood, and coalgave promise of brighter things. He wiped his sweating brow, tingeing itwith a still deeper black, and, catching sight of himself in a servant'slooking-glass over the mantelpiece, he said, "There is no doubt man wasintended by nature to be a coloured race. "

But while he was thinking what wisdom the Vestal Virgins showed in neverletting their fire go out, another crash came at the door, followed bythe war-whoop of a scalp-hunter. "I seem to recognise that noise, " hethought, "but I can't possibly open the door in this condition. "

Creeping down the passage, he said "Who's there?" through theletter-box. 

"Milko!" came the repeated yell. 

"Would there be any objection to your depositing the milk upon thedoorstep?" asked Mr. Clarkson. 

"Righto!" came the answer, and steps retreated with a clang of pails. 

"Why do the common people love to add 'o' to their words?" Mr. Clarksonreflected. "Is it that they unconsciously appreciate 'o' as the mostbeautiful of vowel sounds? But I wonder whether I ought to have blackedthat range before I lighted the fire? The ironwork certainly looksrather pre-Dreadnought! What I require most just now is a hot bath, andI'd soon have one if I only knew which of these little slides to pullout. But if I pulled out the wrong one, there might be an explosion, andthen what would become of the _History of the Masque?_"

So he put on a kettle, and waited uneasily for it to sing as a kettleshould. "Now I'll shave, " he said; "and when I am less like that tooconscientious Othello, I'll go out and buy something for breakfast. "

The bath was distinctly cool, but when he got out there was asatisfaction in the water's hue, and, though chilled to the bone, hecarried his pyjamas upstairs with a feeling of something accomplished. On entering his bedroom, he was confronted by his disordered pillow, anda bed like a map of Switzerland in high relief. "Courage!" he cried, "Iwill make it at once. The secret of labour-saving is organisation. "

So, with a certain asperity, he dragged off the clothes, and flung themattress over, while the bedstead rolled about under the unaccustomedviolence. "Rightly does the Scot talk about sorting a bed!" he thought, as he wrenched the blankets asunder, and stood wondering whether theblack border should be tucked in at the sides or the feet. At last hepulled the counterpane fairly smooth, but in an evil moment, lookingunder the bed, he perceived large quantities of fluffy and coagulateddust. 

"I know what that is, " he said. "That's called flue, and it must beremoved. Swift advised the chambermaid, if she was in haste, to sweepthe dust into a corner of the room, but leave her brush upon it, that itmight not be seen, for that would disgrace her. Well, there is no one tosee me, so I must do it as I can. "

He crawled under the bed, and gathering the flue together in his twohands, began throwing it out of the window. "Pity it isn't nestingseason for the birds, " he said, as he watched it float away. But thisprocess was too slow; so taking his towel, he dusted the drawers, thewashing-stand, and the greater part of the floor, shaking the towel outof the window, until, in his eagerness, he dropped it into the backgarden, and it lay extended upon the wash-house roof. 

Tranquillity had now vanished, and solitude was losing some of itscharm. It was quite time he started for the office, but he had not begunto dress, and, except for the kettle, which he could hear boiling overdownstairs, there was not a gleam of breakfast. After washing again, heput on his clothes hurriedly, and determined to postpone the remainderof his physical exercise till his return in the evening. 

Running downstairs, he saw his dirty boots staring him in the face. "Isthere any peace in ever climbing up the climbing wave?" he quoted, witha sinking heart. There was no help for it. The things had to becleaned, or people would wonder where he had been. Searching in acupboard full of oily rags, grimy leathers, and other filthyinstruments, he found the blacking and the brushes, and presently theboots began to shine in patches here and there. Then he washed again, and as he flung open the front door, he kicked the milk all down thesteps. It ran in a broad, white stream along the tiled pavement to thegate. 

"There goes breakfast!" he thought, but the disaster reached further. Hastily fetching a pail of water, he soused it over the steps, with theresult that all the whitening came off and mingled with the milk uponthe tiles. A second pail only heightened the deplorable aspect, and hesplashed large quantities of the water over his trousers and boots. Hefelt it running through his socks. It was impossible to go to the officelike that, or to leave his friend's house in such a state. 

He took off his coat and began pushing the milky water to and fro with abroom. Seeing the maid next door making great wet curves on her stepswith a sort of stone, he called to her to ask how she did it. 

"Same as other people, saucy, " she retorted at once. 

"Is that a bath-brick you are manipulating?" Mr. Clarkson asked. 

"Bath-brick, indeed! What do you take me for?" she replied, andcontinued swirling the stuff round and round. 

After a further search in the cupboard, Mr. Clarkson discovered asimilar piece of stone, and stooping down, began to swirl it about inthe same manner. The stuff was deposited in yellowish curves, which hebelieved would turn white. But it showed the marks so obviously that, tobreak up the outlines, he carefully dabbed the steps all over with theflat of his hands. "The effect will be like an Academician's stippling, "he thought, but when he had swept the surface of the garden path intothe road, he scrutinised his handiwork with some satisfaction. 

Hardly had he cleaned his boots again, washed again, and changed hissocks, when there came another knocking at the door, polite andimportant this time. He found a well-dressed man, with tall hat, frock-coat, and umbrella, who inquired if he could speak to theproprietor. 

"Mr. Davies is away, " said Mr. Clarkson, fixing his eyes on thestranger's boots. "I beg your pardon, but may I remind you that you arestanding on my steps? I'm afraid you will whiten the soles of yourboots, I mean. "

"Thank you, that's of no consequence, " said the stranger, entering, andleaving two great brown footprints on the step and several white ones onthe passage. "But I thought I might venture to submit to yourconsideration a pound of our unsurpassable tea. "

"Tea?" cried Mr. Clarkson, with joyous eagerness. "I suppose you don'thappen to have milk, sugar, bread and butter, and an egg or twoconcealed about your person, do you?"

"I am not a conjuror, " said the stranger, resuming his hat with some_hauteur_. 

An hour later, Mr. Clarkson was enjoying at his Club a meal that heendeavoured to regard as lunch, and on reaching the office in theafternoon he apologised for having been unavoidably detained at home. 

"There's no place like home, " replied his elderly colleague, with hisusual inanity. 

"Perhaps fortunately, there is not, " said Mr. Clarkson, and attemptingto straighten his aching back and ease his suffering limbs, he added, "Iam coming to the conclusion that woman's place is the home. "

XXVIII

THE CHARM OF COMMONPLACE

George Eliot warned us somewhere not to expect Isaiah and Plato in everycountry house, and the warning was characteristic of the time when onereally might have met Ruskin or Herbert Spencer. How uncalled for itwould be now! If Isaiah or Plato were to appear at any country house, what a shock it would give the company, even if no one present had heardof their names and death before! We do not know how prophets andphilosophers would behave in a country house, but, to judge from theirbooks, their conversation could not fail to embarrass. What would theysay when the daughter of the house inquired if her Toy-Pom was notreally rather a darling, or the host proclaimed to the world that henever took potatoes with fish? What would the host and daughter say iftheir guest began to prophesy or discuss the nature of justice? There issomething irreligious in the incongruity of the scene. 

The age of the wise, in those astonishing eighteen-seventies, wassucceeded by the age of the epigram, when someone was always expected tosay something witty, and it was passed on, like a sporting tip, throughwidening circles. Such sayings as "I can resist everything buttemptation" were much sought after. Common sense became piquant ifreversed, and the good, plain man disappeared in laughter. When alanguid creature told him it was always too late to mend, and never tooyoung to learn, he was disconcerted. The bases of existence were shakenby little earthquakes, and he did not know where to stand or what tosay. He felt it was nonsense, but as everyone laughed and applauded hesupposed they were all too clever for him--too clever by half, and hewent away sadder, but no wiser. "If Christ were again on earth, " saidCarlyle, of an earlier generation, "Mr. Milnes (Lord Houghton) would askhim to breakfast, and the clubs would all be talking of the good thingshe had said. " Frivolity only changes its form, but the epigrams of theearly 'nineties were not Christlike, and Mr. Milnes would have been asmuch astray among them as the good, plain man. 

The epigrammatist still lingers, and sometimes dines; but his roses havefaded, and the weariness of his audience is no longer a pose. A tragicghost, he feels like one who treads alone some banquet-hall, not, indeed, deserted, but filled with another company, and that is so muchdrearier. The faces that used to smile on him are gone, the presentfaces only stare and if he told them now that it may be better to haveloved and lost than never to have loved at all, but both are good, theywould conceal a shiver of boredom under politeness. It is recognisedthat life with an epigrammatist has become unendurable. "Witty?" (if onemay quote again the Carlyle whom English people are forgetting) "O benot witty: none of us is bound to be witty under penalties. Afashionable wit? If you ask me which, he or a death's head, will be thecheerier company for me, pray send _not_ him. "

Evidently there are some creatures too bright if not too good for humannature's daily food. They are like the pudding that was all raisins, because the cook had forgotten to put in the suet. Sensible people putin the suet pretty thick, and they find it fortifying. Here in England, for instance, it has been the standing sneer of upstart pertness thatordinary men and women always set out upon their conversations with theweather. Well, and why on earth should they not? In every part of theworld the weather is the most important subject. India may suffer fromunrest, but the Indian's first thought is whether she suffers fromdrought. Russia may seethe with revolution, but ninety-nine per cent. OfRussians are thinking of the crops. France may be disturbed aboutGermany, but Frenchmen know the sun promises such a vintage as neverwas. War may threaten Russia, but the outbreak depends upon the harvest. Certainly, in our barren wildernesses of city it does not much matterwhether it rains or shines, except to the top hats and long skirts ofthe inhabitants. But mankind cannot live on smuts and sulphur, and ourdiscussions on the weather keep us in touch with the kindly fruits ofthe earth; we show we are not weaned from Nature, but still remember thecornfields and orchards by which we live. Every cloud and wind, everyray of sunshine comes filled with unconscious memories, and secretinfluences extend to our very souls with every change in weather. Likefishes, we do not bite when the east wind blows; like ducks and eels, wesicken or go mad in thunder. 

Why should we fuddle our conversation with paradoxes and intellectualinterests when nature presents us with this sempiternal theme? Ruskinobserved that Pusey never seemed to know what sort of a day it was. Thatshowed a mind too absent from terrestrial things, too much occupiedwith immortality. Here in England the variety of the weather affords aspecial incitement to discussion. It is like a fellow-creature or arace-meeting; the sporting element is added, and you never know what asingle day may bring forth. Shallow wits may laugh at such talk, butneither the publishers' lists nor the Cowes Regatta, neither the Vetonor the Insurance Act can compare for a moment with the question whetherit will rain this week. Why, then, should we not talk about rain, andleave plays and books and pictures and politics and scandal to narrowand abnormal minds? To adapt a Baconian phrase, the weather is the onesubject that you cannot dull by jading it too far. 

Nor does it arouse the evil passions of imparting information orcontradicting opinions. When someone says, "It is a fine day, " or "It'sgood weather for ducks, " he does not wish to convey a new fact. I haveknown only one man who desired to contradict such statements, and, looking up at the sky, would have liked to order the sun in or outrather than agree; and he was a Territorial officer, so that command wasin his nature. But mention the Lords, or the Church, or the Suffrage, and what a turmoil and tearing of hair! What sandstorms of information, what semi-courteous contradiction! Whither has the sweet gregariousnessof human converse strayed? Black looks flash from the miracle of aseeing eye; bad blood rushes to thinking foreheads; the bonds of hellare loosed; pale gods sit trembling in their twilight. "O sons of Adam, the sun still shines, and a spell of fair weather never did no harm, aswe heard tell on; but don't you think a drop of rain to-night wouldfavour the roots? You'll excuse a farmer's grumbling. "

People do not associate in order to receive epigrammatic shocks, nor tobe fed up with information and have their views put right. Theyassociate for society. They feel more secure, more open-hearted andcheerful, when together. Sheep know in their hearts that numbers are noprotection against the dog, who is so much cleverer and more terriblethan they; but still they like to keep in the flock. It is alwayscomfortable to sit beside a man as foolish as oneself and hear him saythat East is East and West is West; or that men are men, and women arewomen; or that the world is a small place after all, truth is strangerthan fiction, listeners never hear any good of themselves, and a truefriend is known in adversity. That gives the sense of perfectcomradeship. There is here no tiresome rivalry of wits, no plaguyintellectual effort. One feels one's proper level at once, and needs nolonger go scrambling up the heights with banners of strange devices. Atsuch moments of pleasant and unadventurous intercourse, it will be foundvery soothing to reply that cold hands show a warm heart, that onlytown-dwellers really love the country, that night is darkest before thedawn, that there are always faults on both sides, that an Englishman'shome is his castle, but travel expands the mind, and marriage is alottery. 

Such sentences, delivered alternately, will supply all the requisites ofintercourse. The philosopher rightly esteemed no knowledge of valueunless it was known already, and all these things have been known a verylong time. Sometimes, it is true, a conversation may become moredirectly informative and yet remain amicable, as when the man on thesteamer acquaints you with the facts that lettuce contains opium, thatLincoln's Inn Fields is the size of the Great Pyramid's base, that Mr. Gladstone took sixty bites to the mouthful, that hot tea is a coolingdrink, that a Frenchwoman knows how to put on her clothes, that theengineer on board is sure to be a Scotsman, that fish is good for thebrain because it contains phosphorus, that cheese will digest everythingbut itself, that there are more acres in England than words in theBible, and that the cigars smoked in a year would go ten thousand and aquarter times round the earth if placed end to end. These facts are alsofamiliar to everyone beforehand, and they present a solid basis forgregarious conversation. They put the merest stranger at his ease. Theymake one feel at home. 

Some of the trades and professions secure the same object by specialphrases. When you hear that the horses are fat as butter, the men keenas mustard, and everything right as rain, you know you are back to thearmy again. The kindly mention of the Great Lexicographer, the Wizard ofthe North, the Sage of Chelsea, and London's Particular calls up thevision of a street descending into the vale of St. Paul's. But suchphrases are fleeting. They hardly last four generations of mankind, andalready they wither to decay. "Every cloud has a silver lining, " "It's apoor heart that never rejoices, " "There are as good fish in the sea asever were caught"--those are the observations that give stability andpermanence to the intercourse of man. They are not clever; they containno paradox; like the Ugly Duckling, they cannot emit sparks. But one'sheart leaps up at hearing them, as at the sight of a rainbow. For, likethe rainbow, they are an assurance that while the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall never cease. 

XXIX

THE PRIEST OF NEMI

Here it is cool under thick alders, close to the water's edge, wherefrogs are doing their very best to sing. Hidden in some depth of thesky, the Dog Star rages, and overhead the mid-day sun marches across hisblazing barrack-square. Far away the heathen violently rage; the worldis full of rumours of war, and the kings of the earth take counseltogether against liberty and peace. But here under thick alders it iscool, and the deep water of the lake that lies brooding within thesilent crater of these Alban hills, stretches before us an unruffledsurface of green and indigo profoundly mingled. Wandering about amongovergrown and indistinguishable gardens under the woods, women and girlsare gathering strawberries and loading them up in great wicker basketsfor the market of Rome. The sound of sawing comes from a few old housesby the lake-side, that once were mills turned by the nymph Egeria'sstream, where Ovid drank. Opposite, across the lake, on the top of theold crater's edge, stands a brown village--the church tower, unoccupied"palace, " huddled walls and roofs piled up the steep, as Italianvillages are made. That is Genzano. On the precipitous crag high aboveour heads stands a more ancient village, with fortress tower, unoccupiedcastle, crumbling gates, and the walls and roofs of dwellings huddledaround them. That is Nemi, the village of the sacred wood. 

Except where the rock is too steep for growth, the slopes of the deephollow are covered with trees and bushes on every side. But the treesare thickest where the slope falls most gently--so gently that from thefoot of the crater to the water's edge the ground for a few hundredyards might almost be called a bit of plain. Under the trees there thebest strawberries grow, and there stood the temple of mysterious andblood-stained rites. Prowling continually round and round one of thetrees, the ghastly priest was for centuries there to be seen:

 "The priest who slew the slayer, And shall himself be slain. "

No one can tell in what prehistoric age the succession of murdering andmurdered priests first began that vigil for their lives. It continuedwith recurrent slaughter through Rome's greatest years. About the timewhen Virgil was still alive, or perhaps just after Christ himself wasborn, the geographer Strabo appears actually to have seen that livingassassin and victim lurking in the wood; for he vividly describes him"with sword always drawn, turning his eyes on every side, ready todefend himself against an onslaught. " Possibly the priest suspectedStrabo himself for his outlandish look and tongue, for only a runawayslave might murder and succeed him. Possibly it was that self-samepriest whom Caligula, a few years after Christ's death, hired a stalwartruffian to finish off, because he was growing old and decrepit, havingdefended himself from onslaughts too long. Upon the lake the Emperorconstructed two fine house-boats, devoted to the habits thathouse-boats generally induce (you may still fish up bits of theirsplendour from the bottom, if you have luck), and very likely it wasannoying to watch the old man still doddering round his tree with drawnsword. One would like to ask whether the crazy tyrant was aware how wellhe was fulfilling the ancient rite by ordaining the slaughter ofdecrepitude. And one would like to ask also whether the stalwart ruffianhimself took up the line of consecrated and ghastly succession. Someone, at all events, took it up; for in the bland age of the Antonines thepriest was still there, pacing with drawn sword, turning his eyes inevery direction, lest his successor should spring upon him unawares. 

In the opening chapter, which states the central problem, still slowlybeing worked out in the great series of _The Golden Bough_, Dr. Frazerhas drawn the well-known picture of that haunted man. "The dreamy blue, "he writes:

 "The dreamy blue of Italian skies, the dappled shade of summer woods, and the sparkle of waves in the sun, can have accorded but ill with that stern and sinister figure. Rather we picture to ourselves the scene as it may have been witnessed by a belated wayfarer on one of those wild autumn nights when the dead leaves are falling thick, and the winds seem to sing the dirge of the dying year. It is a sombre picture, set to melancholy music--the background of forest showing black and jagged against a lowering and stormy sky, the sighing of the wind in the branches, the rustle of the withered leaves under foot, the lapping of the cold water on the shore, and, in the foreground, pacing to and fro, now in twilight and now in gloom, a dark figure with a glitter of steel at the shoulder whenever the pale moon, riding clear of the cloud-rack, peers down at him through the matted boughs. "

For the priest himself it can hardly have been a happy life. Thanks toDr. Frazer, we now partly know how much of man's religious hope and fearthat sinister figure represented. But he himself had no conception ofall this, nor can we suppose that even if he had possessed Dr. Frazer'sown wealth of knowledge, it would have cheered him much. When violentdeath impends on every moment and lurks in every shade, it is smallconsolation to reflect that you stand as a holy emblem, protector of asymbolic tree, the mystic mate both of the tree itself and of thegoddess of fertility in man and beast and plant. There is no comfort inthe knowledge that the slave who waits to kill you, as you killed yourpredecessor in the office, only obeys the widespread injunction ofprimitive religion whereby the divine powers incarnate in the priest aremaintained active and wholesome with all the fervour and sprightlinessof youth. Such knowledge would not relax the perpetual strain of terror, nor could the priest have displayed an intelligent and scientificinterest in all the queer mythologies forcibly dragged in and combinedto explain his presence there--Orestes fleeing like a runaway from theblood-stained Euxine shore; or Hippolytus, faithful worshipper of theunwedded goddess, rent by wild horses, and by Diana's prayer to themedicine-god subsequently pieced together into life; or Virbius, counterpart of Hippolytus; or perhaps even the two-faced Janus himself, looking before and after. The finest conjectures of research, thoughillustrated in the person of the priest himself, could have supplied himwith no antidote to those terrors of ambushed assassination. 

In his investigations among the "sword-dancers" of Northern England, Mr. Cecil Sharp has discovered that at Earsdon, after the usual captain'ssong, a strange interlude occurs, in which two of the dancers feign aquarrel, and one is killed and carried out for burial amid thelamentations of the "Bessy. " A travelled doctor, however, arrives, andcalls to the dead man, "Jack! take a drop of my bottle, that'll go downyour thrittle-throttle. " Whereupon up jumps Jack and shakes his sword, and the dance proceeds amid the rejoicings of Bessy and the rest. Sopriest slays priest, the British Diana laments her hero slain, theBritish Aesculapius, in verse inferior to Euripides, tends him back tolife, and who in that Northumbrian dance could fail to recognise a ritesprung from the same primitive worship as the myths of Nemi? But if onehad been able to stand beside that murderous and apprehensive priest, and to foretell to him that in future centuries, long after his form ofreligion had died away, far off in Britain, beside the wall of theEmpire's frontier, his tragedy would thus be burlesqued by Bessy, Jack, and the doctor, one may doubt if he would have expressed any kind ofscientific interest, or have even smiled, as, sword in hand, he prowledaround his sacred tree, peering on every side. 

Why, then, did he do it? How came it that there was always a candidatefor that bloody deed and disquieting existence? It is true that thecompetition for the post appears to have decreased with years. Originally, the priest's murder seems to have been an annual affair, regular as the "grotter" which we are called upon to remember everyAugust in London streets, or as the Guy Faux, whose fires will in futureages be connected with autumnal myths or with the disappearance ofAdonis or Thammuz yearly wounded. The virtues of fertility's god had tobe renewed each spring; year by year the priest was slain; and only bya subsequent concession to human weakness was he allowed to retain hislife till he could no longer defend it. The change seems to show that, as time went on, the privileges of the office were regarded with lesseagerness, and it was more difficult to find one man a year anxious tobe killed. 

But with what motive, century after century, no matter at what intervalof years, did a volunteer always come forward to slay and to be slain?Certainly, the priest had to be a runaway slave; but was Roman slaveryso hideous that a life of unending terror by day and night was to bepreferred--a life enslaved as a horse's chained to the grinding mill ina brickyard, and without the horse's hours of stabled peace? Hunger willdrive to much, but even when the risky encounter with one's predecessorhad been successfully accomplished, what enjoyment could there be inmeals eaten in bitter haste, with one hand upon the sword? As to money, what should all the wealth of the shrine profit a man compelled, inBishop Ken's language, to live each day as it were his last? Promise offuture and eternal bliss? The religion held out no sure and certain hopeof such a state. Joy in the divine service? It is not to vigorousrunaway slaves that we look for ecstatic rapture in performing heaven'swill. Upon the priest was bestowed the title of "King of the Wood. " Canit be that for that barren honour a human being dyed his hands withmurder and risked momentary assassination for the remainder of hislifetime? Well, we have heard of the Man who would be King, and emptytitles still are sought by political services equally repellent. 

But, for ourselves, in that forlorn and hag-ridden figure we morenaturally see a symbol of the generations that slay the slayer and shallthemselves be slain. It is thus that each generation comes knocking atthe door--comes, rather, so suddenly and unannounced, clutching at theTree of Life, and with the glittering sword of youth beating down itsworn-out defenders. New blood, new thoughts and hopes each generationbrings to resuscitate the genius of fertility and growth. Often it longsimperiously to summon a stalwart ruffian, who will finish offdecrepitude and make an end; but hardly has the younger generationitself assumed the office and taken its stand as the Warder of the Tree, when its life and hopes in turn are threatened, and among theambuscading woods it hears a footstep coming and sees the gleam of adrawn sword. Let us not think too precisely on such events. But ratherlet us climb the toilsome track up to the little town, where Cicero oncewaited to meet the assassin Brutus after the murder of the world'sgreatest man; and there, in the ancient inn still called "Diana'sLooking-glass" from the old name of the beautiful and mysterious lakewhich lies in profoundly mingled green and indigo below it, let usforget impending doom over a twopenny quart of wine and a plate oflittle cuttlefish stewed in garlic, after which any priest mightconfront his successor with equanimity. 

XXX

THE UNDERWORLD OF TIME

Sometimes, for a moment, the curtain of the past is rolled up, the sevenseals of its book are loosened, and we are allowed to know more of thehistory than the round number of soldiers with which a general crossed ariver, or the succession that brought one crazy voluptuary to followanother upon the Imperial throne. We do not refuse gratitude for what weordinarily receive. To the general it made all the difference whether hehad a thousand soldiers more or less, and to us it makes some. To theImperial maniac it was of consequence that his predecessor in thegovernment of civilised mankind was slain before him, and for us theinformation counts for something, too; just as one meets travellers whosatisfy an artistic craving by enumerating the columns of a ruinedshrine, and seeing that they agree with the guidebook. But it is notoften that historians tell us what we really want to know, or thatartists will stoop to our questionings. We would willingly go wrong overa thousand or two of those soldiers, if we might catch the language ofjust one of them as he waded into the river; and how many a simperingVenus would we grind into face-powder if we could follow for just oneday the thoughts of a single priest who once guarded her temple! But, occupied with grandeur and beauty, the artists and historians move upontheir own elevated plane, and it is only by furtive glimpses that wecatch sight of the common and unclean underworld of life, alwayslumbering along with much the same chaotic noise of hungry desires andincessant labour, of animalism and spiritual aspiration. 

One such glimpse we are given in that book of _The Golden Ass_, nowissued by the Clarendon Press, in Mr. H. E. Butler's English version, buthitherto best known through a chapter in Walter Pater's _Marius_, or byWilliam Adlington's sixteenth century rendering, included among _TheTudor Translations_. It is a strange and incoherent picture that thebook presents. Pater well compares it to a dream: "Story withinstory--stories with the sudden, unlooked-for changes of dreams. " And, asthough to suit this dream-like inconsequence, the scene is laid inThessaly, the natural home of witchcraft--where, in fact, I was myselflaid under a witch's incantation little more than ten years ago, andmight have been transformed into heaven knows what, if a rememberedpassage from this same book of Apuleius had not caused an outburst oflaughter that broke the spell only just in time. It is a savage country, running into deep glens of forest and precipitous defiles among themountains, fit haunt for the robber bands with which the few roads wereinfested. The region where the Lucius of the book wandered, either asman, or after his own curiosity into mysterious things had converted himinto an ass (whereas he had wished to become a beautiful bird)--theregion recalls some wild picture of Salvator Rosa's. We are surroundedby gloomy shades, sepulchral caverns, and trees writhing in storm, norare cut-throat bandits ever far away. Violence and murder threaten atevery turn. Through the narrow and filthy streets young noblemen, flownwith wine, storm at midnight. When a robber chief is nailed through thehand to a door, his devoted followers hew off his arm and set him free. They capture girls for ransom, and sell them to panders. When one istroublesome, they propose to sew her up in the paunch of the yet livingass, and expose her to the mid-day sun. One of the gang, disguised as abear, slays all his keepers, and is himself torn in pieces by men anddogs. All the band are finally slaughtered or flung from precipices. Gladiatorial beasts are kept as sepulchres for criminals. A slave issmeared with honey and slowly devoured by ants till only his whiteskeleton remains tied to a tree. A dragon eats one of the party, quitecursorily. What with bears, wolves, wild boars, and savage dogs, eachstep in life would seem a peril, were not the cruelty of man moreperilous still. Continued existence in that region was, indeed, soinsecure, that men and women in large numbers ended the torments ofanxiety by cutting life short. 

And then there were the witches, perpetually adding to the uncertaintyby rendering it dubious in what form one might awake, if one awoke atall. During sleep, a witch could draw the heart out through a hole inthe neck, and, stopping up the orifice with a sponge, allow her victimto pine in wonder why he felt so incomplete. With ointments compoundedof dead men's flesh she could transform a lover into a beaver, or aninnkeeper into a frog swimming in his own vat of wine and with dolefulcroak inviting his former customers to drink; or herself, with the aidof a little shaking, she could convert into a feathered owl uttering aqueasy note as it flitted out of the window. Indeed, the whole ofnature was uncertain, especially if disaster impended, and sometimes achicken would be born without the formality of an egg, or a bottomlessabyss spurted with gore under the dining-room table, or the wine beganto boil in the bottles, or a green frog leapt out of the sheepdog'smouth. 

So life was a little trying, a little perplexing; but it afforded widescope for curiosity, and Apuleius, an African, brought up in Athens, andliving in Rome, was endlessly curious. In his attraction to horrors, tobloodshed, and the shudder of grisly phantoms there was, perhaps, something of the man of peace. It is only the unwarlike citizen whocould delight in imagining a brigand nurtured from babyhood on humanblood. He was, indeed, writing in the very period which the historianfixed upon as the happiest and most prosperous that the human race hasever enjoyed--those two or three benign generations when, under theAntonines, provincials combined with Romans in celebrating "theincreasing splendours of the cities, the beautiful face of the country, cultivated and adorned like an immense garden, and the long festival ofpeace, which was enjoyed by so many nations, forgetful of their ancientanimosities, and delivered from the apprehension of future danger. " Theslow and secret poison that Gibbon says was introduced by the long peaceinto the vitals of the Empire, was, perhaps, among the causes thatturned the thoughts of Apuleius to scenes of violence and terror--to the"macabre, " as Pater said--just as it touched his style with thepreciosity of decadence, and prompted him to occupy a page with raptureover the "swift lightnings" flashed against the sunlight from women'shair. He was, in fact, writing for citizens much like the English oftwenty years ago, when the interest of readers, protected from the harshrealities of danger and anxiety, was flattered equally by bloodthirstyslaughters, the shimmer of veiled radiance, and haunted byways foraccess to the unknown gods. 

Those byways to unknown gods were much affected by Apuleius himself. Theworld was at the slack, waiting, as it were, for the next tide to flow, and seldom has religion been so powerless or religions so many. Of oneabandoned woman it is told as the climax of her other wickednesses thatshe blasphemously proclaimed her belief in one god only. Apuleius seemsto have been initiated into every cult of religious mystery, and in hisstory he exultingly shows us the dog-faced gods of Egypt triumphing onthe soil that Apollo and Athene had blessed. Here was Anubis, theirmessenger, and unconquered Osiris, supreme father of gods, and anotherwhose emblem no mortal tongue might expound. So it came that at thegreat procession of Isis through a Greek city the ass was at last able, after unutterable sufferings, to devour the chaplet of roses destined torestore him to human shape; and thereupon he took the vows of chastityand abstinence (so difficult for him to observe) until at length he wasworthy to be initiated into the mysteries of the goddess, and, in hisown words, "drew nigh to the confines of death, trod the threshold ofProserpine, was borne through all the elements, and returned to earthagain, saw the sun gleaming with bright splendour at dead of night, approached the gods above and the gods below, and worshipped them faceto face. "

It was this redemption by roses, and the initiation into virtue's path, that caused Adlington in his introduction to call the book "a figure ofman's life, egging mortal men forward from their asinal form to theirhuman and perfect shape, that so they might take a pattern to regeneratetheir lives from brutish and beastly custom, " And, indeed, the book is, in a wider sense, the figure of man's life, for almost alone among thewritings of antiquity it reveals to us every phase of that dimunderworld which persists, as we have supposed, almost unnoticed andunchanged from one generation of man to another, and takes littleaccount either of government, the arts, or the other interests ofintellectual classes. It is a world of incessant toil and primitivepassion, yet laughter has place in it, and Apuleius shows us how twoslave cooks could laugh as they peered through a chink at their asscarefully selecting the choicest dainties from the table; and how thewhole populace of a country town roared with delight at the trial of aman who thought he had killed three thieves, but had really piercedthree wine skins; and how the ass in his distress appealed unto Caesarfor the rights of a Roman citizen, but could get no further with hisbest Greek than "O!" It is a world of violence and obscenity andlaughter, but, above all, a world of pity. Virgil, too, was touched withthe pity of mortal things, but towards the poor and the labouring man herather affected a pastoral envy. Apuleius had looked poverty nearer inthe eyes, and he knew the piteous terror on its face. To him we mustturn if we would know how the poor lived in the happiest and mostprosperous age that mankind has enjoyed. In the course of hisadventures, the ass was sold to a mill--a great flour factory employingnumerous hands--and, with his usual curiosity, he there observed, as hesays, the way in which that loathsome workshop was conducted:

 "What stunted little men met my eye, their skin all striped with livid scars, their backs a mass of sores, with tattered patchwork clothing that gave them shade rather than covering! . .. Letters were branded on their foreheads, their heads were half shaven, iron rings were welded about their ankles, they were hideously pale, and the smoky darkness of that steaming, gloomy den had ulcerated their eyelids: their sight was impaired, and their bodies smeared and filthy white with the powdered meal, making them look like boxers who sprinkle themselves with dust before they fight. "

Even to animals the same pity for their sufferings is extended--a pityunusual among the ancients, and still hardly known around theMediterranean. Yet Apuleius counted the sorrows of the ill-used ass, and, speaking of the same flour mill, he describes the old mules andpack-horses labouring there, with drooping heads, their necks swollenwith gangrenes and putrid sores, their nostrils panting with the harshcough that continually racked them, their chests ulcerated by theceaseless rubbing of their hempen harness, their hoofs swollen to anenormous size as the result of their long journeys round the mill, theirribs laid bare even to the bone by their endless floggings, and alltheir hides rough with the scab of neglect and decay. 

The first writer of the modern novel--first of romanticists--Apuleiushas been called. Romance! If we must keep those rather futiledistinctions, it is as the first of realists that we would remember him. For, as in a dream, he has shown us the actual life that mankind led inthe temple, the workshop, the market-place, and the forest, during thecentury after the Apostles died. And we find it much the same as theactual life of toiling mankind in all ages--full of unwelcome labour andsuffering and continual apprehension, haunted by ghostly fears andself-imagined horrors, but illuminated by sudden laughter, andcontinually goaded on by an inexplicable desire to submit itself to thathard service of perfection under which, as the priest of the goddessinformed Lucius in the story, man may perceive most fully the greatnessof his liberty. 

XXXI

MENTAL EUGENICS

It is horrible. We are being overpopulated with spirits. Day by day, hundreds of newly-created ghosts issue into the world--not the poorrelics and incorporeal shadows of the dead, but real living ghosts, whonever had any other existence except as they now appear. They arecreations of the mind--figments they are sometimes called--but they haveas real an existence as any other created thing. We love them or hatethem, we talk about them, we quote them, we discuss their characters. Tomany people they are much more alive than the solid human beings whom insome respects they resemble. Obviously they are more interesting, elsethe travellers in a railway carriage would converse instead of reading. Some minds cannot help producing them. They produce them as easily asthe queen bee produces the eggs that hatch into drones. And both thenumber and productivity of such minds are terribly on the increase. Afew years ago Anatole France told us that, in Paris alone, fifty volumesa day were published, not to mention the newspapers; and the rate hasgone up since then. He called it a monstrous orgy. He said it would endin driving us mad. He called books the opium of the West. They devourus, he said. He foresaw the day when we shall all be librarians. We arerushing, he said, through study into general paralysis. 

Does it not remind one of the horror with which the wise and prudentabout a century ago began to regard the birth-rate? They beheld thegeometrical progression of life catching up the arithmetical progressionof food with fearful strides. Mankind became to them a devouring mouth, always agape, like a nestling's, and incessantly multiplying, like abacillus. What was the good of improving the condition of Tom and Sal, if Tom and Sal, in consequence of the improvement, went their way and ina few years produced Dick, Poll, Bill, and Meg, who proceeded to eat upthe improvement, and in a generation produced sixteen other devourershungrier than themselves? It was an awesome picture, that ravenous andreduplicating mouth! It cast a chill over humanity, and blighted thehope of progress for many years. To some it is still a bodeful portent, presaging eternal famine. It still hangs ominously over the nations. But, on the whole, its terrors have lately declined; one cannot exactlysay why. Either the mouth is not so hungry, or it gets more to eat, or, for good or evil, it does not multiply so fast. And now there are theseteachers of Eugenics, always insisting on quality. 

The question is whether some similar means might not check themultiplication of the ghosts that threaten to devour the mind of man. The progression of man's mind can hardly be called even arithmetical, and the increase of ghosts accelerates frightfully in comparison. IfParis produced fifty books a day some years ago, London probablyproduces a hundred now. And then there is Berlin, and all the GermanUniversities, where professors must write or die. And there are NewYork and Boston. Rome and Athens still count for something, and so doesMadrid. Scandinavia is no longer sterile, and a few of Russia's mournfulprogeny escape strangulation at their birth. Not every book, it is true, embodies a living soul. Many are stillborn; many are like dolls, bleeding sawdust. But in most there dwells some kind of life, hungry forthe human brain, and day by day its share of sustenance diminishes, ifshares are equal. They are not equal, but the inequality only increasesthe clamour of the poor among the ghosts. 

Take the case of novels, which make up the majority of books in themodern world. We will assume the average of souls in a novel to be five, the same as the average of a human family. Probably it is considerablyhigher, but take it at five. Let us suppose that fifty novels areproduced per day in London, Paris, New York, Berlin, and other largecities together, which I believe to be a low estimate. Not countingSundays and Bank holidays, this will give us rather more than 75, 000newly created souls a year--cannibal souls, ravening for the brains ofmen and women similar to the brains that gave them birth, and each ableto devour as many brains as it can catch. It is no good saying thatnearly all are short-lived, dying in six months like summer flies. Thedead are but succeeded by increasing hordes. They swarm about us; theybite us at every turn. They sit in our chairs, and hover round ourtables. They speak to us on mountain tops, and if we descend into theTube, they are there. They absorb the solid world, making it of noaccount beside the spirit world in which we dwell, so that we neithersee nor hear nor handle the realities of outward life, but perceive themonly, if at all, through filmy veils and apparitions, the hauntingoffspring of another's mind. And remember, we are now speaking of thespirits in novels alone. Besides novels, there are the breeding groundsof the drama, the essay, the lyric, and every other kind of spiritualand imaginative book. In every corner the spirits lurk, ready to springupon us unaware. We are ghost-ridden. The witches tear us. Our life isno longer our own. It has become a nebula of alien dreams. O wretchedmen that we are! Who shall deliver us from the body of these shades?

To what can we look? Prudence may save us in the end, for if the spiritsutterly devour us, they will find they cannot live themselves. In theend, Nature may adjust their birthrate. But at what cost, after howcruel a struggle for existence! Might not teachers of eugenics dosomething drastic, and at once? Critics are the teachers of spiritualeugenics. Could not a few timely words from them hold the productivepowers of certain brains in check? It is easily said, but the result isvery doubtful. Mr. Walkley, in an unintentionally despairing article inthe _Times_, once maintained that the critics were powerless to stem theincreasing flood that pours in upon us, like that hideous stream ofbabies that Mr. Wells once saw pouring down some gutter or rain-pipe. Mr. Walkley said no real and industrious artist ever stops to listen tocriticism. He said the artist simply cannot help it; the creature isbound to go on creating, whatever people say. Mr. Walkley went further, and told us the critic himself is an artist; that he also cannot helpit, but is bound to create. So we go on from bad to worse, the creativeartist not only producing shadows on his own account, but the shades ofshadows through the critics. Our state is becoming a bewildered horror;and yet we cannot deny that Mr. Walkley was right, though we may regardhis pessimism as exaggerated. There are one or two cases on record inwhich criticism, or the fear of it, has really checked the production ofpeculiarly sensitive and fastidious minds. I will not mention Keats, forafter the savage and Tartarly article he went on producing in greaterquantity and finer quality than ever before, and would have so continuedbut for a very natural death. Robert Montgomery, whom Macaulay killed, is a happier instance. And there may here and there also have been apoet or novelist like that "Pictor Ignotus" of Browning's, who cried:

 "I could have painted pictures like that youth's Ye praise so!"

He would have had a painter's fame:

 "But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange house of idols at its rites! This world seemed not the world it was, before: Mixed with my loving, trusting ones, there trooped . .. Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me . .. Enough!"

Unhappily, there are few souls so humble, so conventual as that. GeorgeEliot, as Mr. Walkley recalled, was terrified lest ill-judged blame orill-judged praise should discourage her production; but then she made ita strict rule never to read any criticism, so that, of course, it had norestraining effect upon her. Wordsworth seems to have read his critics, but though they did their utmost to restrain or silence him, he paid noheed. "Too petulant to be passive to a genuine poet, " he called them:

 "Too petulant to be passive to a genuine poet, and too feeble to grapple with him;--men of palsied imagination and indurated hearts; in whose minds all healthy action is languid, who therefore feed as the many direct them, or, with the many, are greedy after vicious provocatives;--judges, whose censure is auspicious, and whose praise ominous!"

In them there was no restraining power for such a man, any more than inChristopher North for Tennyson:

 "When I heard from whom it came, I forgave you all the blame; I could not forgive the praise, Rusty Christopher!"

On this line, then, there is not much to be hoped from the critics. Over-sensitive writers are too rare, and the productive impulse of theothers is too self-confident for prudence to smother. Obviously, theycare no more for the critics than Tom and Sal a century ago cared forMalthus. They disregard them. The most savage criticism only confirmstheir belief in the beauty and necessity of their progeny, just as amother always fondles the child that its aunts consider plain. Againstsuch obstinacy, what headway can the critics make? May we not advisethem to drop the old method of frontal attack altogether? Let them adoptthe methods of these new teachers of Eugenics, whom we have described asinsisting on quality. For the teachers of Eugenics, as I understand, donot go about saying, "O parents, what inferior and degenerate childrenyou have! How goose-faced, rabbit-mouthed, lantern-jawed, pot-bellied, spindle-shanked, and splay-footed they are! It was a most anti-socialaction to produce these puny monstrosities, and when you foundyourselves falling in love, you ought to have run to oppositeantipodes. " That, I believe, is no longer the method of the Eugenicteacher. He now shows beforehand wherein the beauty and excellence ofhuman development may lie. He insists upon quality, he raises astandard, he diffuses an unconscious fastidiousness of selection. Hedoes not prevent Tom and Sal from falling in love, but he makes Tom, andespecially Sal, less satisfied with the first that comes, less easilybemused with the tenth-rate rubbish of a man or girl. 

By similar methods, it seems to us, the critics might even now relievehumanity from the oncoming host of spirits that threatens to overwhelmus. They find it useless to tell creative writers how hideous andmis-begotten their productions are--how deeply tainted with erotics, neurotics, hysteria, consumption, or fatty degeneration. Either thewriters do not listen, or they reply, "Thank you, but neurotics anddegeneracy are in the fashion, and we like them. " Let the critics changetheir method by widely extending their action. Let them insist uponquality, and show beforehand what quality means. Let them rise from theposition of reviewers, and apply to the general thought of the worldthat critical power of which Matthew Arnold was thinking when he wrote:

 "The best spiritual work of criticism is to keep man from self-satisfaction which is retarding and vulgarising, to lead him towards perfection by making his mind dwell upon what is excellent in itself, and the absolute beauty and fitness of things. "

Such criticism, if persisted in by all critics for a generation, wouldact as so wholesome and tonic a course of Eugenic instruction, would sostrongly insist upon quality, and so widely diffuse an unconsciousfastidiousness of selection, that the locust cloud of phantoms which nowdarken the zenith might be dissipated, and again we should behold thesky which is the home of stars. For we may safely suppose thatexcellence will never be super-abundant, nor quality be found in hordes. No one can tell how fine, how fit, and few the children of our creativeartists might then become. But, as in prophetic vision, we can picturethe rarity of their beauty, and when they come knocking at our door, wewill share with them the spiritual food that they demand from ourbrains, and give them a drink of our brief and irrevocable time. 

XXXII

THE MEDICINE OF THE MIND

There are minds that run to maxims as Messrs. Holloway and Beecham ranto pills. From the fields and mines of experience they cull their secretingredients, concentrate them in the alembic of wit, mould them intocompact and serviceable form, and put them upon the market of publicityfor the universal benefit of mankind. Such essence of wisdom will surelycure all ills; such maxims must be worth a guinea a box. When the wiseand the worldly have condensed their knowledge and observation intoportable shape, why go further and pay more for a medicine of the soul, or, indeed, for the soul's sustenance? Pills, did we say? Are there nottabloids that supply the body with oxygen, hydrogen, calorics, orwhatever else is essential to life in the common hundredweights andgallons of bread, meat, and drink? Why not feed our souls on maxims, like those who spread the board for courses of a bovril lozenge apiece, two grains of phosphorus, three of nitrogen, one of saccharine, adewdrop of alcohol, and half a scruple of caffeine to conclude?

It is a stimulating thought, encouraging to economy of time and space. We read to acquire wisdom, and no one grudges zeal in that pursuit. Butstill, the time spent upon it, especially in our own country, is whatold journalists used to call "positively appalling, " and in some books, perhaps, we may draw blank. Read only maxims, and in the twinkling of aneye you catch the thing that you pursue. It is not "Wisdom while youwait"; there is no waiting at all. It is a "lightning lunch, " a "kill"without the risk and fatigue of hunting. The find and the death aresimultaneous. And as to space, a poacher's pocket will hold yourlibrary; where now the sewers of Bloomsbury crack beneath theaccumulating masses of superfluous print, one single shelf will containall that man needs to know; and Mr. Carnegie's occupation will be gone. 

For these reasons, one heartily welcomes Messrs. Methuen's re-issue ofan old and excellent translation of Rochefoucauld's _Maxims_, edited byMr. George Powell. The book is a little large for tabloids. It runs tonearly two hundred pages, and it might have been more convenientlydivided by ten or even by a hundred. But still, as Rochefoucauld is thevery medicine-man of maxims, we will leave it at that. He united everyquality of the moral and intellectual pill-doctor. He lived in anartificial and highly intellectualised society. He was a contemporaryand friend of great wits. He haunted salons, and was graciously receivedby perceptive ladies, who never made a boredom of virtue. He mingled ina chaos of political intrigue, and was involved in burlesque rebellion. He was intimate with something below the face-value of public men, andhe used the language that Providence made for maxims. But, above all, hehad the acid or tang of poison needed to make the true, the medicinalmaxim. His present editor compares him with Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, and Bacon--great names, but gnomic philosophers rather than authors ofmaxims proper. Nor were the splendid figures of the eighteenth century, who wrote so eloquently about love, virtue, and humanity, realinventors of maxims. Their sugar-coating was spread too thick. Oftentheir teaching was sugar to the core--a sweetmeat, not a pill; or, likethe fraudulent patents in the trade, it revealed soft soap within thecovering, and nothing more. George Meredith had a natural love ofmaxims, and an instinct for them. One remembers the "Pilgrim's Scrip" in_Richard Feverel_, and the Old Buccaneer in _The Amazing Marriage_. Butusually his maxims want the bitter tang:

 "Who rises from Prayer a better man, his Prayer is answered. "

 "For this reason so many fall from God, who have attained to Him; that they cling to Him with their weakness, not with their strength. "

 "No regrets; they unman the heart we want for to-morrow. "

 "My foe can spoil my face; he beats me if he spoils my temper. "

One sees at once that these are not medicinal maxims, but excellentadvice--concentrated sermons, after our English manner. "Friends maylaugh: I am not roused. My enemy's laugh is a bugle blown in thenight"--that has a keener flavour. So has "Never forgive an injurywithout a return blow for it. " Among the living, Mr. Bernard Shaw issometimes infected by an English habit of sermonising. "Never resisttemptation: prove all things: hold fast that which is good, " is asermon. But he has the inborn love of maxims, all the same, and, thoughthey are too often as long as a book, or even as a preface, his maximssometimes have the genuine medicinal taste. These from _TheRevolutionist's Handbook_, for instance, are true maxims:

 "Vulgarity in a king flatters the majority of the nation. "

 "He who can, does. He who cannot, teaches. "

 "Marriage is popular because it combines the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity. "

 "When a man wants to murder a tiger, he calls it sport; when the tiger wants to murder him he calls it ferocity. The distinction between Crime and Justice is no greater. "

 "Home is the girl's prison, and the woman's workhouse. "

 "Decency is Indecency's Conspiracy of Silence. "

But among the masters of the maxim, I suppose no one has come so near asChamfort to the Master himself. There is a difference. If Chamfortbrings rather less strength and bitterness to his dose, he presents itwith a certain grace, a sense of mortal things, and a kind of pitymingled with his contempt that Rochefoucauld would have despised:

 "Il est malheureux pour les hommes que les pauvres n'aient pas l'instinct ou la fierté de l'éléphant, qui ne se reproduit pas dans la servitude. "

 "Otez l'amour-propre de l'amour, il en reste très peu de chose. "

 "Il n'y a que l'inutilité du premier déluge qui empêche Dieu d'en envoyer un second. "

 "L'homme arrive novice à chaque âge de la vie. "

 "Sans le gouvernement on ne rirait plus en France. "

With a difference, these come very near Rochefoucauld's own. "Takeself-love from love, and little remains, " might be an extract from thatDoomsday Book of Egoism in which Rochefoucauld was so deeply read. "Self-love is the Love of a man's own Self, and of everything else, forhis own Sake": so begins his terrible analysis of human motives, and noman escapes from a perusal of it without recognition of himself, just asthere is no escape from Meredith's Egoist. All of us move darkly in thatawful abyss of Self, and as the fourth Maxim says, "When a Man hathtravelled never so far, and discovered never so much in the world ofSelf-love, yet still the Terra Incognita will take up a considerablepart of the Map. " On the belief that self-love prompts and pervades allactions, the greater part of the maxims are founded. The most famous ofthem all is the saying that "Hypocrisy is a sort of Homage which Vicepays to Virtue, " but there are others that fly from mouth to mouth, andtreat more definitely of self-love. "The reason why Ladies and theirLovers are at ease in one another's company, is because they never talkof anything but themselves"; or "There is something not unpleasing to usin the misfortunes of our best friends. " These are, perhaps, the threemost famous, though we doubt whether the last of them has enough truthin it for a first-rate maxim. Might one not rather say that theperpetual misfortunes of our friends are the chief plague of existence?Goethe came nearer the truth when he wrote: "I am happy enough formyself. Joy comes streaming in upon me from every side. Only, forothers, I am not happy. " But Rochefoucauld had to play the cynic, and adash of cynicism adds a fine ingredient to a maxim. 

Nevertheless, after reading this book of _Maxims_ through again, all theseven hundred and more (a hideous task, almost as bad as reading a wholevolume of _Punch_ on end), I incline to think Rochefoucauld's reputationfor cynicism much exaggerated. It may be that the world grows morecynical with age, unlike a man, whose cynical period ends with youth. Atall events, in the last twenty years we have had half a dozen writerswho, as far as cynicism goes, could give Rochefoucauld fifty maxims in ahundred. In all artificial and inactive times and places, as inRochefoucauld's France, Queen Anne's England, the London of the end oflast century, and our Universities always, epigram and a dandy cynicismare sure to flourish until they often sicken us with the name ofliterature. But in Rochefoucauld we perceive glimpses of something fardeeper than the cynicism that makes his reputation. It is not to acynic, or to the middle of the seventeenth century in France, that weshould look for such sayings as these:

 "A Man at some times differs as much from himself as he does from other People. "

 "Eloquence is as much seen in the Tone and Cadence of the Eyes, and the Air of the Face, as in the Choice of proper Expressions. "

 "When we commend good Actions heartily, we make them in some measure our own. "

Such sayings lie beyond the probe of the cynic, or the wit of theliterary man. They spring from sympathetic observation and a quietlyserious mind. And there is something equally fresh and unexpected insome of the sayings upon passion:

 "The Passions are the only Orators that are always successful in persuading. "

 "It is not in the Power of any the most crafty Dissimulation to conceal Love long where it really is, nor to counterfeit it long where it is not. "

 "Love pure and untainted with any other Passions (if such a Thing there be) lies hidden in the Bottom of our Heart, so exceedingly close that we scarcely know it ourselves. "

 "The more passionately a Man loves his Mistress, the readier he is to hate her. " (Compare Catullus's "Odi et amo. ")

 "The same Resolution which helps to resist Love, helps to make it more violent and lasting too. People of unsettled Minds are always driven about with Passions, but never absolutely filled with any. "

No one who knew Rochefoucauld only by reputation would guess suchsentences to be his. They reveal "the man differing from himself"; or, rather, perhaps, they reveal the true nature, that usually put on a thinbut protective armour of cynicism when it appeared before the world. Here we see the inward being of the man who, twice in his life, wasoverwhelmed by that "violent and lasting passion, " and was driven by itinto strange and dangerous courses where self-love was no guide. But toquote more would induce the peculiar weariness that maxims alwaysbring--the weariness that comes of scattered, disconnected, and abstractthought, no matter how wise. "Give us instances, " we cry. "Show us thething in the warmth of flesh and blood. " Nor will we any longer be putoff by pillules from seeking the abundance of life's great feast. 

XXXIII

THE LAST FENCE

He was riding May Dolly, a Cheshire six-year-old, and one of his ownbreeding; for just as some people think that everyone should go to hisown parish church, it was a principle with Mr. James Tomkinson that aman should ride a horse from his own county. Straight, lithe, and ruddy, he trotted to the starting-post, and the crowd cheered him as he went, for they liked to see a bit of pluck. He modestly enjoyed theirapplause: "I think I never saw anybody so pleased, " said Mr. JusticeGrantham, who was judge in the race. It was known that the old man hadpassed the limit of seventy, but only five years before he won asteeplechase on his own, and if ever a rider fulfilled Montaigne's idealof a life spent in the saddle, it was he. So he rode to thestarting-post, happy in himself and modestly confident--the very modelof what a well-to-do English countryman should wish to be--a Rugby andBalliol man, above suspicion for honesty, a busy man of affairs, aconsummate horseman, a bad speaker, and a true-hearted Liberal, holdingan equally unblemished record for courage in convictions and at fences. 

The race was three and a half miles--twice round the circuit. The firstcircuit was run, the last fence of it safely cleared. The second circuitwas nearly complete: only that last fence remained. It was threehundred yards away, and he rode fast for it along the bottom. Someonewas abreast of him, someone close behind. May Dolly rushed forward, andthe fence drew nearer and nearer. He was leading; once over that fenceand victory was his--the latest victory, always worth all the rest. Hefelt the moving saddle between his thighs; he heard the quick beating ofthe hoofs. Something happened; there was a swerve, a sideways jump, avain effort at recovery, a crashing fall too quick for thought; andbefore the joy of victory had died, the darkness came. 

Who would not choose to plunge out of life like that? A sudden end atthe moment of victory has always been the commonplace of human desire. When the antique sage was asked to select the happiest man in history, his choice fell on one whose destiny resembled that of the Member forCrewe; for Tellus the Athenian had lived a full and well-contented life, had seen fine and gentlemanly sons and many grandchildren growing uparound him, had shared the honour and prosperity of his country, anddied fighting at Eleusis when victory was assured. Next in happiness toTellus came the two Argive boys, who, for want of oxen, themselves drewtheir mother in a cart up the hill to worship, and, as though in answerto her prayer for blessings on them, died in the temple that night. Ithas always been so. The leap of Rome's greatest treasure into the Gulfof earthquake was accounted an enviable opportunity. When they askedCaesar what death he would choose, he answered, "A sudden one, " and hehad his wish. "Oh, happy he whom thou in battles findest, " cried Faustto Death in the midst of all his learning; and "Let me like a soldierfall" is the natural marching song of our Territorials. 

The advantages of these hot-blooded ends are so obvious that they needhardly be recalled, and, indeed, they have provided a theme for many ofour most inspiriting writers. To go when life is strongest and passionis at its height; to avoid the terrors of expectation and escape thelingering paraphernalia of sick chambers and deathbed scenes; to shirkthe stuffy and inactive hours, marked by nothing but medicines andunwelcome meals; to elude the doctor's feigned encouragements, thesympathy of relations anxious to resume their ordinary pursuits, thebuzzing of the parson in the ear, the fading of the casement into that"glimmering square"--should we not all go a long way round to seek somerciful a deliverance? "I will not die in my bed like a cow!" cried theNorthumbrian king, and was set on his feet in full armour to confrontthe Arch Fear face to face. There was some poor comfort in a pose likethat; it was better than our helpless collapse into a middle-agedcradle, with pap-boat for feeding-bottle, and a last sleep in thenurse's arms, younger and less muscular than our own. But how much finerto die like Romeo with a kiss, quick as the true apothecary's drugs; tosink like Shelley in the blue water, with mind still full of the Greekpoet whom he tucked against his heart; to pass hot with fever, likeByron, from the height of fame, while thunder presaged to themountaineers the loss of their great champion in freedom's war!

There is no question of it; these are axioms that all mankind is agreedupon. Every mortal soul would choose a quick and impassioned death; alladmire a certain recklessness, an indifference to personal safety orexistence, especially in the old, to whom recklessness is most natural, since they have less of life to risk. That was why the crowd cheeredMr. James Tomkinson as he trotted to the starting-post, and that was whyeverybody envied his rapid and victorious end. In his _Tales from aField Hospital_, Sir Frederick Treves told of a soldier who was broughtdown from Spion Kop as a mere fragment, his limbs shattered, his faceblown away, incapable of speech or sight. When asked if he had anymessage to send home before he died, he wrote upon the paper, "Did wewin?" In those words lives the very spirit of that enviable death whichall men think they long for--the death which takes no thought of self, and swallows up fear in victory. Such a man Stevenson would havedelighted to include in his brave roll-call, and of him those final, well-known words in _Aes Triplex_ might have been written:

 "In the hot-fit of life, a-tiptoe on the highest point of being, he passes at a bound on to the other side. The noise of the mallet and chisel is scarcely quenched, the trumpets are hardly done blowing, when, trailing with him clouds of glory, this happy-starred, full-blooded spirit shoots into the spiritual land. "

Yes, it is all very beautiful, and all very true. Stevenson himself, like Caesar, received the death he wished for, and, whether in reason orin passion, every soul among us would agree that death in the midst oflife is the most desirable end. And yet--and yet--we hardly know how itis, but, as a matter of fact, we do not seek it, and when the thingcomes our way, we prefer, if possible, to walk in the oppositedirection. The Territorial may sing himself hoarse with his prayer tofall like a soldier, but when the bullets begin to wail around him, itis a thousand to one that he will duck his head. A man may be reasonablyconvinced that, since he must die some day, and his reprieve cannot beextended long, it is best to die in battle and shoot full-blooded intothe spiritual land; nevertheless, if the shadow of a rock gives someshelter from the guns, he will crawl behind it. A few years ago therewas a great Oxford philosopher who, after lecturing all morning on thebeauty of being absorbed by death into the absolute and eternal, wasgranted the opportunity of being wrecked on a lake in the afternoon, butdisplayed no satisfaction at the immediate prospect of such absorption. 

In the same way, despite our natural and reasonable desires for a deathlike Mr. Tomkinson's, we still continue to speak, not only of sleepingin our beds, but of dying in them, as one of the chief objects of avirtuous and happy existence. The longest and most devotional part ofthe Anglican Common Prayer contains a special petition entreating thatwe may be delivered from the sudden death which we have all agreed is soexcellent a piece of fortune. That we are not set free from love ofliving is shown by what Matthew Arnold called a bloodthirsty clinging tolife at a moment of crisis. I shall not forget the green terror on thefaces of all the men in a railway carriage when I accidentally set fireto the train, nor have I found it really appetising to suspect even thequickest poison in my soup. Instead of leaping gallantly into deathwhile the trumpets are still blowing, nearly every civilised mandeliberately plots out his existence so as to die, like Tolstoy's IvanIlyitch, amid the pitiful squalor of domestic indifference orsolicitude. We think health universally interesting, we meditate ondiet, we measure our exercise, and shun all risks more carefully thansin. Praising with our lips the glories of the soldier's death, wetread with minute observance the bath-chair pathway to the sick-rooms ofold age. 

Are our praises of death in victory, then, all cant, and are all theeloquent rhapsodies of poets and essayists a sham? Montaigne seems tohave thought so, for, writing of those who talk fine of dying bravely, he says:

"It happeneth that most men set a stern countenance on the matter, lookbig, and speak stoutly, thereby to acquire reputation, which, if theychance to live, they hope to enjoy. "

The case of our eloquent rhapsodists who hymn the joys of sudden andcourageous death is evidently more favourable still, since they haveevery chance of living for a time, and so of enjoying a reputation forbravery without much risk. But rather than accuse mankind of purposelydissembling terror in the hope of braggart fame, we would lay the chargeupon a queer divergence between the mind and the bodily will. No matterwhat the mind may say in commendation of swift and glorious death, thebodily will continues to maintain its life to the utmost, and is thelast and savages enemy that the mind can overcome. So it is that no oneshould reckon beforehand upon courageous behaviour when the supremesummons for courage comes, and only those are faultlessly brave who havenever known peril. In reason everyone is convinced that all mankind ismortal, and we hear with vague sympathy of the hosts of dead whoseskulls went to pile the pyramids of Tamerlane, or of the thousands thatthe sea engulfs and earthquakes shatter. But few realise that the lifeof each among those thousands was as dear to him as our life is, and, though we congratulate heroes upon the opportunity of their death, themoment when that opportunity would be most happy for ourselves neverseems exactly to arrive. Hardly anyone really thinks he will die, or ispersuaded that the limit to his nature has now come. But it is throughrealising the incalculable craving of this bodily will to survive thatmen who have themselves known danger will pay the greater reverence tothose who, conscious of mortal fears, and throbbing with the fullness ofexistence, none the less in the calm ecstasy of their devotion committhemselves to the battle, the firing squad, or the prison death as to achariot of fire. 

XXXIV

THE ELEMENT OF CALM

All are aware that we have no abiding city here, but that, says thehymn-writer, is a truth which should not cost the saint a tear, and ourpoliticians appear to lament it as little as the saints. Their eyes aredry; it does not distress their mind, it seems hardly to occur to them, unless, perhaps, they are defeated candidates. One might suppose fromtheir manner that eternal truths depended on their efforts, and that thecity they seek to build would abide for ever. Could all this toil andexpenditure be lavished on a transitory show, all this eloquence uponthe baseless fabric of a vision, all this hatred and malice upon thingsthat wax old as doth a garment and like a vesture are rolled up? Onewould think from his preoccupied zeal that every politician was layingthe foundation stone of an everlasting Jerusalem, did not reason andexperience alike forbid the possibility. 

May it not rather be that the politicians, like the saints, keep thetears of mortality out of their eyes by contemplating this passing dreamunder the aspect of eternal realities? In months when the heavens atnight are filled with constellations of peculiar beauty, may we notsuppose that the politician, emerging from the Town Hall amid the cheersand execrations of the voice that represents the voice of God, lifts uphis eyes unto the heavens, where prone Orion still grasps his sword, and Auriga drives his chariot of fire, and the pole star hangsimmovable, by which Ulysses set his helm? And as he gazes, he recogniseswith joy in his heart that the stars themselves, with all theirrecurrent comets and flaming meteors and immovable constellations, hardly cast a stain upon the white radiance of eternity, under which hehas been striving and crying and perpetrating comparatively triflingdeviations from exactness. 

It is a consolation which a large proportion, probably more than half, of mankind shares with our politicians. Like them, the greater part ofmankind is aware that there is peace somewhere beyond these voices, thatlife with all its unsatisfied longings and its repetition of care istransitory as a summer cloud, and that the only way of escape from thepain and misery, the foulness and corruption, of this material universeis by the destruction of all desires, except the one engrossing desirefor non-existence. That is why the majority of mankind has set itself toovercome the unholy urgings of ambition, the pleasure of selfish andrevengeful purposes, and the deeply-implanted delight in cruelty andunkindness. Such conquest is the essential part of the Fourfold Path bywhich the bliss of extinction may be attained. Let him cease to beambitious, let him purge himself of selfish aims and revengeful orunkind thoughts, and a man may at last enter into Nirvana, even apolitician may slowly be extinguished. Life follows life, and each lifefulfils its Karma of destined expiation, working out the earthly stainof previous existences. "Quisque suos patimur manes. " The sin that mosteasily besets us fixes the shape of our next incarnation, and, did not apolitician strictly follow the guidance of the Fourfold Path, the firstelection after his death might see him re-appear as a sheep, acave-dweller, or a rat. 

Never to have been born is best; never to be born again is the hope andmotive of all good men among the greater part of mankind. It is not onlythe teaching of the most famous Buddha which has told them so. APreacher more familiar to us has said the same, and our Western churchesdo but repeat an echo from the East. "I praised the dead who are alreadydead more than the living who are yet alive, " he wrote; "yea, better ishe than both they which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evilwork that is done under the sun. " Wherefore is light given to him thatis in misery? asked Job. From age to age the question has been asked byfar more than half the human race, and yet the human race continues, miserable and unholy though it is. 

But the widest expression of this common cry is found in Buddhism, andtherein is found also a doctrine of peace that seeks to answer it. Fromthe turmoil of the street and market-place, from the atomic vortex ofpublic meetings, ballot stations, and motors decked with flags, let usturn to the "Psalms of the Sisters, " those Buddhist nuns whoseutterances Mrs. Rhys Davids has edited for the Pali Text Society. Inthis inextricable error of existence--this charnel-house of corruptingbodies wherein the soul lies imprisoned too long--time and space do notseriously matter. Let us turn from Haggerston and Battersea and theParliamentary squabbles of to-day, and visit the regions where the greatmountains were standing and the holy Ganges flowed within two or threecenturies before or after the birth of Christ. Somewhere about thattime, somewhere about that place, these women, having in most cases, fulfilled their various parts in wives, mothers, or courtesans, retiredto the Homeless Life in mountains, forests, or the banks of streamswhere they might seek deliverance for their souls. With shaven heads, and clad in the deep saffron cloth such as the ascetic wanderer of Indiastill wears, furnished only with a bowl for the unasked offerings of thepious and compassionate, they went their way, free from the cares anddesires of this putrefying world. As one of them--a goldsmith'sdaughter, to whom the Master himself had taught the Norm of the FourfoldPath--as one of them explained to the tiresome relations who tried tocall her back:

 "Why herewithal, my kinsmen--nay, my foes-- Why yoke me in your minds with sense desires? Know me as her who fled the life of sense, Shorn of her hair, wrapt in her yellow robe. The food from hand to mouth, glean'd here and there, The patchwork robe--these things are meet for me, The base and groundwork of the homeless life. "

Some sought escape from the depression of luxury, some from thewretchedness of the poor, some from the abominations of the wanton, somefrom the boredom of tending an indifferent husband. One of them thusutters her complaint with frank simplicity:

 "Rising betimes, I went about the house, Then, with my hands and feet well cleansed I went To bring respectful greeting to my lord, And taking comb and mirror, unguents, soap, I dressed and groomed him as a handmaid might. I boiled the rice, I washed the pots and pans; And as a mother on her only child, So did I minister to my good man. For me, who with toil infinite then worked, And rendered service with a humble mind, Rose early, ever diligent and good, For me he nothing felt, save sore dislike. "

Others sought freedom of intellect, others the free development ofpersonality; but, in the end, it was deliverance from earthly desiresthat all were seeking, for it is only through such deliverance that thefinal blessedness of total extinction can be reached. Then, as they cry, they cease to wander in the jungles of the senses, rebirth comes nomore, and the peace of Nirvana is won. A poor Brahmin's daughter who hadbeen married to a cripple, thus exults in a multiplied redemption:

 "O free, indeed! O gloriously free Am I in freedom from three crooked things:-- From quern, from mortar, from my crook-back'd lord! Ay, but I'm free from rebirth and from death, And all that dragged me back is hurled away. "

But more truly characteristic of the spiritual mind is the joyful adviceof one who, having perfected herself in meditation, could thus communewith her soul:

 "Hast thou not seen sorrow and ill in all The springs of life? Come thou not back to birth! Cast out the passionate desire again to Be. So shalt thou go thy ways calm and serene. "

Thus only by the recognition of the sorrow of the world, by the conquestof all desires, and by the exercise of kindliness to all that breathethis life of misery, is that Path to be trodden of which the fourthstage enters Nirvana's peace. Thus only can we escape from thisrepulsive carcass--"this bag of skin with carrion filled, " as one of theSisters called it--and so be merged into the element of calm, just asthe space inside a bowl is merged into the element of space when at lastthe bowl is broken and will never need scrubbing more. 

It is thought that Gautama, the great Buddha, whose effigy in the calmof contemplation is the noblest work of Indian art, fondly believed thatall mankind would seek deliverance along the path he pointed out, andthat so, within a few generations, the human race, together, perhaps, with every living thing that breathes beneath the law of Karma, wouldpass from sorrow into nothingness. Mankind has not fulfilled hisexpectation. The task of expiation is not yet completed, and, in themidst of anguish, corruption, and the flux of all material things, thehuman race goes swarming on. I suppose it is about as numerous as ever, and, though something like half of it accepts the teaching of the Buddhaas divine, they seem in no more hurry to fulfil its precepts than arethe followers of other Founders. We cannot say that mankind has gonevery far along the Fourfold Path, for there are still many of us whowould rather be a mouse than nothing; yet it remains an accepted truthof the Buddhistic doctrine, that above this fleeting and variegatedworld there abides the element of calm. As the final Chorus "Mysticus"of _Faust_ proclaims: "All things transitory are but a symbol, " and ifany politician during the storm of worldly desires has for a moment lostsight of truth's eternal stars that guide his way, let him now turn tothe "Psalms of the Sisters. " Even if he has been successful in hisambition, he will there find peace, discovering in Nirvana the quietChiltern Hundreds of the soul. 

XXXV

"THE KING OF TERRORS"

Skulls may not affright us, nor present fashion ordain cross-bones uponour sepulchres; but still in the face of death the commonplaces ofcomfort shrivel, and philosophy's consolations strike cold as thesymbolism of the tomb. All that lives must die; we know it, but thatdeath is common does not assuage particular grief, nor can thecontemplation of prehistoric ruins soften regret for one baby's smile. Man's dogma has proved vain as his philosophy. Age after age hascomposed some vision of continued life, and sought to allay its fear orsorrow with suitable imaginations. Mummies of death outlive theirgranite; vermilion and the scalping-knife lie ready for the happyhunting grounds; beside the royal carcass two score of concubines andwarriors are buried quick; Walhalla rings with clashing swords whosewounds close up again at sunset; heroes tread the fields of shadowyasphodel, and on Elysian plains attenuated poets welcome the sagenewcomer to their converse; houris reward the faithful for holyslaughter; prophets reveal a gorgeous city and pearly gates beyond theriver; the poet tells of circles winding downward to the abyss, andupward to the Rose of Paradise; upon the bishop's tomb in St. Praxed'sone Pan is carved, and Moses with the tables; upon the gravestone of anAlbanian chief they scratch his rifle and his horse; and over theslave's low mound in Angola plantations his basket and mattock are laid, lest he should miss them. So various are the devices contrived for thesolace of mankind, or for his instruction. But one by one, like the deadthemselves, those devices have passed and passed away, leaving mankindunwitting and unconsoled. For there is still one road that eachtraveller must discover afresh, and death's door, at which all menstand, opens only inwards. 

Maurice Maeterlinck has always remained very conscious of that door. Howoften in his whispering dramas we are made aware of it! How often, without even the knock of warning, it suddenly gapes or stands ajar, andunseen hands are pulling, and children are drawn in, and young girls aredrawn in, and wise men, and the old, while the living world remainsoutside, still at breakfast, still busy with its evening games andsewing, still blindly groping for its departed guide! From the outset, Maeterlinck has been an amateur of death. In a little volume that bearsDeath's name, he utters his meditation upon death's nature andsignificance. Like other philosophers and all old wives, he alsoattempts our consolation. Mankind demands a consolation, for without it, perhaps, the species could hardly have survived their foreknowledge ofthe end. But in treating the first two terrors to which he applies hiscomfortable arguments, Maeterlinck's reasoning appears to me almostirrelevant, almost obsolete. He attributes the terrified apprehension ofdeath, first, to the fear of pain in dying, and, secondly, to the fearof anguish hereafter. In neither fear, I think, does the essentialhorror of death now lie. All who have witnessed various forms of death, whether on the field or in the sick chamber, will agree that theprocess of dying is seldom more difficult or more painful than takingoff one's clothes. The blood ebbs, the senses sleep, "the casementslowly grows a glimmering square, " breath gradually fails, unconsciousness faints into deeper unconsciousness, and that is all. Even in terrible wounds and cases of extreme pain, medicine can nowalleviate the worst, nor, in any case, do I believe that the expectationof physical agony, however severe, has much share in the instinct thatstands aghast at death. If fear of pain thus preoccupied the soul, martyrs would not have sown the Church, nor would births continue. 

In combating the dread of future torment, Maeterlinck may have bettercause for giving comfort. Long generations have been haunted by thatterror. "Ay, but to die, " cries Claudio in _Measure for Measure_:

 "Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world; or to be worse than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts Imagine howling!"

Nor were such terrors mediaeval only. Till quite recent years they casta gloom over the existence of honourable and laborious men. Rememberthat scene in Oxford when Dr. Johnson, with a look of horror, acknowledged that he was much oppressed by the fear of death, and whenthe amiable Dr. Adams suggested that God was infinitely good, hereplied:

"'As I cannot be sure that I have fulfilled the conditions on whichsalvation is granted, I am afraid I may be one of those who shall bedamned' (looking dismally). Dr. Adams: 'What do you mean by damned?'Johnson (passionately and loudly): 'Sent to Hell, Sir, and punishedeverlastingly. '"

No one disputes that for many ages the lives of even the just and goodwere burdened by such oppressive fears. Perhaps, indeed, the just andgood were more burdened than the wicked; for to the wicked their ownsins seldom appear so deadly black, and when a Balkan priest latelydisplayed pictures of eternal torment as warnings to a savagemountaineer's enormities, he was met by the reply, "Even we should notbe so cruel. " But to the greater part of thinking mankind, Maeterlinck'sreassurances upon the subject, even if they could be established, wouldappear a little out-of-date, and I do not believe that, even where theylinger, such terrors form the basis of the fear of death. Was there not, at all events, one strenuous Canon of the Established Church whodefiantly proclaimed that he would rather be damned than annihilated?

"Men fear death, " says Bacon's familiar sentence; "men fear death, aschildren fear to go in the dark. " It is not the dread of pain andtorment; it is the dark that terrifies; it is Kingsley's horror ofannihilation; it is the hot life's fear of ceasing to be. I grant thatmany are unconscious of this fear. In word, at all events, there aremultitudes, perhaps the greater part of mankind, who long for theannihilation of self, who direct their lives by the great hope ofbecoming in the end absorbed into the Universe. Their perpetual prayeris to be rid of personality at the last, no matter through what strangeembodiments the self must pass before it reach the bliss of nothingness. Similar, though less doctrinal, was the prayer of Job when he countedhimself among those who long for death, but it cometh not, and dig forit more than for hid treasures; who rejoice exceedingly, and are gladwhen they can find the grave. "Why died I not from the womb?" he cried:

 "For now should I have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept; then, had I been at rest, with kings and counsellors of the earth, which built solitary places for themselves. "

How far the loss of personal consciousness by absorption into universalinfinity is identical with the eternal rest desired by Job might be longdisputed. Sir Thomas Browne, having heard of the Brahmin or Buddhistconceptions of futurity, would draw a thin distinction:

 "Others, " he says, "rather than be lost in the uncomfortable night of nothing, were content to recede into the common being; and make one particle of the public soul of all things, which was no more than to return into their unknown and divine original again. "

In effect this doctrine comes very near Maeterlinck's plea of comfort. Annihilation, he says, is impossible, because nothing is destructible. But when confronted with the eternal antinomy of death, that both theend and the survival of personality are equally inconceivable, hehesitates. He admits that survival without consciousness would be thesame as the annihilation o self (in which case he maintains death couldbe no evil, bringing only eternal sleep). But he rejects this solutionas flattering only to ignorance, and has visions of a new ego collectinga fresh nucleus round itself and developing in infinity. For the "narrowego" which we partly know--the humble self of memories and identity, thesoul that sums up experience into some kind of unity--he expressesconsiderable contempt, as a frail and forgetful thing; and he seeks towaft us away into an intellect devoid of senses, which he says almostcertainly exists, and into an infinity which is "nothing if it be notfelicity. "

I do not know. A man may say what he pleases about intellect devoid ofsenses, or about the felicity of infinity. One statement may be as trueas the other, or the reverse of both may be true. Talk of that kindrests on no sounder basis than the old assertions about the houris andthe happy hunting-grounds, and it brings no surer consolation. Even whenMaeterlinck tells us that it is impossible for the universe to be amistake, and that our own reason necessarily corresponds with theeternal laws of the universe, we may answer that we hope, and evenbelieve, that he is right, but on such a basis we can found no certaintywhatever. Nor does the self, when, warm with life, inspired with vitalpassion, and energising for its own fulfilment, it stands horrifiedbefore the gulf of death, fearing no conceivable torment, but only thecessation of its power and identity--at such a moment that inward andisolated self can derive no reassurance from the dim possibility of somefuture nucleus, under cover of which it may pass into the felicity ofthe universal infinite, stripped of its memory, its present personality, and its flesh. 

Fear of annihilation, or of the loss of identity, which is the samething, I take to be one of the remaining terrors in European mindsmeditating on death. Of all the imagined forms of survival, only one isobviously more horrible than the night of nothing, and that is the statein which Beethoven twangs a banjo and Gladstone utters the politicalforecasts of a distinguished journalist. It may be that my affection forthe "narrow ego" is too violent, but, for myself, I do not find M. Maeterlinck's consolations more genuinely consoling than otherphilosophy. On the second and far more poignant terror that stillsurvives in the very nature of death, he hardly touches. I mean theseverance of love, the disappearance of the beloved. "No, no, no life, "cries Lear:

 "Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never!"

It is the cry of all mankind when love is thus slit in twain; nor issorrow comforted because coral is made of love's bones, or violetsspring from his flesh, and the vanished self is possibly absorbed intothe felicity of an infinite and everlasting azure. 

XXXVI

STRULDBRUGS

What a fuss they make, proclaiming the secret of long life! We must stayabed till noon, they say; we must take life slowly and comfortably; wemust avoid worry, live moderately, drink wine, smoke cigars, and readthe _Times_. Yes; there is one who, in a letter to the _Times_, boastedhis grandfather sustained life for a hundred and one years by readingall the leading and special articles of that paper; his father got toeighty-eight on the same diet; himself follows their footsteps on farethat is new every morning. Another writer has subscribed to the _Times_for sixty-seven years, and now is ninety-two on the strength of it. Avoid worry, fret not yourself because of evildoers, let not indignationlacerate your heart, take the sensible and solid view of things, readthe _Times_, and you will surpass the Psalmist's limit of threescoreyears and ten. 

What a picture of beneficent comfort it calls up! The breakfast-roomfurniture fit to outlast the Pyramids, the maroon leather of deeparmchairs, the marble clock ticking to half-past nine beneath the bronzefigure with the scythe and hourglass, the boots set to warm upon thehearthrug, the crisp bacon sizzling gently beneath its silver cover, thepleasant wife murmuring gently behind the silver urn, the paper setbeside the master's plate. Isaiah knew not of such regimen, else hewould not have cried that all flesh is grass, and all the goodlinessthereof as the flower of the field. 

Others there are whom poverty precludes from silver, and the narrowestate of home from daily sustenance on the _Times_. Some studydiuturnity upon two meals a day, or pursue old age by means of "unfiredfood, " Others devour roots by moonlight, or savagely dine upon a pocketof raw beans. These are intemperate on water, or bewail the touch ofsalt as sacrilege against the sacrifice of eggs. These grovel for nutslike the Hampshire hog, or impiously celebrate the fruitage by which manfell. Some cast away their coats, some their hosen, some their hats. They go barefoot but for sandals. They wander about in sheepskins andgoatskins, eschewing flesh for their food, and vegetables for theirclothing. They plunge distracted into boiling water. Shudderingly, theybreak the frosty Serpentine. They absorb the sun's rays like pigeonsupon the housetops, or shiver naked in suburban chambers that they mayrecover the barbaric tang. They walk through rivers fully clothed, andshake their vesture as a dog his coat; or are hydrophobic for theirskins, fearing to wash lest they disturb essential oils. They shavetheir heads as a cure for baldness, or in gentle gardens emulate theraging lion's mane. One dreads to miss his curdled milk by the fractionof a minute; another, at the semblance of a cold, puts off his supperfor three weeks and a day. One calculates upon longevity by means ofbare knees, another apprehends the approach of death through the orificein the palm of a leather glove. 

Of course, it is all right. Life is of inestimable value, and nothingcan compensate a corpse for the loss of it. Falstaff knew that, and, like the Magpie Moth, wisely counterfeited death to avoid theirretrievable step of dying. Our prudent livers display an equal wisdom, not exactly counterfeiting death, but living gingerly--living, as itwere, at half-cock, lest life should go off suddenly with a flash andbang, leaving them nowhere. Of course, they are quite right. Life beingpleasurable, it is well to spread it out as far as it will go. As tohonour, the hoary head in itself is a crown of glory, and when a manreaches ninety, people will call him wonderful, though for ninety yearshe has been a fool. The objects of living are, for the most part, obscure and variable, and prudent livers may well ask why for theobscure and variable objects of life they should lose lifeitself--"Propter causas vivendi perdere vitam, " if we may reverse theold quotation. 

So they are quite justified in eating the bread of carefulness, and noone who has known danger will condemn their solicitude for safely. Butyet, in hearing of those devices, or perusing the _Sour Milk Gazette_and the _Valetudinarian's Handbook_, somehow there come to my mind thewords, "Insanitas Sanitutum, omnia Insanitas!" And suddenly the pictureof those woeful islanders whom Gulliver discovered rises before me. For, as we remember, in the realm of Laputa, he found a certain number ofboth sexes (about eleven hundred) who were called Struldbrugs, orImmortals, because, being born with a certain spot over the lefteyebrow, they were destined never to know the common visitation ofdeath. We remember how Gulliver envied them, accounting them thehappiest of human beings, since they had obtained in perpetuity theblessing of life, for which all men struggle so hard that whoever hasone foot in the grave is sure to hold back the other as strongly as hecan. But in the end, he concluded that their lot was not reallyenviable, seeing that increasing years only brought an increase of theirdullness and incapacity:

 "They were not only opinionative, " he writes, "peevish, covetous, morose, vain, talkative, but incapable of friendship, and dead to all natural affections, which never descended below their grandchildren. Envy and impotent desires are their prevailing passions. But those objects against which their envy seems principally directed are the vices of the younger sort, and the deaths of the old. By reflecting on the former they find themselves cut off from all possibility of pleasure; and whenever they see a funeral they lament and repine that others have gone to a harbour of rest, to which they themselves never can hope to arrive. "

The explorer further discovered that, after the age of eighty, themarriages of the Struldbrugs were dissolved, because the law thought ita reasonable indulgence that those who were condemned, without any faultof their own, to a perpetual continuance in the world, should not havetheir misery doubled by the load of a wife; also that they could neveramuse themselves with reading, because their memory would not serve tocarry them from the beginning of a sentence to the end; and after abouttwo hundred years, they could not hold conversation with theirneighbours, the mortals, because the language of the country was alwaysupon the flux. 

It is a pity that the laws of Laputa stringently forbade the export ofStruldbrugs, else, Gulliver tells us, he would gladly have brought acouple to this country, to arm our people against the fear of death. Had he only done so, what a lot of letters to the _Times_, advertisements of patent medicines; and Eugenic discussions we shouldhave been spared! If earthly immortality were known to be such a curse, we could more easily convince the most scrupulous devotee of health thatold age was little better than immortality. 

It is not, therefore, as though great age were such a catch that itshould demand all these delicate manipulations of diet, sleep, rest-cures, health-resorts, scourings, and temperatures, for itsattainment. How refreshing to escape from this hospital atmosphere intothe free air, blowing whither it lists, and to fling oneself carelesslyupon existence, as Sir George Birdwood, for instance, has done! He alsowrote to the _Times_, but in a very different tone. Like anotherGulliver, he pictured the calamity of millionaires living on till theirheirs are senile. It is all nonsense, he said, to prescribe rules forlife. One of his oldest friends drank a bottle of cognac a day, and, asfor himself--well, we know that he is eighty, has lived a varied anddangerous life in many lands, has written on carrots, chestnuts, carpets, art, scholarship, all manner of absorbing subjects, and yet heheartily survives:

 "I attribute my senility--let others say senectitude, " he shouts in his cheery way, "to a certain playful devilry of spirit, a ceaseless militancy, quite suffragettic, so that when I left the Indian Office on a bilked pension I swore by all the gods I would make up for it by living on ten years, instead of one, which was all an insurance society told me I was worth. "

That sounds the true note, blowing the horn of old forests and battles. "A playful devilry of spirit, " "a ceaseless militancy"--how stirring tothe stagnant lives of prudent regularity! "Lie in bed till noon-day!"he goes on; "I would rather be some monstrous flat-fish at the bottom ofthe Atlantic than accept human life on such terms. " Who in future willhear of rest-cures, retirements, retreats, nursings, comforts, andattention to health, without beholding in his mind that monstrousflat-fish, blind and deaf with age, rotting at ease upon the Atlanticslime? Life is not measured by the ticking of a clock, and it is no newthing to discover eternity in a minute. "I have not time to make money, "said the naturalist, Agassiz, when his friends advised some pecuniaryadvantage; and, in the same way, every really fortunate man says he hasno time to bother about living. So soon as a human being does anythingsimply because he thinks it will "do him good, " and not for pleasure, interest, or service, he should withdraw from this present world asgracefully as he can. Of course, we all want to live, but even in deaththere can hardly be anything so very awful, since it is so common. 

"The Kingdom of Heaven is not meat and drink. " "He that loses his lifeshall find it, " said one Teacher. "Live dangerously, " said another; and"Try to be killed" is still the best advice for a soldier who wouldrise. For life is to be measured by its intensity, and not by thetapping of a death-watch beetle. "I've lost my appetite. I can't eat!"groaned the patient whom Carlyle knew. "My dear sir, that is not of theslightest consequence, " replied the good physician; and how wise arethose scientists who deny to invalids the existence of their pain! SirGeorge Birdwood recalled the saying of Plato that attention to health isone of the greatest hindrances to life, and I vaguely remember Plato'scommendation of the working-man, who, in illness, just takes a dose, andif that doesn't cure him, remarks, "If I must die, I must die, " anddies accordingly. That is how the working-man dies still; thoughsometimes he is now buoyed up by the thought of his funeral's grandeur. "A certain playful devilry of spirit, " "a ceaseless militancy"--for lifeor death those are the best regulations. 

XXXVII

"LIBERTÉ, LIBERTÉ, CHÉRIE!"

Just escaped from the prison-house of Russia, I had reached Marseilles. The whole city, the bay, and the surrounding hills, bright with villasand farms, glittered in sunshine. So did the spidery bridge that swingsthe ferry across the Old Harbour's mouth. Even the fortifications lookedquite amiable under such a sky. Booming sirens sounded the approach ofgreat liners, moving slowly to their appointed docks. Little steamershurried from point to point along the shores with crowded decks, and thelighthouses stood white against the Mediterranean blue. 

The streets were thronged with busy people. The shops and cafés werethronged. At all the bathing places along the bay crowds of men, women, and children were plunging with joy into the cool, transparent water. The walls and kiosks were covered with gay advertisements of balls, concerts, theatres, and open air music-halls. Flaunting and flirting toand fro, women recalled what pleasure was. Electric trams went clangingdown the lines. Motors hooted as they set off for tours in the Alps. Little carriages, with many-coloured hoods, loitered temptingly besidetine pavements. The stalls along the quay shone with every variety ofgleaming fish, and every produce of the kindly earth. The sun wentsmiling through the air; the sea smiled in answer. And over all, highupon her rocky hill, watched the great image of Notre Dame de la Garde. 

"This is civilisation! This is liberty!" cried a Frenchman, who hadjoined our ship in Turkey, and was now seated beside me, enjoying thereturn to security, peace, and the comfort of his own language. 

Yes; it was civilisation, and it was liberty. Has not the name ofMarseilles breathed the very spirit of liberty all over the world? Andyet his words recalled to me another scene, and the remark of anothernative of Marseilles. 

We were steaming slowly along the West Coast of Africa, landing cargo atpoint after point, or calling for it as required. Day by day we wallowedthrough the oily water, under a misty sun, that did not roast, butboiled. Day by day we watched the low-lying shore--the unvarying line ofwhite beach, almost as white as the foam which dashed against it; andbeyond the beach, the long black line of unbroken forest. Nothing was tobe seen but those parallel lines of white beach and black forest, stretching both ways to the horizon. At dawn they were partly concealedby serpentining ghosts of mist that slowly vanished under the increasingheat; and at sunset the mists stole silently over them again. But allday and all night the sickly stench of vegetation, putrefying in thesteam of those forests from age to age, pervaded the ship as with thebreath of plague. 

One morning the scream of our whistle and the bang of our littlesignal-gun, followed by the prolonged rattle of the anchor-chain runningthrough the hawse-pipe, showed that we had reached some point of call. The ship lay about half a mile off shore, and one could see blackfigures running about the beach and pushing off a big black boat. Thespray shot high in the air as the bow dived through the surf, and soonwe could hear the hiss and gasp of the rowers as they drew near. Theywere naked negroes, shining with oil and sweat. Standing up in the boat, with face to bow, they plunged their paddles perpendicularly into thewater with a hiss, and drew them out with a gasp. A swirling circle offoam marked where each stroke had fallen, and the boat surged nearerthrough the swell, till, with a swish of backing paddles, it stoppedalongside the ship's ladder, like a horse reined up. Out of the sternthere stepped a little figure, just recognisable as a white man. Hishelmet was soaked and battered out of shape. The tattered relics of hiswhite-duck suit were plastered with yellow palm-oil and various kinds ofgrease. So was the singlet, which was his only other clothing. So werehis face and hands. But he was a white man, and he came up the ship'sside with the confident air of Europe. 

The purser greeted him on deck, and they disappeared into the purser'scabin to make out the bill of lading. The hatch was opened, and thesteam crane began hauling barrels and sacks out of the boat, and thendepositing other great barrels in their place, according to the simplestform of barter. The barrels we took smelt of palm-oil; the barrels wegave smelt of rum. When the boat could hold no more, the little manreappeared with the purser, and was introduced to me as Mr. Jacks. 

He took off his battered helmet, inclined his body from the middle ofhis back, and said, "Enchanted, sair!"

Then he gave me his oily hand, which wanted rubbing down with a bit ofdeck swabbing. 

"You fit for go shore one time?" he asked in the pidjin English of theCoast, still keeping his helmet politely raised. 

"Oui, certainement, toute suite, " I replied in the pidjin French ofEngland. 

If I had been the King conferring on him the title of Duke with acorresponding income, his face could not have expressed greater surpriseand ecstasy. 

He replied with a torrent of French, of which I understood nearly all, except the point. 

Taking my arm (the coat-sleeve never recovered from the oily stain), heled me to the ship's side and steadied the rope ladder while I wentdown, the purser following behind, or rather on my head. We sat on thebarrels, M. Jacques took a paddle to steer, and hissing and gasping, thequeer-smelling crew started for the beach. When we came near, M. Jacquesturned with his pleasant smile to the purser, and said, "Surf no good!Plenty purser live for drown this one place. "

"That's all right, " said the purser. Then the paddling stopped, and M. Jacques looked over the stern to watch the swell. For a long time wehung there, the waves rolling smoothly under us and crashing against thesteep bank of sand just in front, as a stormy sea crashes against asouth-coast esplanade at full tide under a south-west wind. Gentlymoving his paddle this way and that, M. Jacques held the stern to theswell, till suddenly he shouted "One time!" and the natives drove theirpaddles Into the water like spears. On the top of a huge billow werushed forward. It broke, and we crashed down upon the beach. In a domeof green and white the surge passed clean over us, and then, with a roarlike a torrent, it dragged us back. Another great wave broke over thestern, and again we were hurled forward beneath it. This time a crowd ofnatives rushed into the foam and, clinging to the gunwale, held ussteady against the backwash. Out we all sprang into two feet of rushingwater, and hauled the boat clear up the shore. 

"Surf no good!" observed M. Jacques; "but purser live this time, " Thenhe shook himself like a dog, rolled on the fine sand, shook himselfagain, and with the smile of all the angels, remarked, "Now we fit forgo get one dilly drink. "

Leaving the natives to roll up the great barrels from the boat, weclimbed the beach to a long but narrow strip of fairly hard ground, onwhich one solitary thorn-tree had contrived to grow. The further side ofthe bank fell steeply into the vast swamp of the coast. There themangrove trees stood rotting in black water and slimy ooze, so thicktogether that the misty sun never penetrated half-way down theirinextricable branches, and even from the edge of the forest one lookedinto darkness. On the top of that thin plateau between the roaring seaand the impenetrable swamp, M. Jacques had made his home. It was aramshackle little house, run together of boards and corrugated iron, andbearing evidence of all the mistakes of which a West African native iscapable. At midday the solitary thorn afforded a transparent shade; forthe rest of daylight the dwelling sweltered and boiled unprotected. Round house and tree ran a mud wall, about five feet high, loop-holed atintervals. And just inside the house door was fastened a rack of threerifles, kept tolerably clean. 

"Plenty pom-pom, " said M. Jacques, as I looked at them (he returned tothe language that I evidently understood better than his own). "Blackman he cut throats too plenty much. "

Opening a padlocked trap-door in the flooring, he disappeared into anunderground cavern. Calling to me, he struck a match, and I looked downinto a kind of dungeon cell, smelling of damp like a vault There I saw abroken camp-bed, covered with a Kaffir blanket. 

"Here live for catch dilly sleep, " he cried triumphantly, as thoughexhibiting a palace. "Plenty cool night here. "

Then, with a bottle in one hand, he came up the ladder, and carefullylocking the trap-door and pulling a table over it, he observed, "Blackman he thief too plenty much. "

With one thought only--the longing for liquid of any kind but saltwater-we sat in crazy deck-chairs under the iron verandah, where a fewstarved chickens pecked unhappily at the dust. Presently there came thepadding sound of naked feet upon the hard-baked earth, and a dark figureemerged from an inner kitchen. It was a young negress. Her short, woollyhair was cut into sections, like a melon, by lines that showed the palerskin below. The large dark eyes were filmy as a seal's, and the heavyblack lips projected far in front of the flat nostrils, slit sidewayslike a bull-dog's. From breast to knee she was covered with a length ofdark blue cotton, wound twice round her body, and fastened with twosafety pins. In her hands, which were pinkish inside and on the palmlike a monkey's, she held a tray, and coming close to us, she stood, silent and motionless, in front of M. Jacques. 

Into three meat-tins that served for cups, he poured out wine from thebottle he had brought up from his subterranean bedroom. Then he filledup his own cup from a larger meat-tin of water fresh from the marsh. Wedid the same to make the wine go further, and at last we drank. It wasthe vilest wine the chemists of Hamburg ever made, though Germaneducation favours chemistry; and the water tasted like the bilge ofCharon's boat. But it was liquid, and when we had drained the tins--Iwill not say to the dregs, for Hamburg wine has no dregs--M. Jacques layback with a sigh and said, "Drink fine too much. "

The girl handed us sticky slabs of Africa's maize bread, and then paddedoff with the tray. Coming out again, she crouched down on her heelsagainst the doorpost, and silently watched us with impenetrable eyes, that never blinked or turned aside, no matter how much one stared. 

Meantime, the natives from the beach, with many sighs and groans, wererolling up the cargo of barrels, and setting them, one by one, in abarricaded storehouse. "That's Bank of France, " said M. Jacques, lockingthe door securely when all the barrels were stowed. "Plenty rum all thesame good for plenty gold. "

Their spell of labour finished, the natives stretched themselves in theshadow of the enclosure wall, and slept, while we sat languidly lookingover the steaming water at the ship, now dim in the haze. The heat wasso intense that, in spite of our drenching in the surf, the sweat wasrunning down our faces and backs again. The repeated crash and drag ofthe waves were the only sounds, except when now and again a parrotshrieked from the forest, or some great trunk, rotted right through atlast, fell heavily into the swamp among the tangled roots and slime. Even the mosquitoes were still, and the only movement was the hoveringof giant hornets, attracted by the smell of the wine. 

"Holiday fine too much, " said M. Jacques, smiling at us dreamily, andstretching out his legs as he sank lower into his creaking chair. 

"One month, one ship; holiday same time, " he explained, and he went onto tell us he worked too plenty hard the rest of the month, stowing thepalm-oil and kernels as the natives brought them in by hardlyperceptible tracks from their villages far across the swamp. 

"Bit slow, isn't it, old man?" said the purser. 

"Not slow, " he answered quickly; "plenty black man go thief, go kill;plenty fever, plenty live for die. "

"I should think you miss the French cafés and concerts and dancing andall that sort of thing, " I remarked. 

"No matter for them things, " he answered. "Liberty here. Liberty livefor this one place. "

"'Where there ain't no Ten Commandments, '" I quoted. 

"No ten? No _one_, " he cried, shaking one finger in my face excitedly, so as to make the meaning of "one" quite clear. 

Just then the steamer sounded her siren. 

"The old man's getting in a stew, " said the purser, slowly standing upand mopping his face. 

The crew stretched themselves, tightened their wisps of cotton, andslowly stood up too. 

As M. Jacques led us politely down to the surf-boat again, I heard himquietly singing in an undertone, "Liberté, Liberté, chérie!"

"What part of France do you come from?" I asked. 

"From Marseilles, monsieur, " he answered, and having helped push offthe boat, he stood with raised hat, watching us dive through thebreakers. Then he slowly climbed the sand again, and I saw him pass intothe gate of his fortified wall. 

It was strange. Against that man every possible Commandment could bebroken, but there was only one which he could have had any pleasure inbreaking himself. And as I sat at Marseilles, watching the happy crowdsof men and women pass to and fro, it appeared to me that he would havebeen at liberty to break that Commandment without leaving his nativecity. 

XXXVIII

A FAREWELL TO FLEET STREET

It is still early, but dinner is over--not the club dinner with itsbuzzing conversation, nor yet the restaurant dinner, hurried into theten minutes between someone's momentous speech and the leader that hasto be written on it. The suburban dinner is over, and there was no needto hurry. They tell me I shall be healthier now. What do I care aboutbeing healthier?

Shall I sit with a novel over the fire? Shall I take life at second-handand work up an interest in imaginary loves and the exigencies ofshadows? What are all the firesides and fictions of the world to me thatI should loiter here and doze, doze, as good as die?

They tell me it is a fine thing to take a little walk before bed-time. Igo out into the suburban street. A thin, wet mist hangs over the silentand monotonous houses, and blurs the electric lamps along our road. There will be a fog in Fleet Street to-night, but everyone is too busyto notice it. How friendly a fog made us all! How jolly it was thatnight when I ran straight into a _Chronicle_ man, and got a lead of himby a short head over the same curse! There's no chance of running intoanyone here, let alone cursing! A few figures slouch past and disappear;the last postman goes his round, knocking at one house in ten; up anddown the asphalt path leading into the obscurity of the Common awretched woman wanders in vain; the long, pointed windows of a chapelglimmer with yellowish light through the dingy air, and I hear the faintgroans of a harmonium cheering the people dismally home. The groaningceases, the lights go out, service is over; it will soon be time fordecent people to be in bed. 

In Fleet Street the telegrams will now be falling thick as--No, I won'tsay it! No Vallombrosa for me, nor any other journalistic tag! Iremember once a young sub-editor had got as far as, "The cry is still--"when I took him by the throat. I have done the State some service. 

Our sub-editors' room is humming now: a low murmur of questions, rapidorders, the rustle of paper, the quick alarum of telephones. Boys keepbringing telegrams in orange envelopes. Each sub-editor is bent over hislittle lot of news. One sorts out the speeches from bundles of flimsy. The middle of Lloyd George's speech has got mixed up with Balfour'speroration. If he left them mixed, would anyone be the less wise?Perhaps the speakers might notice it, and that man from Wiltshire wouldbe sure to write saying he had always supported Mr. Balfour, andheartily welcomed this fresh evidence of his consistency. 

"Six columns speeches in already; how much?" asks the sub-editor. "Column and quarter, " comes answer from the head of the table, and thecutting begins. Another sub-editor pieces together an interview aboutthe approaching comet. "Keep comet to three sticks, " comes the order, and the comet's perihelion is abbreviated. Another guts a blue-book onprison statistics as savagely as though he were disembowelling the wholecriminal population. 

There's the telephone ringing. "Hullo, hullo!" calls a sub-editorquietly. "Who are you? Margate mystery? Go ahead. They've found thecorpse? All right. Keep it to a column, but send good story. Horriblemutilations? Good. Glimpse the corpse yourself if you can. Yes. Sendfull mutilations. Will call for them at eleven. Good-bye. " "You doingthe Archbishop, Mr. Jones?" asks the head of the table. "Cup-tie atSunderland, " answers Mr. Jones, and all the time the boys go in and outwith those orange-coloured bulletins of the world's health. 

What's a man to do at night out here? Let's have a look at all theseposters displayed in front of the Free Library, where a few poorcreatures are still reading last night's news for the warmth. Next weekthere's a concert of chamber-music in the Town Hall I suppose I might goto that, just to "kill time" as they say. Think of a journalist wantingto kill time! Or to kill anything but another fellow's "stuff, " andsometimes an editor! Then there's a boxing competition at the St. John'sArms, and a subscription dance in the Nelson Rooms, and a lecture onDante, with illustrations from contemporary art, for working men andwomen, at the Institute. Also there's something called theWhy-Be-Lonesome Club for promoting friendly social intercourse among theyoung and old of all classes. I suppose I might go to that too. Itsounds comprehensive. 

There seems no need to be dull in the suburbs. A man in a cart is stillcrying coke down the street. Another desires to sell clothes-props. Abrace of lovers come stealing out of the Common through the mist, careless of mud and soaking grass. I suppose people would say I'm tooold to make love on a County Council bench. In love's cash-books thebalance-sheet of years is kept with remorseless accuracy. 

The foreign editors are waiting now in their silent room, and thetelegrams come to them from the ends of the world. They fold them inpackets together by countries or continents--the Indian stuff, theRussian stuff, the Egyptian, Balkan, Austrian, South African, Persian, Japanese, American, Spanish, and all the rest. They'll have prettynearly seven columns by this time, and the order will come"Two-and-a-half foreign, " Then the piecing and cutting will begin. Oneof them sits in a telephone box with bands across his head, and repeatsa message from our Paris correspondent. Through our Paris man we cantalk with Berlin and Rome. 

From this rising ground I can see the light of the city reflected on themisty air, and somewhere mingled in that light are the big lamps down inFleet Street. The City's voice comes to me like a confused murmurthrough a telephone when the words are unintelligible. The only distinctsounds are the dripping of the moisture from the trees in suburbangardens, and the voice of an old lady imploring her pet dog to returnfrom his evening walk. 

The voice of all the world is now heard in that silent room. From momentto moment news is coming of treaties and revolutions, of sultans deposedand kings enthroned, of commerce and failures, of shipwrecks, earthquakes, and explorations, of wars and flooded camps and sieges, ofintrigue, diplomacy, and assassination, of love, murder, revenge, andall the public joy and sorrow and business of mankind. All the voices offear, hope, and lamentation echo in that silent little room; and mapshang on the walls, and guide-books are always ready, for who knowswhere the next event may come to pass upon this energetic little earth, already twisting for a hundred million years around the sun?

The editor must be back by now. Calm and decisive, he takes his seat inhis own room, like the conductor of an orchestra preparing to raise hisbaton now that the tuning-up is finished. The leader-writers are comingin for their instructions. No need for much consultation to-night--notfor the first leader anyhow. For the second--well, there are a good manythings one could suggest: Turkey or Persia or the eternal GermanDreadnought for a foreign subject; the stage censorship or the price ofcotton; and the cup-ties, or the extinction of hats for both sexes as alight note to finish with. He's always labouring to invent "somethinglight, " is the editor. He says we must sometimes consider the public;just as though we wrote the rest of the paper for our own private fun. 

But there's no doubt about the first leader to-night. There's only onesubject on which it would be a shock to every reader in the morning notto find it written. And, my word! what a subject it is! What seriousnessand indignation and conviction one could get into it! I should begin byrestating the situation. You must always assume that the reader'signorance is new every morning, as love should be; and anyone whohappens to know something about it likes to see he was right. I shouldwork in adroit references to this evening's speeches, and that wouldfill the first paragraph--say, three sides of my copy, or somethingover. In the second paragraph I'd show the immense issues involved inthe present contest, and expose the fallacies of our opponents whoattempt to belittle the matter as temporary and unlikely to recur--say, three sides of my copy again, but not a word more. And, then, in thethird paragraph, I'd adjure the Government, in the name of all theirparty hold sacred, to stand firm, and I'd appeal to the people of thisgreat Empire never to allow their ancient liberties to be encroachedupon or overridden by a set of irresponsible--well, in short, I shouldbe like General Sherman when at the crisis of a battle he used to say, "Now, let everything go in"--four sides of my copy, or even five if thestuff is running well. 

Somebody must be writing that leader now. Possibly he is doing it betterthan I should, but I hope not. When Hannibal wandered all those years inAsia at the Court of silly Antiochus this or stupid Prusias the other, and knew that Carthage was falling to ruin while he alone might havesaved her if only she had allowed him, would he have rejoiced to hearthat someone else was succeeding better than himself--had traversed theAlps with a bigger army, had won a second Cannae, and even at Zamasnatched a decisive victory? Hannibal might have rejoiced. He was a veryexceptional man. 

But here's a poor creature still playing the clarionet down the street, on the pretence of giving pleasure worth a penny. Yes, my boy, I knowyou're out of work, and that is why you play the "Last Rose of Summer"and "When other Lips. " I am out of work, too, and I can't play anything. You say you learnt when a boy, and once played in the orchestra at DruryLane; but now you've come to wandering about suburban streets, andhaving finished "When other Lips, " you will quite naturally play "MyLodging's on the Cold Ground. " Only last night I was playing in anorchestra myself, not a hundred miles (obsolete journalistic tag!)--nota hundred miles from Drury Lane. It was a grand orchestra, that of ours. Night by night it played the symphony of the world, and each night a newsymphony was performed, without rehearsal. The drums of our orchestrawere the echoes of thundering wars; the flutes and soft recorders werethe eloquence of an Empire's statesmen; and our 'cellos and violinswailed with the pity of all mankind. In that vast orchestra I played thehorn that sounds the charge, or with its sharp réveillé vexes the ear ofnight before the sun is up. Here is your penny, my brother inaffliction. I, too, have once joined in the music of a star, and nowwander the suburban streets. 

That leader-writer has not finished yet, but the proofs of the beginningof his article will be coming down. In an hour or so his work will beover, and he will pass out into the street exhausted, but happy with thesense of function fulfilled. Fleet Street is quieter now. The lampsgleam through the fog, a motor-'bus thunders by, a few late messengersflit along with the latest telegrams, and some stragglers from therestaurants come singing past the Temple. For a few moments there issilence but for the leader-writer's quick footsteps on the pavement. Heis some hours in front of the morning's news, and in a few hours morehalf a million people will be reading what he has just written, and willquote it to each other as their own. How often I have had wholesentences of my stuff thrown at me as conclusive arguments almost beforethe printing ink was dry!

Here I stand, beside a solitary lamp-post upon a suburban acclivity. Thelight of the city's existence I think my successor would say, of herpulsating and palpitating or ebullient existence--is pale upon the sky, and the murmur of her voice sounds like large but distant waves. I standalone, and near me there is no sound but the complaint of a homelesstramp swearing at the cold as he settles down upon a bench for thenight. 

How I used to swear at that boy for not coming quick enough to fetch mycopy! I knew the young scoundrel's step--I knew the step of every manand boy in that office. I knew the way each of them went up and down thestairs, and coughed or whistled or spat. What knowledge dies with me nowthat I am gone! _Qualis artifex pereo!_ But that boy--how I should loveto be swearing at him now! I wonder whether he misses me? I hope hedoes. "It would be an assurance most dear, " as an old song of exile usedto say. 

INDEX

 A

 Abdul Hamid, Angell, Norman, Antonines, Age of the, Apuleius, _Golden Ass_ of, Arbuthnot, Dr. , Aristotle, definition of happiness, Arnold, Matthew, quoted, Augustine, Saint, Austria, Archduke Johann Salvator of, B

 Barcelona, Barnett, Canon, quoted, Birdwood, Sir George, quoted, Boer War, Börne, Ludwig, quoted, Bolivar, Booth, Charles, Brailsford, H. N. , quoted, Brown, John, Browne, Sir Thomas, quoted, Browning, Robert, Buddhist Nuns, Burke, Edmund, Burns, John, Byron, as catfish, quoted, as rebel, in Greece, on the poor, death, C

 Cade, Jack, Calvin, Campbell-Bannerman, Sir Henry, Canning, Canterbury, Archbishop of, Carlyle, Thomas, on allurements, burning book, on Mammon, on Peterloo, on landowners, on heroes, on war, on Christ, on invalids, Chamfort, Clarkson, Mr. , of the Education Office, Clough, Arthur, Coleridge, Conway, Moncure, Cooper, Thomas, Cowper, William, Cromwell, Curzon, Lord, D

 Dante, Danton, Darwin, Davids, Mrs. Rhys, Davitt, Michael, Deborah, Delany, E

 Eliot, George, quoted, Elliot, Ebenezer, Emerson, quoted, Emmet, Robert, F

 Farrar, Dean, Ferrer, of Barcelona, Finland, France, Anatole, Frazer, _The Golden Bough_, quoted, Free, Richard, Futurists, G

 Garibaldi, Gaunt, Elizabeth, burnt, George, Henry, Germany, her conquest of England imagined, Gibbon, quoted, Ginnell, Lawrence, M. P. , Gladstone, foreign policy, arbitration, Goethe, preface, _Faust_, quoted, science, H

 Hague, The, Conferences, Hampden, John, Harmodius and Aristogeiton, Hebrews, Epistle to, quoted, Heine, Heinrich, Henley, W. E. , quoted, Hobbes, Hobson, J. A. , Hugo, Victor, Huxley, Thomas H. , I

 Ibsen, quoted, India, treatment of rebels, our government of, Anglo-Indians, Ireland, Italy, J

 Jacques, M. , of the West Coast, James, Prof. William, Jameson, Sir L. Starr, Joan of Arc, Johnson, Dr. , on Hell, Jones, Ebenezer, Jones, Ernest, Judith, K

 Kant, quoted, Kingsley, Charles, quoted, Kipling, Rudyard, quoted or referred to, Kossuth, L

 Landor, quoted, Leopardi, quoted, Linton, William James, Lowell, J. R. , quoted, Lynch, Dr. , M. P. , M

 Macaulay, quoted, in India, MacDonald, J. Ramsay, M. P. Machiavelli, Maeterlinck, Malmberg, Mme. , of Finland, Malthus, Mann, Tom, Martineau, Harriet, Marx, Karl, Massey, Gerald, Mazzini, Meredith, George, quoted, Mill, John Stuart, Montfort, Simon de, Morley, Lord, on political offenders, on books, on government, Morocco, Sultan of, Morris, William, N

 Nash, Vaughan, Nietzsche, quoted, Norway, the only democracy, O

 O'Neill, Shan, Orth, Johann. _See_ Archduke

 P

 Paine, Tom, Parnell, Charles Stuart, Pater, Walter, quoted, Paterson, Alexander, Pope, Proudhon, R

 Rienzi, Rochefoucauld, Roosevelt, Theodore, Rosebery, Lord, quoted, Rousseau, Jean Jacques, Ruskin, on deeds, the burning book, Hinksey road, on Pusey, Russell, Sir William, Russia, treatment of rebels, revolution in, Finland, subject races, our alliance with, Japanese war, S

 Schiller, Sharp, Cecil, Shaw, George Bernard, Shelley, Smith, Sir H. Llewellyn, Stead, W. T. , Stephen, Sir James, quoted, Stevenson, R. L. , quoted, Stowe, Mrs. Beecher, Stubel, Milli. _See_ Archduke Suffrage, women's, penalties for demanding, suffragettes, in Norway, subject race, parallels in past, in conversation, woman's place the home Sumner, Prof. , quoted, Swift, quoted; _Drapier's Letters_, indignation, his lovable nature, _Gulliver_, quoted, T

 Tell, William, Tennyson, quoted, Tillett, Ben, Tolstoy, the burning book, death, as rebel, on Empires, on death, Tomkinson, James, Tone, Wolfe, Trevelyan, George M. , Treves, Sir Frederick, quoted, Tripoli, Turkey, Twain, Mark, quoted, Tyler, Wat, U

 Unwin, Mrs. Cobden, quoted, V

 Vaughan, Cardinal, Victoria, Queen, W

 Walkley, A. W. , Wallace, Sir William, Weils, H. G. , Whitman, Walt, quoted, William the Silent, Wolseley, Lord, quoted, Wordsworth,